Chapter 1: Forged Papers and Forbidden Desires
The city heat had softened into something bearable, a gentle warmth that clung to the skin like silk. Above the glittering skyline of Atlanta, the rooftop restaurant was a secret garden. Twinkling fairy lights were woven through trailing jasmine and ivy, and the scent of night-blooming flowers mixed with the distant, rhythmic hum of traffic far below.
Princess Hannah of Cordonia sat perfectly straight in her wrought-iron chair, her fingers tracing the gilt edge of the menu. The rules were a quiet chant in her mind: elbows off the table, speak softly, the world is always watching.
“You can relax, you know. Your mother is approximately four thousand miles away,” Kiara said, reaching across the table to tap Hannah’s wrist. Her best friend’s grin was infectious, a slash of mischief in the refined air.
“Habit,” Hannah murmured, but she let her shoulders drop a fraction. She looked out over the railing, where the world sprawled, noisy and bright and utterly free. This was it. The last gasp before the gilded cage locked shut. The contest her parents were arranging—one hundred eligible noblewomen from across Europe, each more pedigreed than the last—loomed in her future like a scheduled storm. “It all feels a bit like a last meal.”
“Don’t be morbid. It’s a first meal. The first meal of your rebellion.” Kiara flagged a passing server. “Two more of these, please. And keep them coming.”
The server who approached their table moments later was not the one who had taken their order. This woman moved with an easy, confident grace, balancing the wine glasses as if they were weightless.
Hannah looked up and her breath caught.
The woman had a face that seemed crafted from contradictions—sharp, intelligent eyes the color of hazel and moss, set against warm caramel skin. A cascade of dark curls tumbled over her shoulders, resisting the neat confines of her simple black uniform apron. She was, in a word, breathtaking.
“Your Pinot Grigio,” she said, her voice a low, melodic contrast to the clinking silverware around them. She placed the glasses with a deft efficiency, her gaze meeting Hannah’s for a fleeting second. There was no demure lowering of eyes, no practiced deference. Just a direct, brief acknowledgment before she offered a small, professional smile. “Anything else I can get for you?”
“No, thank you,” Hannah managed, her voice surprisingly steady.
The woman—Briana, according to her name tag—nodded and melted back into the flow of the restaurant.
“Wow,” Kiara breathed, watching her go. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. A really, really pretty ghost.”
“She’s just… very striking,” Hannah said, taking a too-quick sip of her wine. The crisp citrus taste was a shock. She felt absurd. She’d been in rooms with the world’s most celebrated beauties, yet a waitress in Atlanta had left her momentarily unmoored. It was the unexpectedness of her, Hannah decided. She was a wildflower in a room of orchids.
The rest of the meal passed in a pleasant haze. Hannah tried to focus on Kiara’s stories, on the food, on the view. But her attention kept drifting, finding Briana as she navigated the tables. She watched the way Briana smiled at an elderly couple, genuine and warm. The way she handled a complaining diner with calm, unflinching patience. There was an art to it, a realness that felt alien to Hannah’s world of calculated gestures and scripted pleasantries.
Later, in the luxurious quiet of their attached suite, Hannah stood on the private balcony. The city lights blurred into streaks of gold. The freedom was already beginning to feel thin, insubstantial. It was a costume, and soon she’d have to give it back. “I’m turning in,” she said, her voice soft with a fatigue that wasn’t purely physical.
Kiara hugged her from behind. “Dream of something reckless.”
Once Hannah’s door clicked shut, Kiara’s thoughtful expression solidified into one of resolve. She changed out of her designer dress into jeans and a simple tank top, threw on a leather jacket, and slipped back out into the restaurant.
It was near closing. The staff moved with tired efficiency, resetting tables. Kiara found Briana rolling silverware into linen napkins at a service station.
“Hey,” Kiara said, leaning against the counter.
Briana looked up, those arresting eyes wary. “Can I help you, miss? The kitchen’s closed.”
“It’s Kiara. And this isn’t about the kitchen.” Kiara took a breath. This was insane. It was also perfect. “I need to talk to you. About my friend. The blonde you served earlier.”
Briana’s hands didn’t stop moving. The linen twisted into a tight, precise cylinder. “Is there a problem with the service?”
“No. The opposite.” Kiara chose her words carefully, watching Briana’s face. “Her name is Hannah. She’s a princess. In a few months, her parents are forcing her to choose a wife from one hundred of the most boring, status-obsessed women on the planet. It’s a circus. A deeply traditional, oppressive circus.”
Briana let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Okay. And you’re telling me this why? You need a waitress’s opinion on royal etiquette?” The sarcasm was light, but it had an edge.
“I’m telling you,” Kiara said, lowering her voice, “because I want to sponsor someone else. A wild card. Someone who isn’t a noble, who doesn’t know the rules, who would look at that whole world and tell it to get stuffed. Someone real.”
The linen napkin fell from Briana’s fingers. She stared at Kiara, all pretense of work gone. “You cannot be serious.”
“Deadly.”
“Me.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of flat disbelief. “You saw me for five minutes. You don’t know a thing about me.”
“I know you handled that guy at table seven complaining about his steak without breaking a sweat. I know you have a kindness in your eyes that Hannah hasn’t seen in anyone at court. And I know,” Kiara pressed, “that you’re an artist. Paint stains under your thumbnail, a small streak of cerulean blue on your wrist you missed scrubbing off. You’re working this job to pay for it.”
Briana instinctively curled her fingers, hiding her hands. Her guard was up, a visible shield. “So what? That doesn’t make me princess material. It makes me a broke college student.”
“Exactly!” Kiara’s eyes gleamed. “That’s the point. Hannah doesn’t need another person talking about bloodlines and alliances. She needs someone who talks about light and color and what it’s like to work for a dream. She needs someone who teaches her what real life is.”
Briana was silent for a long moment. The sounds of the closing restaurant echoed around them—the clatter of dishes, the hiss of a dishwasher, distant laughter from the kitchen. “You’re proposing,” she said slowly, “that I, a nobody from Atlanta, enter a contest to marry a princess. As a… what? A social experiment? A joke?”
“As a contender.” Kiara’s voice was firm. “I’ll provide everything. Clothes, coaching, travel. You’d get to see a part of the world you’d never see otherwise. And you’d give Hannah a chance at a real choice.”
“And what do you get out of this?” Briana’s question was sharp, pragmatic.
“I get to see my best friend have a fighting chance at happiness. I get to watch a hundred starch-stiff nobles lose their minds.” Kiara smiled. “That’s payment enough.”
Briana leaned back, crossing her arms. She looked at Kiara, through her, weighing the absurdity. The danger. The sheer, terrifying scale of it. She thought of her cramped apartment, her half-finished canvases, the relentless grind of tuition and rent. She thought of the princess’s sad, polite smile from across the table.
It was the most ridiculous proposition she had ever heard.
It was also a door, swinging open onto a world she could only imagine.
“You’re crazy,” Briana finally said, but the dismissal in her tone had frayed, replaced by a fragile, dawning curiosity.
Kiara saw the shift. She placed a plain white business card on the napkin-lined counter. “Think about it. My number’s on the back. We leave for New York in three days.” She turned to go, then paused. “For what it’s worth, she couldn’t stop looking at you either.”
Alone at the service station, Briana picked up the card. It was heavy, luxurious stock. Embossed. Real. The fairy lights above glimmered, reflected in the polished surface. She looked out at the dark, sleeping city, then down at the paint stain on her wrist.
Three days.
The hum of the traffic below seemed to rise, becoming a roar in her ears.
The hum of the traffic below seemed to rise, becoming a roar in her ears. Three days.
Briana pocketed the card, the embossed letters biting into her palm through the thick paper. She finished her shift on autopilot, her mind a whirlwind of contradicted thoughts. A princess. A contest. A joke. It had to be a joke. But the weight of the card felt like an anchor in her apron.
The walk to her shared apartment felt longer than usual. The gentrified neighborhood near the restaurant gave way to quieter, dimmer streets lined with older duplexes. The air here smelled of damp earth and fried food, not jasmine. Her key stuck in the stubborn lock, and she had to jiggle it twice before the door gave way.
“Hey, you’re late,” Lacey called from the couch, not looking up from her laptop. A reality show played muted on the TV. “Leftover lo mein in the fridge.”
“Not hungry,” Briana said, kicking off her uncomfortable work shoes. She pulled the card out, staring at it under the harsh fluorescent light of their tiny kitchen.
“What’s that?” Lacey asked, finally glancing over. “Did you finally get a business card from a creep? ‘Cause I told you about the guy at table four last week.”
“No. It’s… weirder.” Briana walked over and slumped onto the worn arm of the couch. She took a slow breath. “You remember that two-top, the two women? The really elegant one and the one in the killer blazer?”
“Vaguely. Big tip?”
“Not yet.” Briana handed her the card. “The one in the blazer gave me this. Her friend, the blonde… she’s a princess. Like, an actual princess from some European country called Cordonia.”
Lacey took the card, her eyebrows climbing. “Okay. And?”
“And they’re having a thing. A contest. For the princess to pick a wife from, like, a hundred noblewomen.” The words sounded ludicrous out loud. She rushed forward before Lacey could laugh. “The friend, Kiara, she wants to sponsor me. To be a contender.”
The silence that followed was thick. Lacey’s show blared a laugh track for a joke no one had heard. She turned fully, setting her laptop aside. “Bri. You work sixty hours a week between the restaurant and the gallery cafe. You owe Sallie Mae your firstborn child. You think you’re Cinderella?”
“I know what I am.” Briana’s voice was sharp, defensive. “That’s why it’s insane. But she said… she said she could tell I was an artist. She saw the paint. She said her friend, the princess, needs someone real.”
“Real is code for poor, Briana. It’s a rich person’s pet project. You’d be the entertainment.” Lacey’s tone wasn’t cruel, just brutally practical. It was the same tone that talked her out of maxing a credit card for a printmaking seminar. Usually, Briana listened.
But the memory of the princess’s face, that quiet, trapped sadness wrapped in perfect posture, wouldn’t leave her. It was a look she’d seen in the mirror, staring at tuition statements.
“She said she’d provide everything. Coaching. Clothes. Travel.” Briana heard the desperate hope creeping into her own voice. “I could see things. I could paint things I’ve only seen in books.”
“And then you come back here,” Lacey finished softly. “To this. How would that feel?”
Briana looked around. The cracked linoleum, the leak under the sink they kept a bucket for, Lacey’s kind, tired face. It was her life. It was real. But was it all there was?
She didn’t call that night. Or the next day, through her morning shift at the gallery cafe, where she served overpriced cappuccinos to people who talked about their European summers. The blonde princess’s face superimposed itself over every customer.
On the second day, while prepping salad garnishes in the restaurant’s cool, stainless steel kitchen, her phone vibrated. An unknown number. A text.
The clock is ticking, Mona Lisa. The jet fuel doesn’t pay for itself. -K
Briana stared at her greentinctured fingers, at the paring knife in her hand. She saw a future laid out with perfect, dreadful clarity: more shifts, more debt, a slow grind toward a degree, maybe a teaching job. A small, safe life.
Or.
She put down the knife, wiped her hands on her apron, and walked out into the alley behind the restaurant. The air was hot, smelling of garbage and gasoline. She dialed.
Kiara answered on the first ring. “I was starting to think you had better sense.”
“I don’t.” Briana’s heart was hammering against her ribs. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just commitment. You follow the plan, you don’t back out, and you play the game to win. Not for me. For Hannah.”
“And if I say yes? Right now?”
Kiara’s voice lost its teasing edge, becoming crisp, businesslike. “A car will pick you up from your apartment at 5 AM tomorrow. It will take you to a private airfield. My brother, Maxwell, will meet your plane at the family estate. You’ll have two weeks with him. He’ll handle your… royal acclimatization.”
“Your brother?”
“My only sibling. He’s handsome, rich, and a straightforward bastard, but he’s charming when he wants to be. And he’s the best there is at navigating our world.” A pause. “This stays between us, Briana. Hannah can’t know. Not until it’s time. This is a surprise.”
Briana closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the warm brick. A private jet. An estate. A handsome tutor. It was a fantasy. A beautiful, terrifying fantasy. “I’ll be ready.”
“Good.” Kiara’s smile was audible. “Pack light. We’ll provide the wardrobe. And Briana? Welcome to the madness.”
The line went dead.
Briana slid down the wall until she was sitting on the asphalt, ignoring the grime. She texted Lacey: Need you to cover my shifts for two weeks. Family emergency up north.
The lie tasted bitter. The reply came fast: …Okay. Be careful. Call me.
The next morning, in the pre-dawn dark, a sleek black town car idled at the curb. It looked utterly alien on her street. The driver, a solemn man in a uniform, held the door for her.
As the city faded behind her, replaced by the sprawling green of the countryside rushing toward a small, private airstrip, the reality began to set in. There was a sleek, small jet waiting, its staircase descended like a promise.
She climbed the steps, her single duffel bag feeling absurdly small. Inside, the cabin was all soft leather and muted light. The engine’s whine climbed to a scream, and then the force of the ascent pushed her back into the seat.
Briana watched her old life shrink away below, a patchwork of familiar streets becoming a mere dot, then nothing at all. Her fingers closed around the armrests, knuckles white. She was either making the best decision of her life, or the most spectacular, catastrophic mistake.
The plane leveled off, cruising into the rising sun. There was no going back.
The plane descended through a veil of clouds, and the world that unfolded below made Briana press her forehead against the cool window, her breath catching. Atlanta, with its gray grids and buzzing energy, was erased. What lay beneath was a patchwork of impossibly green valleys, forests so deep they looked black, and rivers that shone like scattered ribbons. Nestled in the heart of it all was a city of creamy stone and red-tiled roofs, dominated by a palace that glittered even from this altitude. It wasn’t just a country. It was a painting. A dream.
Cordonia.
It was like something out of a fairy tale. As the wheels touched down on a private runway lined with orderly rows of apple trees, heavy with ripe fruit, the difference was visceral. The air that filled the cabin when the door opened was crisp, sweet, and laden with the scent of blossoms and earth. Not exhaust, not fried food. Pure, fragrant air. A uniformed attendant gestured for her to descend, and her legs felt like water.
A man waited on the tarmac, leaning against a vintage convertible the color of champagne. He straightened as she appeared, pushing sunglasses onto his head. For a moment, he just stared. His expression, previously one of casual readiness, softened into pure, undisguised astonishment.
Maxwell could not even believe how beautiful Briana was. The photos Kiara had sent did nothing. The woman moving hesitantly down the steps had a kind of vibrancy that flat images couldn’t capture. The Atlanta waitress uniform was gone, replaced with simple jeans and a sweater, but it didn’t matter. Her beauty wasn’t about clothes. It was in the wary intelligence in her eyes, the proud set of her shoulders, the rich texture of her skin under the Cordonian sun. He felt a jolt, an unexpected rearrangement of his expectations. This wasn’t just a project. This was a person.
“You must be Briana,” he said, finding his voice and stepping forward. He offered a hand, then seemed to think better of it and gave a shallow, charming bow instead. “Maxwell. I’ve been appointed your guide to this… peculiar corner of the world.”
“Hi,” she said. The word was small, almost lost in the breeze. She was nervous and extremely shy, her gaze flicking from him to the impossible landscape, to the car, then back to her own shoes. She clutched her duffel bag like a lifeline. “It’s… it’s really different here.”
“That’s the idea.” He smiled, aiming for reassurance. “The car’s this way. The estate isn’t far. We’ll get you settled.”
The drive was silent for the first few minutes, Briana absorbed by the world rushing past. They passed orchards where workers in bright scarves filled baskets with rosy apples. They drove through a village where the stone buildings had gilded carvings around the doors and window boxes spilled over with white flowers. They crossed a bridge over a rushing river, and she saw flecks of genuine silver and gold ore glittering in the stone of the bridge supports. Rich in gold and silver. It wasn’t just a saying; it was in the very bedrock.
“Kiara said you’re an artist,” Maxwell said finally, breaking the quiet. He kept his eyes on the winding road, giving her space.
“I try to be.”
“What do you paint?”
“Mostly light. How it falls on things. Different times of day.” She paused. “This light... it’s completely new. It’s softer. Golden.”
He glanced at her, seeing not a shy waitress now, but an artist observing her new medium. “Wait until you see the light in the royal gallery. It pours through the stained glass. Makes everything look holy, even the dusty old portraits of my great-uncle Bertram, and let me tell you, there was nothing holy about that man.”
A faint, almost smile touched her lips. “I’d like to see that.”
“You will. Part of the curriculum.” He turned the car through ornate iron gates, up a long driveway lined with ancient oaks. “Speaking of which. We have two weeks. Our goal is not to turn you into a Cordonian noblewoman. That’s impossible, and frankly, undesirable. Our goal is to give you the tools to not look like a deer in headlights at a state dinner. To understand the rules well enough to know which ones you can break. History, etiquette, current politics, the major players.”
“A crash course in becoming a contender.”
\
“Exactly.” He pulled the car to a stop before a sprawling, elegant house of pale stone and ivy. It was majestic, but smaller, warmer than the palace in the distance. “But the core of you, Briana from Atlanta who paints light… that stays. That’s the secret weapon. Hannah has met a hundred women who know which fork to use for shellfish. She hasn’t met one who knows what it’s like to work a double shift to buy a tube of cadmium red.”
He said her name, her real name, and it shook her. It was a recognition. She looked at him, really looked. He was handsome in a roguish, unstudied way, his posture relaxed but his eyes keen. He believed in this. He believed Kiara’s mad plan.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice firmer now. “Why help some stranger upend your world?”
Maxwell cut the engine. The silence of the estate surrounded them, deep and sweet with the hum of bees. “Because my world is beautiful,” he said quietly, gazing at the gilded roof of the palace on the hill. “And it’s also a gilded cage. For people like Hannah, and yes, even for people like me. Sometimes, it needs someone from the outside to remind us that the cage door is unlocked. We’ve just forgotten how to turn the handle.”
He got out, coming around to open her door. “So. Shall we begin? Lesson one: Cordonia is known for its delicious apples. You’ll be expected to praise them at least twice per conversation for the first week. It’s a national pastime.”
Briana accepted his hand, stepping onto the gravel drive. She was still nervous, a flutter in her chest that felt like a trapped bird. But beneath it, something else stirred. This wasn’t just an escape from the grind. It was a door opening onto a sunlight-dappled path in an unknown wood. She was terrified. And, for the first time in years, she was completely, electrifyingly awake.
“Okay,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Show me where to put my bag. And then you can tell me everything I need to know about these famous apples.”