Chapter 1: The Favor
The heat in the Sunset Savana was a physical weight, but here in the shaded alcove of the royal palace, it softened to a persistent, drowsy warmth. Leona Kingscholar felt it seep through his light tunic and into his bones, a welcome sedative against the inevitable bullshit of the day. He was a statue of deliberate indolence, stretched out on a smooth, sun-warmed stone bench, one arm flung over his eyes.
The distant, frantic patter of servant footsteps on mosaic tile was his first warning. The second was the sharp, floral scent cutting through the dry, grassy air of the courtyard. It was expensive, deliberately alluring, and completely artificial. An omega’s perfume, worn like armor.
He didn’t move.
“Your Highness,” a voice panted, too close. “Prince Falena requests your presence. Urgently.”
Leona let out a slow breath from behind his arm. “Tell him I died. From boredom.”
“He… he was quite insistent. It’s about the, ah, afternoon introductions.”
A low growl rumbled in Leona’s chest. The servant took a nervous step back. Leona finally moved his arm, fixing the young beta with a gaze that was more predatory than princely. His green eyes, the same shade as the savanna after a rare rain, were flat and unamused. “Introductions.” The word was a curse.
He didn’t need this. Not today, not ever. He was twenty-seven, an alpha in his prime, the second prince of the Afterglow Savanna. His life was a meticulously balanced act of appearing just engaged enough to avoid treason charges, and just disengaged enough to keep the vultures—social climbers, sycophants, his own fucking family—from pecking him to death. Romance was a transaction. Mating was a political maneuver. Love was a fairy tale for betas and the terminally naive.
He pushed himself upright with a fluid, powerful motion that belied his previous laziness. “Fine.” The single syllable was a blade. “Let’s get this over with.”
The throne room was less a room and more an extension of the landscape. One entire side opened to a sprawling vista of golden grasslands beneath a deepening orange sky. It should have felt freeing. To Leona, it was a gilded cage with a very nice view.
His older brother, King Falena, was a larger, softer, more earnest version of himself. He currently wore the pained, patient expression Leona knew all too well.
“Leona,” Falena began, his voice a gentle rumble. “Thank you for coming.”
“Did I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice. Today, your choice is to be civil.” Falena sighed, rubbing his temple. “The ambassador from the Coral Sea is here with his daughter. She’s an unmated omega of a prestigious line. It’s a good alliance. A strong one.”
“So marry her yourself,” Leona said, dropping into a nearby chair with a deliberate lack of grace. He slouched, his tawny hair a wild contrast against the polished wood.
“Leona, be serious. You’re twenty-seven. The council, our mother… they’re concerned. Your reputation…”
“My reputation is exactly what I want it to be.” He examined his claws. “Keeps the clingy ones away.”
“It also keeps any viable prospects at a ten-foot pole’s distance!” Falena’s patience was fraying. “You cancel meetings, you’re‘unavailable’ for tours, you growl at delegates. You’re going to start a diplomatic incident out of sheer spite.”
“Maybe I like spite. It’s more honest than whatever this is.” Leona gestured vaguely at the opulent room.
“This is your duty. As a prince. As an alpha of the royal line.” Falena leaned forward, his expression shifting from frustration to genuine confusion. “What is it that you actually want, brother? You shun every opportunity presented to you. Are you… waiting for something? Someone?”
The question was too close to the bone. It scraped against a hollow, suppressed place Leona never acknowledged. He wasn’t waiting. He was hiding. From the expectations, from the performance, from the pathetic hope that something real could exist in this world of curated scents and calculated alliances.
A sudden, reckless clarity cut through his irritation. He saw the endless parade of suitors Falena had lined up, the months of pestering, the council’s disapproving looks. He was tired. So fucking tired.
He looked his brother dead in the eye, his voice dropping into a cool, steady lie. “I don’t need your introductions. I already have a partner.”
The silence that followed was profound. Even the breeze from the savanna seemed to still.
Falena blinked. “…What?”
“You heard me. A partner. Mate, boyfriend, whatever you want to call it. It’s been… a thing. For a while now.” The lie took shape as he spoke, building its own fragile reality.
“Who?” Falena demanded, stunned. “Why haven’t we met them? Why hasn’t there been any announcement?”
“Because it’s none of your business,” Leona shot back, the defiance automatic. Then, the cunning part of his mind, always three steps ahead, caught up. This lie needed legs. It needed a face. A specific, unforgettable, immovable face that his brother would absolutely believe could handle the disaster that was Leona Kingscholar. “And because they value their privacy. You’d know him, though. Vil Schoenheit.”
The name hung in the air like a struck gong.
Falena’s jaw went slack. “Vil Schoenheit? The actor? The… the supermodel?”
“That’s the one.” Leona forced a nonchalant shrug, as if dating one of the most famously beautiful and notoriously perfectionist people across Twisted Wonderland was a minor footnote.
“But… he’s an omega. And he’s trans. The traditionalists on the council will—”
“Do I look like I give a single damn about the traditionalists on the council?” Leona’s snarl was genuine now. “You asked. I answered. Back off.”
Falena stared at him, suspicion and hope warring on his face. “If this is true… then we need to meet him. Formally. A dinner. Here. Next week.”
Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through Leona’s bravado. He’d painted himself into a corner with neon colors. “He’s filming in the Shaftlands. Schedule’s packed.”
“Then we arrange a call. Today. So I can hear this from him myself.” Falena’s tone brooked no argument. He’d been a king too long. “If you’re serious about this, Leona, then prove it.”
Trapped. By his own big, stupid mouth.
Leona stood abruptly. “Fine. A call. I’ll set it up.” He stalked out of the throne room before his brother could see the cracks in his facade.
He didn’t stop until he was back in his private quarters, the door locked against the world. The setting sun cast long, dramatic shadows across the room. He pulled out his phone, a sleek, modern device that felt alien against the ancient stone of the palace walls.
His thumb hovered over the contact. Vil Schoenheit. They hadn’t spoken since Night Raven College, not really. Occasional industry events, a nod across a crowded room. Vil was all sharp edges and sharper ambition, a omega who’d carved his own kingdom out of sheer will. He was also, undeniably, the single most capable person Leona knew of selling a beautiful, perfect lie.
Leona hit the call button. It rang three times.
“This is a surprise.” The voice on the other end was smooth as polished quartz, perfectly modulated even through the speaker. It immediately conjured an image: cool Shaftlands light, a minimalist apartment, Vil assessing his screen with violet, critical eyes.
“Schoenheit.” Leona’s voice was rougher than he intended. He leaned against the wall, staring out at the darkening savanna. “Need a favor.”
A soft, dry laugh. “Of course you do. I’m listening.”
“I need you to pretend to be my mate.”
The silence on the line was different from the one in the throne room. This one was charged, intelligent, waiting.
“Explain,” Vil commanded, all business.
Leona laid it out. The pressure, his brother, the endless parade of suitors. The lie he’d blurted out. “They want proof. A call. With you.”
“And why, in all of Twisted Wonderland, would I agree to that?” Vil’s tone was icy. “You’re asking me to attach my name, my reputation, to your… royal dysfunction. The media frenzy alone would be a nightmare to manage.”
“Because you’re the only one who could pull it off.” The admission cost him, but he pushed it out. “Anyone else would crumble under the scrutiny. They’d get the story wrong. You… you’re the best actor I know. You could sell water to a rain god. You make people believe in the fantasy.” He took a breath. “And I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Intriguing,” Vil said, his interest audibly piqued. “Continue.”
“Royal connections. Exclusive access to Savanna resources for your projects. Film permits in protected lands, archival footage, cultural consultants—the real deal, not the tourist crap. My name opens doors here that even your agency can’t crack. And monetary compensation. A flat fee for your time and the… inconvenience.”
Another pause. Leona could almost hear the calculations clicking behind Vil’s eyes.
“You need me to be convincing,” Vil stated.
“I need you to be you. Just… attached to me. For a little while. Until the heat dies down.”
“And what’s in it for me, beyond the transactional?” Vil asked, his voice dropping to something quieter, more probing. “You’re not doing this for the fun of it. You’re desperate.”
Leona’s grip tightened on the phone. “I’m tired. Of the games. Of the same empty faces. This gets them all off my back.”
“So I become your human shield.” Vil digested this. “Very well. I’ll do it. But my terms. The compensation we discussed, plus final approval on any public narrative. We present a united, curated front. And you, Leona, will be on your best behavior. No growling at photographers. No last-minute cancellations. We sell this, or we don’t do it at all.”
It was a leash. A beautifully designed, Vil Schoenheit-branded leash. Leona hated it. He also saw no other way out.
“Deal,” he gritted out.
“Good. When is this call with your brother?”
“Now. If you’re ready.”
A soft, decisive sound came through the line, like Vil straightening his posture. “Put him on. Let’s give him a performance he’ll never forget.”
Leona let his head thud back against the cool stone. He’d done it. He’d bought himself time, space, a respite. All it cost him was his peace, and a deal with the most exacting omega in seven kingdoms.
The hollow feeling in his chest didn’t go away. It just changed shape, settling into a new, uncertain dread. He had a pretend prince for a pretend mate. Now all he had to do was survive the first act.
Now all he had to do was survive the first act.
He placed the call on speaker, the dial tone echoing in his too-quiet room. Falena answered on the first ring. “Leona? What is this?”
“Proof,” Leona said, his voice gruff. “You’re on speaker. Vil’s on the line.”
A beat of static, then that polished quartz voice filled the air, warm and intimate in a way that made the hair on Leona’s arms stand up. “King Falena? It’s a pleasure to finally speak with you properly. Leona’s told me so much.”
Leona stared at the phone in disbelief. Told him so much? They’d spoken for ninety seconds.
“Vil Schoenheit,” Falena said, his tone shifting from skepticism to cautious hospitality. “The pleasure is mine. Although, I must admit, this is… unexpected.”
“Isn’t it just?” Vil’s laugh was a soft, charming thing. “I suppose we’ve been terribly secretive. My career demands a certain privacy, and Leona… well, he’s never been one for public spectacles of affection. He gets all prickly about it.”
Leona’s eyes narrowed. Prickly?
“I can imagine,” Falena said, and Leona could hear the smile in his voice. The traitor. “How did this… begin?”
“Oh, it was absurd, really.” Vil launched into the story with the effortless cadence of a seasoned talk show guest. “We reconnected at a gala in the Valley of Thorns last year. I was hiding from a particularly tiresome director on a balcony, and he was there, trying to steal a whole tray of lamb chops from the catering staff.”
Leona opened his mouth to deny it, then snapped it shut. That… was unfortunately plausible.
“He offered me a chop,” Vil continued, amusement coloring his words. “Said I looked like I needed protein more than another glass of sparkling wine. I was so startled, I took it. We spent the whole evening there, complaining about everyone inside. He’s surprisingly funny when he’s not trying to scare people off.”
“I am not funny,” Leona grumbled.
“See?” Vil said sweetly. “There’s that charming modesty.”
Falena chuckled. A full, genuine chuckle. Leona felt a trapdoor open beneath him.
“It’s been a slow burn since then,” Vil sighed, the sound contented. “Long-distance, of course. But he visits the set when he can. Brings me terrible savanna sun-tea that’s mostly leaves and insists it’s medicinal. He’s… surprisingly sweet. In his own way.”
Leona mouthed the word sweet to the empty room, his expression one of pure horror.
“He sent me a preserved scorpion in a little glass box after my last film wrapped,” Vil added, and Leona could practically hear his shrug. “The note said, ‘This is uglier than the reviews will be.’ It was the most romantic thing I’d received in months.”
Falena was eating it up. Leona could feel it through the phone. “That sounds like him. The thought is… there. It’s really there.”
“It is,” Vil agreed, his voice softening into something terribly convincing. “He pretends he’s not paying attention, but he remembers everything. I mentioned once, in passing, that I missed the specific sage that grows on the northern cliffs. The next time he came, his pockets were full of it. He just dumped it on my dressing table and said ‘don’t make a thing of it.’”
Leona stared at the wall. He had never been to the northern cliffs. The detail was so specific, so mundane, it sounded utterly real. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. Vil Schoenheit was a narrative genius and a complete demon.
“This is… wonderful,” Falena said, and he sounded utterly relieved. The weight of a kingdom’s worry lifting from his shoulders. “Truly. I’m so happy for you, Leona. For both of you.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Vil said. “We’ve wanted to keep it quiet, for my work. But I understand your concerns. Please, don’t blame Leona for his secrecy. He was just being protective.”
Protective. The word hung in the air, a masterpiece of misdirection.
“Of course, of course,” Falena said quickly. “Well, this changes everything. We must meet in person! A proper dinner. Soon.”
The comedic horror of the situation crystallized for Leona. It had worked. It had worked too well. He was no longer a problematic bachelor prince; he was a romantically clandestine, scorpion-gifting, sage-harvesting partner. The pressure was off. And now, it was replaced by the terrifying, looming reality of having to physically perform this fairy tale.
“We’ll coordinate schedules,” Vil said smoothly, as if discussing a magazine shoot. “It will be lovely to finally see the savanna through Leona’s eyes. He describes it so passionately.”
Leona, who described his home as ‘hot, dry, and full of irritating herbivores,’ finally found his voice. “Okay. Great. Talk’s over. He’s got a lighting call in five.”
“So impatient,” Vil chided, fondness dripping from the word. “It was a pleasure, King Falena. Truly.”
“The pleasure was all mine. Welcome to the family, Vil.”
The call ended.
The silence in Leona’s quarters was absolute. He listened to the distant cry of a dusk-hawk. He looked at the phone in his hand.
A slow, deep shudder ran through him.
He had survived the first act. He had won. And the victory tasted like dust, and sage, and the unmistakable, expensive scent of a trap he had walked into with his eyes wide open.
And the victory tasted like dust, and sage, and the unmistakable, expensive scent of a trap he had walked into with his eyes wide open.
He was still staring at the phone, as if it might transmute into something less dangerous, when it vibrated again. The same number. Vil Schoenheit.
Leona answered, bringing it to his ear. “What.”
“The performance review is over, Your Highness.” All trace of that warm, intimate fondness was gone. Vil’s voice was now as dry and sharp as broken flint. It was the voice Leona remembered from school, the one that could flay the ego off a person in three syllables. A bizarre wave of relief washed through him. This, he knew how to handle.
“Your encore was a bit much,” Leona growled, slumping back against the wall. “Sage? A scorpion?”
“Specificity sells the lie. Your brother bought a lifetime subscription. Now, shut up and listen. We’re switching to a business call.”
“Fine. Talk.”
“The terms,” Vil began, and Leona could picture him, maybe in some pristine home office, tapping a manicured nail against a tablet. “Minimum duration is six months. Anything less looks like a fling, and we need this to be taken seriously. During that time, I have access equivalent to yours to all royal archives, historical sites, and cultural institutions in the Afterglow Savanna. For research.”
“You want to turn my home into a film set.”
“I want to utilize its unique resources. Next, I get integrated into your social calendar. State dinners, charity galas, the tedious garden parties. The goal is to be seen, to be accepted, and for the media narrative to be one of a dazzling, power-couple alliance. Not a scandal. I control the optics. My publicist will handle the releases.”
Leona pinched the bridge of his nose. “Get to the part where I pay you to ruin my life.”
“The flat fee is per day, starting the moment I have to step into character for anyone other than you. It’s deposited into a specified account weekly. You also have obligations. You will attend my premieres, my award shows, and any event I deem strategically important for our coupled image. I will attend yours. We present a united front. Always.”
It was exhaustive. It was clinical. It was exactly what Leona should have expected. “Anything else? You want my firstborn, too?”
“Don’t be dramatic. There is the matter of your behavior.” Vil’s tone shifted, becoming analytical. “You have to act like you’re in love with me. Or at least, passionately invested. However, you are not to fundamentally alter your personality. If you suddenly become charming and punctual, everyone who knows you will suspect a body-snatcher. Be yourself. Just be yourself… with a noticeable soft spot for me.”
Leona barked a laugh. “So I just growl slightly less in your general direction?”
“Think of it as directed tolerance. You find my perfection irritating, but you’re irresistibly drawn to it. You find my schedule intrusive, but you show up anyway because you can’t stay away. It’s a push-pull. It’s credible. Can you manage that, or shall I call your brother back and tell him you have commitment issues?”
The jab was so familiar, so perfectly aimed, that Leona almost smiled. This was the Vil he could tolerate. The one who didn’t pretend. “I can manage not to throttle you in public. That’s basically my version of a sonnet.”
“Adequate. My lawyers will draft the agreement and send it to your official email. Read it. Sign it. We begin as soon as it’s countersigned. The clock starts then.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“And Leona?” Vil’s voice held a final, needle-like point. “Try to look moderately pleased when you see me. It sells the story.”
The line went dead.
Leona lowered the phone. The quiet of his room felt different now. Charged. He had just agreed to six months of a meticulously choreographed farce with the most demanding person he’d ever met. He felt like he’d signed a deal with a devil who quoted contract law and understood cinematography.
But a grim, grudging part of him acknowledged the truth. There was no one better for this. No one else with the sheer talent, the audacity, or the lack of sentimental illusion to pull it off. Vil saw this as a role. A transaction. There was a purity in that, even if it was a cold one.
He walked to the window, looking out at the sprawling, darkening savanna. In a week, maybe less, Vil Schoenheit would be here. In his space. Weaving a fiction so compelling his own family would believe it.
He just had to play his part. Be himself, but with a soft spot he didn’t have. The thought was almost funny.
A soft chime from his computer signaled a new email. The subject line was stark: CONFIDENTIAL: Partnership Agreement - Schoenheit/Kingscholar.
The trap had official paperwork.