Chapter 9: The Trials Begin
The king’s words didn’t land so much as detonate.
Briana stood frozen in the lavish sitting room, the air suddenly too thick, too sweet with the scent of exotic flowers. Biological daughter. Sister. The phrases bounced around her skull, not finding purchase. She looked at the King—at her father—his expression one of calm finality. The Queen stood beside him, her usual serene mask in place, but her eyes held a glimmer of something sad and distant.
“You’re… joking,” Briana heard herself say, her voice thin.
“I am not,” the King said. “Your mother was a artist I met in Marseille. A brief, profound connection. She chose not to involve me in your upbringing, which I respected until my people found you during the… vetting process for the contest. The resemblance to Hannah is striking, once you know to look.”
Hannah was a statue beside the grand piano. Briana stole a glance. The same curve of the brow, the same set of the jaw. How had she not seen it? She felt the foundation of her world, already precarious since coming here, dissolve into sand. The waitress, the aspiring artist, the unwanted attraction—all of it was wrapped in a new, suffocating layer of royal DNA.
“So the ambassador role…” Briana trailed off.
“A pretense to keep you close while we adjusted,” the Queen said softly. “You are a Hawthorne. But you are also a Valois. You belong with us.”
Belong. The word felt like a collar.
“We are leaving for a brief state function on the mainland,” the King continued, as if discussing the weather. “Hannah, Kiara, and Camila will oversee the final preparations for the community trials. The island is yours. Consider it… an opportunity for the family to acquaint itself.”
He stepped forward and, in a move that felt both jarring and ritualistic, placed a kiss on Briana’s forehead. The gesture was cold. “You will want for nothing, Briana. Everything you see is also yours.”
Then they were gone, their exit as quiet and efficient as their reveal.
The silence they left behind was deafening.
Briana finally let out a shuddering breath, her legs giving way. She sank into an armchair, the silk upholstery cold against her skin. “What the actual hell,” she whispered to the empty room.
The door opened. It was Kiara, her face pale, eyes red-rimmed. She’d heard everything from the hallway.
“Bri,” was all she said, her voice choked.
“Don’t,” Briana said, holding up a hand. She couldn’t handle Kiara’s devotion right now, not when her own identity had just been shredded and rewoven into a royal tapestry. The look on Kiara’s face—a mix of heartbreak and desperate, unwavering care—was a weight she couldn’t shoulder.
Kiara stopped, her hands fisting at her sides. “Okay,” she murmured, the word full of hurt. “Okay, Bri.” She turned and left, closing the door with a soft click.
Alone, Briana looked at her hands. Waitress hands. Still calloused from tray lifts and sketch pencils. They didn’t look like royal hands. She thought of her mom’s laugh, her cramped apartment full of canvases and cheap wine. Had it all been a lie? A protection? A surge of something—grief, betrayal, dizzying confusion—clawed up her throat.
She needed air.
The sun was a bleeding orange wound on the horizon, staining the sky in violent purples and pinks. Briana walked, not caring where, her bare feet on the cool stone paths. The manicured gardens gave way to the wilder edge of the island, the roar of the surf growing louder.
She found Hannah sitting on a flat rock overlooking a jagged cove, still in her ice-blue silk, looking impossibly small against the vast, darkening sea.
Briana stopped a few feet away. “Did you know?”
Hannah didn’t turn. “Not until an hour before he told you. My father informed me in his study. He said it was ‘the only sensible solution.’”
A bitter laugh escaped Briana. “Sensible. Right.”
“He sees it as tidying up a loose end. Securing an asset. Protecting the bloodline.” Hannah’s voice was flat, devoid of its usual careful modulation. “He doesn’t see… this.” She finally turned, and her face was raw with a confusion that mirrored Briana’s own. “What do I call you now?”
The question, so simple, was the most terrifying one yet. All the unspoken heat between them, the memory of the yacht, the stolen glances—it was now framed in a grotesque new light. Forbidden in a way that went beyond protocol, into something deeply wrong.
“Briana,” she answered, her tone defiant. “I’m still Briana.”
Hannah nodded, swallowing hard. “When he told me, my first thought wasn’t about duty or succession.” She looked down at her own hands, twisting the signet ring on her finger. “My first thought was that I had finally found something for me. Something that wasn’t planned. And now even that was planned for me, by him, decades ago.”
The confession hung in the salt air. It was the most honest thing Hannah had ever said to her.
“What do we do?” Briana asked, the wind whipping her curls.
“I don’t know,” Hannah admitted. She stood up, brushing sand from her dress. “But they’ve left us in charge. A test within a test, perhaps. He’ll be watching how I manage it. How we…” she gestured between them, “…navigate this.”
She took a step closer, and for a heart-stopping moment, Briana thought she might reach out. But she stopped. The inches between them were now a canyon of biology and legacy.
“We have to run this trial for the fifty,” Hannah said, slipping the royal mask back on, though it was cracked. “We have to appear normal. For now.”
“None of this is normal, Hannah.”
“I know.” She turned to walk back toward the villa, a silhouette against the dying light. “But it’s what we have. Sister.”
The word was a grenade. It landed at Briana’s feet and she just stood there, watching Hannah retreat, feeling the blast wave of it ripple through her. The sky deepened to indigo. Somewhere, on the other side of the island, fifty women were scheming and dreaming for a title Briana now inherently possessed and desperately didn’t want. And Kiara was nursing a heart she’d just broken without meaning to.
She was a princess. She was a sister. She was a stranger to herself.
The waves crashed against the rocks below, relentless and indifferent. Briana wrapped her arms around herself, the coastal chill finally seeping in. She had no idea what to do next. Only that the game had changed forever, and she was now a player on a board she’d never agreed to join.
The walk back to the villa was a blur of twilight shadows and the distant, melodic sound of laughter that felt like it came from another planet. Briana moved through a wing she’d never seen, guided by a silent staff member who stopped before a set of carved double doors. “Your rooms, Miss Hawthorne,” he said, and left her.
Inside, the space was vast and silent. A bedroom fit for, well, a princess. Silk wallpaper, a canopy bed draped in gauzy linen, a sitting area with shelves already filled with art books. On a crystal tray sat a decanter of amber liquid and a single glass. A peace offering, or a tool for forgetting.
She poured three fingers of whatever it was and drank it fast, the liquor burning a welcome path down her throat. She poured another. The room, for all its beauty, felt like a beautifully furnished prison cell. She traced a finger over the spine of a monograph on Matisse—her mother’s favorite. The calculated thoughtfulness of it made her nauseous.
“Everything you see is also yours,” the King had said. He’d bought her, with genes and gilt.
Downstairs, the muffled sounds of the gathering party grew—a murmur of voices, a clink of glass. Hannah was down there, playing hostess. Kiara was down there, hurting. And Briana was up here, a secret daughter in a gilded tower. She kicked off her shoes, the cold marble jarring, and took her glass to the balcony.
From here, she could see the lit terrace below. Fifty women in elegant dresses, a kaleidoscope of ambition. Hannah moved among them, a pale blue ghost, her smile visible even from this distance, perfectly calibrated. Kiara was a flash of crimson, talking animatedly with a group, her laughter a bit too loud. And there was Camila, the Queen’s poised niece, her dark hair shining under the strings of lights as she listened intently to a contestant.
Briana drank, the warmth spreading through her limbs, softening the sharp edges of the day. The liquor tasted of honey and smoke. She didn’t hear the door open behind her.
“They said you’d vanished. I thought I should check.”
Camila’s voice was calm, smooth. Briana turned, leaning back against the balcony rail. The princess’s cousin was silhouetted in the doorway, her expression unreadable.
“Just getting some air,” Briana said, her words already beginning to slip together slightly. “It’s a lot.”
“I can only imagine.” Camila stepped out, closing the French doors behind her, muting the party sounds. She was wearing a simple, elegant black dress that seemed to drink the moonlight. “Hannah is a marvel downstairs. You’d never know her world just turned upside down.”
“She’s had more practice.”
“True.” Camila came to stand beside her, not too close, but her presence was a tangible warmth. She looked at Briana, a long, assessing look. “It’s a strange twist, isn’t it? One day you’re serving cocktails, the next you’re the cocktail. The talk of the whole party.”
“I don’t want to be talked about.”
“That’s the one thing you can’t control now,” Camila said, and there was no malice in it, just a cool, factual certainty. Her eyes dropped to Briana’s lips, then back up. “You have a way of… disrupting orbits. Hannah’s. Kiara’s. Even the contest feels different with you in the wings.”
Briana took another sip, feeling tipsy and bold. “What about your orbit?”
A faint, knowing smile touched Camila’s mouth. “I prefer to be the one doing the disrupting.” She reached out and, with a feather-light touch, caught a loose curl that the sea breeze had blown across Briana’s cheek. She tucked it behind her ear, her fingers lingering for a half-second on Briana’s jaw. “But some disruptions are more intriguing than others.”
The touch was electric, a completely different charge than Hannah’s fraught tension or Kiara’s aching devotion. This was pure, undiluted attraction, simple and complicated all at once. Camila’s gaze was frank, interested.
“You should come downstairs,” Camila said, dropping her hand. “Hiding makes you a mystery. And mysteries make people nervous. Better to be seen, to own the narrative. Even if it’s a fiction.”
“Is that what you do? Own the narrative?”
“Always.” Camila’s smile widened, genuine this time. “It’s the only way to survive in this family. Now, are you coming? Your sister is shouldering the burden alone.”
She said ‘sister’ without flinching, a challenge and an acceptance in one. She turned and left, leaving the scent of jasmine and ambition in her wake. Briana looked down at the empty glass in her hand. The liquor’s courage was a flickering thing. Downstairs, the game continued. Her new family mingled. Her old self was drowning in silk and secrets.
She set the glass down with a sharp click. The sound was decisive. She smoothed her simple dress, ran her fingers through her wild curls, and headed for the door. Hiding was over. If she was on the board, she might as well learn how to play.
If she was on the board, she might as well learn how to play.
The terrace air was a warm buffer of salt and perfume. Briana stepped into the glow of hanging lanterns, and several heads turned. The reaction was different now. Instead of the assessing, competitive glances from fellow contestants, these looks were layered with open curiosity and a new, careful warmth.
A contestant from Switzerland, Elara, broke from a small group and approached with a genuine smile. “Briana! We were just talking about the community projects. Your perspective would be so valuable, since you’ve actually, you know, lived a real life.”
Her tone was kind, without the sharp edge of rivalry. Others nearby nodded in agreement, their expressions open. The change was disorienting. They saw her now as a resource, a conduit to the princess, or perhaps simply as someone removed from the race. The threat was gone, so the hostility vanished too.
“I’m probably the last person to ask about protocol,” Briana said, managing a shrug.
“That’s exactly why we should ask you,” Elara laughed before gliding away toward where Hannah stood.
Briana scanned the crowd and found Luna’s familiar blonde braid near a stone fountain. She moved toward her, the fabric of her simple dress whispering against her legs. Luna was nursing a glass of water, watching the scene with a navigator’s calm eyes.
“There’s the mystery princess,” Luna said, but her usual teasing was softer. She patted the fountain ledge beside her. “You look like you could use a stationary anchor.”
“You have no idea,” Briana sighed, sitting down. The cool stone was a relief. “I feel like I got shot out of a cannon.”
“Yeah, the family cannon’s a real bitch. Nice trajectory, brutal landing.” Luna took a sip. “They’re being nice, huh?” she nodded toward the other women.
“It’s weird.”
“It’s strategic. You’re not competition anymore. You’re influence. Hell, you’re basically part of the judging panel now, even if it’s unofficial.” Luna bumped her shoulder lightly against Briana’s. “Makes you a very good friend to have.”
“So this is you being strategic?” Briana asked, a faint, real smile touching her lips for the first time all night.
“This is me being your friend. The strategy is a happy bonus.”
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, observing the intricate dance of the party. From this vantage point, the new dynamic was starkly clear. Small clusters of women still chatted, but their eyes constantly tracked the three royal figures.
Hannah was holding court near the balustrade, a semicircle of contestants hanging on her every word about environmental conservation. A brunette from Italy leaned in, her hand brushing Hannah’s arm as she made a point, her laugh a little too melodic.
“Her Royal Hotness is in high demand,” Luna murmured.
“It’s just politics,” Briana said, but the words felt hollow. She saw the Italian woman’s fingertips trail down to Hannah’s wrist, a gesture too intimate for casual conversation. Hannah didn’t pull away, just offered a polite, dimpled smile that gave nothing away.
Across the terrace, the energy around Kiara was more chaotic. She was the vibrant heart of a louder group, her crimson dress a flame. A tall Nordic beauty had an arm loosely around Kiara’s waist, whispering something that made Kiara throw her head back with a hearty, unguarded laugh. Kiara’s gaze swept the crowd, though, and for a fractured second it locked with Briana’s. The laughter died in her eyes, replaced by a raw, unspoken ache. Then she looked away, turning her full attention back to the woman beside her, her touch becoming deliberate.
“Ouch,” Luna said quietly, having followed the look.
Briana felt a pang of guilt, sharp and sour. She’d given Kiara nothing but confusion. Now Kiara was seeking solace, or distraction, in the very obvious and willing arms of a contestant. It was a logical, painful move.
Then there was Camila. She was a masterclass in controlled reception. She stood near the open doors to the library, a silhouette of elegance. Contestants approached her like supplicants, one by one, for brief, intense conversations. Briana watched a French heiress slide a note into Camila’s hand, her fingers lingering. Camilla simply pocketed it with a nod, her expression one of amused contemplation.
The whole terrace hummed with a low, thirsty electricity. It wasn’t about impressing with intellect or charity plans anymore. The pretense had melted in the tropical night, leaving behind a more primal competition. The community service trial was tomorrow’s problem. Tonight was about proximity, about touch, about being chosen for something far more immediate.
“It’s like watching a nature documentary,” Luna whispered. “The mating rituals of the obscenely rich and titled.”
A voice cut through the murmur near them. “But truly, Luna, your take on the Nordic model is so reductive.” It was Greta, the contestant from Norway who had been circling Luna for weeks. She handed Luna a fresh glass of wine, her smile predatory. “Let me enlighten you. In private.”
Luna took the glass, raising an eyebrow at Briana. “Duty calls. Apparently my political analysis is flawed and requires… personal tutoring.”
Briana gave a small wave as Luna allowed herself to be led away. The solitude around her now felt exposed. She stood, intending to find more water, to do something, when Hannah appeared at her elbow. Her scent, bergamot and vanilla, was a familiar shock.
“Okay?” Hannah asked, her voice low. Her eyes scanned Briana’s face. The polite hostess was gone, replaced by the woman from the cove.
“Peachy,” Briana replied. “Just enjoying the spectacle. They’re certainly… motivated tonight.”
Hannah followed her gaze to where Kiara was now dancing, her arms loosely linked around the neck of the Nordic contestant. “Yes,” Hannah said, the word clipped. “It’s transparent, isn’t it? No more subtlety.” Her hand brushed Briana’s, a ghost of a touch hidden by a potted olive tree. “I hate it.”
“You don’t have to participate.”
“Don’t I?” Hannah’s laugh was bitter. “My every interaction is a metric. If I show favor, it’s noted. If I refuse, it’s noted. It’s all data for the council.”
A stunning woman with a blunt black bob approached them, her eyes only on Hannah. “Your Highness, we missed your insight on the maritime law debate. I have some thoughts that simply can’t wait.” She linked her arm through Hannah’s with an ownership that made Briana’s jaw tighten. “You’ll steal her away, won’t you?” she asked, her smile dazzling Briana.
Hannah threw one last, loaded look at Briana—a silent scream in a perfectly composed face—before allowing herself to be pulled back into the glittering fray. Briana was alone again, the phantom touch on her hand burning. She watched Hannah go, watched the woman’s hand settle possessively on the small of Hannah’s back, and felt a hot, unfamiliar surge of something ugly and deep. It wasn’t just politics. It was a visceral reaction, a territorial claim her new-found genetics screamed against.
She turned and walked straight into the villa, away from the perfumed ocean air and the desperate laughter, the pressure in her chest tightening with every step. The game was in full, feverish swing.
The game was in full, feverish swing.
Briana fled its momentum, the terrace’s laughter morphing into a dull roar inside her head. She took the grand staircase two steps at a time, the cool marble banister solid under her palm, an anchor in a swaying world. Each door in the endless hallway looked identical, marked only by subtle silver numbers, until she found hers.
She pushed inside and locked the door behind her, leaning against it. The luxurious silence of the room was absolute, a vacuum after the social pressure outside. She let out a breath she felt like she’d been holding for hours.
Walking to the canopy bed, she reached behind her back for the zipper of her simple dress. It gave way with a hushed sigh, the fabric pooling at her feet. She left it there, a dark puddle on the pale rug.
Naked, she crawled onto the vast expanse of cool, silken sheets. The linens smelled of lavender and sunlight, a clinical, impersonal cleanness. She lay on her back, staring up at the gauzy fabric of the canopy, watching it flutter in the breeze from the balcony door she’d left ajar.
Her body was a map of the day’s tensions—the coiled tightness in her shoulders from the spa, the hollow ache in her stomach from the king’s declaration, the phantom burn on her hand where Hannah’s fingers had brushed. She stretched her limbs, a long, slow unfurling against the decadent fabric.
The caramel skin of her stomach dipped and rose with her breathing. Her black curls splayed wildly across the pillow, a dark corona. The soft light from the en-suite bathroom gilded the curve of her hip, the length of her thigh. She was a study in exhaustion and untouched beauty, a delicious sight for an empty room.
She closed her eyes, willing the hum in her veins to quiet. Sister, she thought. The word was a lullaby and a epitaph. She breathed in lavender, breathed out the image of the Italian woman’s hand on Hannah’s back. Her muscles began to loosen, the bed cradling her. The distant, melodic pulse of the party downstairs became a distant sea. She drifted.
Downstairs, in the library, the mood was not melodic. It was surgical.
The doors were firmly shut. Camilla stood at a carved desk, a tablet in her hand, its glow casting sharp angles on her face. Kiara was pouring herself a very large whisky at the sidebar, her movements jerky. Hannah stood by the fireplace, arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching the cold, grey ashes.
“We need to finalize the list,” Camilla said, her voice all business. “Security needs to discreetly guide the selections to the west pavilion. The staff have prepared it.”
“This is grotesque,” Hannah stated, not turning from the fireplace.
“It’s the next phase of the evaluation,” Camilla replied, swiping on her tablet. “Intimacy, or the performance of it, is a royal currency. Who is confident? Who is strategic? Who gets clumsy and possessive? The observers’ reports will be very telling.”
Kiara knocked back half her glass, wincing as the liquor burned. “Let’s just get it over with. Who’s on your little shortlist, Cam?”
Camilla glanced at the screen. “Greta, for one. She’s aggressively ambitious, already tried to corner Luna. I want to see how she operates in a more… fluid environment. Elara, the Swiss one. She’s all empathy in public. Let’s see her private negotiations.”
Hannah finally turned. “And what is our role in this? Do we just… watch?”
“We participate,” Camilla said, looking up. Her gaze was steady. “We guide. We observe. It’s expected. A test of our discretion and control. Especially yours, Hannah.”
“The king made it clear earlier,” Kiara muttered, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. Her voice was thick. “Briana is off limits. A royal decree. So at least we don’t have to… manage that.”
A heavy silence followed. The unspoken words hung in the air: the king’s protection carved out a space of safety for Briana, but it also forever marked her as separate, untouchable. It underlined her new status in the most primitive way possible.
Hannah’s jaw tightened. The king’s ‘protection’ of Briana felt less like chivalry and more like branding.
“So she sleeps unaware in her gilded room while we handpick guests for a state-sanctioned gangbang,” Kiara said, her laugh harsh and brittle. “Lucky her.”
“Kiara,” Hannah warned.
“What? It’s true. She’s out. She’s family. We’re still in the arena.” Kiara finished her drink. “So who else? The Nordic twins? They seem… enthusiastic.”
Camilla nodded, making a note. “They’re on the list. Also the French heiress, Celeste. She passed me a note with her room number earlier. That kind of directness is worth examining.”
Hannah walked to the desk, looking at the list of names taking shape. Twenty women. A secret, liberated trial. “And what if they say no?”
“Then they fail the test of audacity,” Camilla said simply. “But none of them will say no. They’ve come too far.”
Hannah looked from Camilla’s calculating calm to Kiara’s volatile misery. This was her inner council. This was the machinery of her future, cold and efficient. She thought of Briana asleep upstairs, peacefully removed from this calculus of flesh and power.
She felt a sudden, fierce envy.
“Fine,” Hannah said, her voice devoid of inflection. The princess was back, making a decision. “Add the Italian, Sofia. The one with the sharp opinions on maritime law.”
Camilla smiled, a thin, approving curve of her lips. She added the name. “Good choice. She’s territorial. It will be informative to see that instinct in a different context.”
Kiara pushed off from the sidebar. “Are we done? I need another drink before I have to go be… sociable.”
“We’re done,” Camilla said, locking the tablet. “The invitations will be delivered verbally by security in fifteen minutes. The pavilion at midnight.”
Hannah gave one last, unreadable look at the list of names—a list that did not contain, and would never contain, the one name that mattered in a way that hollowed her out. She turned and left the library, the weight of the coming hours settling on her shoulders like a lead mantle. The plans were set. The night’s true contest was about to begin.