If there is one thing I am learning about America, it is this:
Nothing explodes faster than a secret.
By the time I finish brushing my teeth, three more articles have already gone up about me—one calling me "the mysterious French royal in D.C.," one speculating about my "connection" to the president's son, and one using a picture of me with my eyes half-closed and calling it "regal."
Regal.
I look like I'm sneezing.
I slam my phone face-down on the vanity.
"Breathe," I tell my reflection. "You have survived worse than bad photos."
Somewhere in this enormous house, staff are probably discussing new security protocols. Somewhere across the ocean, Father is definitely frowning over reports. Somewhere in New York, Grandma is watching the news and threatening the television for upsetting her favorite granddaughter.
And somewhere just down the hall, an American boy is almost certainly pretending he isn't part of the problem.
There's a knock at my door.
"Monique?" Charles's voice, muffled. "We're going to be late."
Of course.
"Entrez," I call.
He steps in, already in his uniform, tie still loose, blazer unbuttoned, like the dress code is more of a suggestion than a rule. He notices my phone on the table, the tension in my shoulders.
"You saw the new ones," he says, not really a question.
"Yes," I reply dryly. "Apparently, I am 'enigmatic yet accessible.' Whatever that means."
He snorts. "It means they've run out of synonyms for 'girl' and 'French.'"
I don't smile.
He notices.
"Hey," he says quietly, closing the door behind him. "Do you want to take the day off? My mom can call the school. We can say you're sick. Which, emotionally, you kind of are."
I shake my head. "If I hide now, they win."
"'They' being…?" he prompts.
"Everyone," I say. "The internet. Gossip accounts. Whoever posted that article. Madison."
His mouth tightens at that last name.
"Yeah," he mutters. "Madison."
There's something in his tone.
I file it away.
"I am going to school," I say, adjusting my blazer. "But before that… I have a question."
He raises an eyebrow. "Should I be nervous?"
"Always," I say. "But this time especially."
I fold my arms.
"What exactly," I ask slowly, "is your history with Madison?"
He freezes.
Of all the reactions I expected—the easy joke, the deflection, the exaggerated gasp—this is not one of them.
He actually looks… caught.
"Wow," he says after a second, forcing a laugh that doesn't quite land. "We're really doing this before breakfast?"
"Yes," I say. "Before you have time to invent a story."
He leans back against the door, eyes flicking briefly to the floor, then back to me.
"What did she say?" he asks.
"Nothing," I reply. "That is the problem. She looks at you like she already knows every version of you. And you look at her like she's… an obligation."
His jaw flexes.
"You notice too much," he mutters.
"I have been told this," I say. "Now answer me."
He exhales slowly.
"Okay," he says. "But I get to tell you my version. Not the one you'll hear in the hallways."
I nod once.
"I'm listening."
We're late for breakfast.
I don't care.
We sit on opposite ends of the couch near my window, the morning light washing the room in pale gold. Outside, the gardens are still, the world not yet fully awake.
Inside, Charles finally starts talking.
"Our families have known each other forever," he says. "My dad and Madison's dad went to college together. Old-school political clubs, debate teams, all that stuff. Then they both went into politics. Different parties at first, same party later. Donors, campaigns, fundraisers. You know how it goes."
I do.
"Her mom runs a big PR firm," he continues. "The kind that makes scandals disappear and nobodies look important on TV. Between her and my parents, there have always been… expectations."
"Expectations," I echo. "Such as?"
He gives me a look. "You're really going to make me say it?"
"Yes," I say.
He runs a hand through his hair.
"They thought it would be convenient," he says at last. "Future senator's daughter. Future president's son. Childhood friends. Shared history. Strong optics."
"Optics," I repeat. "You make it sound like a merger."
"In their heads, it kind of was," he says with a humorless shrug. "Two brands. One ticket."
I feel something cold settle at the base of my spine.
"And you?" I ask. "What did you think?"
He looks out the window for a second.
"We were close when we were younger," he says finally. "Middle school, early high school. Same circles, same events. She was… fun, back then. Less sharp edges. Less… calculated."
He picks at a thread on his cuff.
"Our parents loved it," he continues. "Photos of us together at charity galas, school events, campaign rallies. 'The future of the country,' they'd say. People made jokes about prom and weddings and the White House years from now."
My stomach twists.
"And Madison?" I ask quietly. "Did she… like this idea?"
He hesitates.
"She liked the power of it," he says. "The way people treated us when we stood next to each other. The way adults looked at her like she was already someone important. I think somewhere along the line, she started believing the script more than I did."
"And you refused to play your part," I say.
A small, bitter smile curves his mouth.
"I didn't fall in love on schedule, no," he says. "I tried to be honest with her about that. Told her I cared about her, but not like that. Not in the way our parents wanted."
"And how did she take it?" I ask.
He laughs once, without humor.
"How do you think Madison takes anything that doesn't fit her plans?"
I picture her perfect smile.
Her cold eyes.
"I think she weaponizes it," I say.
"Exactly," he replies.
He leans his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.
"After that conversation," he says, "things changed. She didn't scream or cry or anything dramatic. She just… recalibrated. She stayed friendly in public. Of course she did. Photos still mattered. But in private? She started… pressing on all the weak spots she knew I had."
I stay very still.
"What weak spots?" I ask.
He hesitates.
"Grades," he says. "Reputation. My dad's approval. Every time I messed up even a little, she'd find a way to bring it up at the worst possible moment.
'You know, Charlie, people might respect you more if you were serious like your dad.'
'Charlie, maybe if you cared about something for more than five seconds, you wouldn't be such a disappointment.'
Stuff like that."
Something hot flares in my chest.
"That is not friendship," I say sharply.
"I know," he replies quietly. "But when everyone around you acts like you're supposed to end up as some kind of golden couple, it's hard to step back and say, 'Hey, this is actually unhealthy.'"
He pauses.
"Especially when your parents are smiling through it like it's all just a phase you'll grow out of."
I think of Mother.
Of Father.
Of the way adults can turn your life into a map they fold and unfold without ever asking if you like the route.
"What happened?" I ask.
"Homecoming," he says. "Last year."
Of course.
He shifts on the couch, like the memory itself is uncomfortable.
"She was running the entire thing," he says. "Naturally. Decorations, schedule, the court, everything. Everyone assumed we'd end up Homecoming king and queen. It was like this unspoken… prophecy."
He rolls his eyes.
"I told her, again, that I wasn't comfortable with it," he continues. "That I didn't want to be some half-fake couple for photos. She smiled and said, 'Don't worry, Charlie. Just dance with me and smile. You're good at pretending.'"
My fingers curl around the edge of the sofa cushion.
"And you?" I ask.
"I bailed," he says simply. "Day of the dance, I didn't show. I showed up late to the game, did the wave from the bleachers, then disappeared. Madison ended up on stage alone, crown and all, with an empty spot next to her."
I picture it.
Spotlights.
Applause.
One crown.
One missing king.
"And she never forgave you," I say.
"Pretty much," he replies. "She lost face that night. In front of the entire school. In front of both our families. Someone took a photo of her on stage alone and posted it with a caption like, 'Queen without a king.' It went everywhere."
His voice softens.
"She hates losing control, Monique," he says. "You saw that on your first day. You challenged her seat at the center without even trying. And then you sat with Aaliyah. And then the princess thing dropped. In her head, you're not just some girl. You're another person who ruined the script."
I inhale slowly.
"So I am not just a threat," I say. "I am… a replacement."
He looks at me, startled.
"I didn't say that," he protests.
"You didn't have to," I reply.
I think of the way Madison watches us when we stand together.
Of how her gaze lingers a fraction too long when I laugh at something Charles says.
Of how her smile tightens when he stands a little closer to me than strictly necessary.
I am not stupid.
"I asked for honesty," I say quietly. "And you have given it. Merci."
He nods.
"I should've told you sooner," he admits. "I just… didn't want you to think I collect broken friendships like trophies."
"You did the right thing," I say. "For yourself. Even if you did it in the most dramatic way possible."
He huffs out a small laugh.
"You really think that?" he asks.
"Yes," I reply. "You refused to be someone else's political accessory. I respect that."
Outside, somewhere far below our window, a car door slams.
We've already lost time.
But I am glad we did.
The ride to school is quieter than usual.
Security radios crackle softly in the front. The city glides past the tinted windows—monuments, traffic, a jogger with a neon vest who glances up as our car passes.
Charles drums his fingers lightly on his knee.
"So," he says at last, "now that you know the Madison backstory… does it change anything?"
"Yes," I say.
He makes a face. "That's ominous."
"It does not change how I see you," I clarify. "It changes how I see her."
He glances over. "You already saw her pretty clearly."
"I saw the version she shows everyone," I say. "Now I see the one who was left alone on a stage. The girl whose parents probably turned her embarrassment into strategy instead of comfort."
He stares at me.
"Only you," he says slowly, "would hear that story and feel bad for Madison."
I lift one shoulder.
"I do not trust her," I say. "I do not like the way she wields power. But I understand pain. Especially when adults build your life without asking what you want."
He looks at me for a long moment.
"We really are more alike than I thought," he says quietly.
The car pulls into the school driveway.
Students are already watching.
Some are trying to be subtle.
Most are failing.
"Ready?" he asks.
"No," I say. "But I am going anyway."
We step out into the noise.
The day is a blur of stares.
In English, no one asks me to read aloud.
In history, the teacher stumbles over "Your Highness" before turning scarlet and insisting he will continue to call me "Miss de Beaumont."
In the hallways, people part for me like I am some kind of mobile hazard.
At least three girls ask if I know any princes personally.
I tell them, very seriously, that most princes I know are allergic to honesty.
By the time lunch comes, my patience is thinner than American paper napkins.
I head for Aaliyah's table automatically.
She sees me coming and lifts her chin in a silent You good? question.
I nod once.
I am not sure if it is a lie.
I am halfway there when a voice floats across the cafeteria.
"Monique!"
Madison.
Of course.
She stands near the center of the room, perfectly positioned, her tray untouched on the table behind her, her little court watching eagerly.
I stop.
So does half the room.
Aaliyah mutters something under her breath that sounds very much like a curse.
"Come on," she calls, her voice sugar-sweet but loud. "Join us for a minute?"
The last time I chose her table over anyone else's, it set something in motion.
This time, I am very aware that every step I take is being recorded.
I take a breath.
"I will be right back," I tell Aaliyah.
She makes a face but nods. "Scream twice if you need rescuing."
I walk toward Madison.
She smiles when I reach her, the picture of polite welcoming.
"Your Highness," she says, the title like a blade wrapped in silk. "We were just talking about you."
"I am shocked," I say. "You never talk about anyone, ever."
A couple of her friends choke on their water.
Madison's smile twitches, then resets.
"I just wanted to say," she begins, "that if you ever feel overwhelmed by all this attention, you can count on me. I know what it's like to have people watching, expecting things. I've been handling that for years, you know. Student council president, debate team captain, Homecoming queen—"
"Without a king," someone at a nearby table whispers.
The words are soft.
But they land like a stone in water.
Her shoulders tense.
Her eyes harden.
And suddenly, I see it.
The flash of that night Charles described.
The empty spot next to her.
The photo that made sure everyone remembered.
"Anyway," she continues, her tone flattening slightly, "I understand pressure. More than most."
I study her.
"Do you?" I ask quietly.
Her gaze snaps to mine.
I lower my voice.
"Do you know what it is like to have your life planned out from birth?" I ask. "To have people discuss your future marriage as if it is a campaign strategy? To be told which schools, which friends, which speeches, which smiles will make you more… marketable?"
Something flickers in her expression.
For a heartbeat, we are not the French princess and the American queen bee.
We are just two girls standing in the middle of a cafeteria, both held up by strings we did not tie.
"Yes," she says finally, her voice very soft. "I do."
It is the first honest thing I have heard from her.
I let the moment sit there.
Then I tilt my head.
"You and Charles," I say. "They wanted you to be a story."
Her jaw clenches.
"So he told you," she says.
"He told me his version," I reply. "How he did not want to be forced into a role he did not choose."
Her laugh is short and sharp.
"Of course he didn't," she says. "Charles never wants to choose anything that isn't fun for him in the moment."
I bristle.
"That is not fair," I say.
"It's not untrue," she counters. "Your loyal little motorcade boy forgets to mention all the times he played along, doesn't he? All the photos he smiled for. All the times he let me carry the work while he got to be charming and irresponsible."
My mouth opens.
Closes.
Because I can see it.
Both versions.
The boy who refused.
And the boy who coasted until refusing cost him nothing but someone else's dignity.
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask.
She leans in just a fraction.
"Because you think you're the only one who sees behind his act," she says softly. "But I saw it long before you got here. And you think you're the only one trapped between what you want and what your family expects—but you're not. I just learned to use it before it used me."
Her eyes flick briefly toward Aaliyah's table.
"Careful who you trust, Monique," she adds. "Charles plays the golden boy. Aaliyah plays the rebel. I play the villain. But none of us are only those things."
She straightens.
Her smile snaps back into place.
"I'll see you Saturday," she says lightly. "My parents are thrilled you're coming."
Saturday.
The party.
I never actually confirmed I would attend.
But of course, in Madison's world, the script writes itself.
She glides back to her table without waiting for my answer.
I stand there for a moment, the cafeteria buzzing around me.
Then I turn and walk back to Aaliyah.
"Well?" she demands as I sit. "Did she try to recruit you to the dark side again?"
"Not exactly," I say.
I toy with my fork.
"Aaliyah," I ask slowly, "how well do you know Charles?"
She blinks. "That's a weird question. Why?"
"Because," I say, thinking of crowns and empty spaces, "I am starting to realize that everyone here is playing a role. And I am not sure which parts are real."
She studies me.
"Do you like him?" she asks bluntly.
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
"I find him… tolerable," I say.
She snorts. "You're not fooling anyone."
"I find him kind," I amend. "And infuriating. And lonely in ways he will not admit."
"Yeah," Aaliyah says softly. "That tracks."
I look down at my tray.
"You think Madison lies?" I ask.
"I think Madison spins," she says. "She takes the truth and dresses it up until it gets her what she wants. She's not always wrong. She's just never neutral."
"And Charles?" I press.
"Charles," she says, "wants to be good. But he also wants to be liked. And those two things don't always match. Especially in this building. Or in that house you live in."
I sit back.
The chessboard in my head shifts again.
Pieces I thought I understood move.
Madison: not just a villain, but an ex-co-star cut out of the second act.
Charles: not just the prince of chaos, but a boy learning that refusing the script doesn't erase the hurt it caused.
Aaliyah: not just a rebel, but a girl who sees too much and says it anyway.
And me: the foreign piece dropped into their game, changing its shape without even meaning to.
"Monique?" Aaliyah says.
"Yes?"
"You okay?"
I inhale.
Exhale.
"No," I say honestly. "But I am… learning."
She nods like that's the only answer she trusts.
That night, back at the White House, I stand at my window again.
Washington glows in the darkness.
My phone buzzes on the desk.
A message from Madison:
Can't wait to show you how we really do things here. Saturday. 7pm. Don't be late. 💕
A message from Aaliyah:
If you go to her party, I'm pre-writing your 'help I'm trapped in rich suburbia' rescue text.
And a message from Charles:
If you're going to that party, I'm going too. I'm not letting her rewrite this story without you in the room.
I look at all three.
Three different pulls.
Three different versions of this country and the power games inside it.
I type slowly.
To Madison:
I will be there. I do not like being late. Or being underestimated.
To Aaliyah:
Come with me. I will need someone who tells me when my face is betraying my thoughts.
To Charles:
You started this script with her years ago. You are going to help me finish it my way.
I set my phone down.
Outside, the city hums.
Inside, the pieces move into place.
Saturday will not just be a party.
It will be a stage.
And this time, if someone ends up standing alone in the spotlight…
It will be because I chose where I stand.