Amy's PoV:

I tried to inch away toward the edge, desperate to escape the spotlight-and the dance. My sides still ached from trying not to laugh with Jennie and Clarice, and I wasn't sure how long I could keep it together.

"Not so fast," a voice said quietly behind me.

I froze.

Maxwell.

He stepped in front of me, his dark eyes calm but firm.

"I'm dancing with you," he said simply.

Before I could protest, he reached out his hand.

I hesitated, then gave in, placing my hand in his.

The moment we moved into the rhythm of the music, I felt the warmth of his hand steadying me.

But as much as I try, I can't stop the laughter bubbling just beneath my skin. My chest tightened with a mix of nerves and something else.

Maxwell's brow furrowed, and he leaned in slightly, his voice low. "What's wrong with you?"

I tried to catch my breath, straighten my posture, and stop the giggles that threatened to spill out with every step.

"Nothing," I managed, though my voice betrayed me, breaking into a soft laugh.

He glanced down at me, eyes searching. "You're not fooling anyone."

I glanced away, cheeks burning.

"Maybe I'm just... overwhelmed," I said, forcing a smile.

He smirked, but his eyes softened. "Yeah, well, you're lucky I'm here to keep you from falling flat on your face."

I snorted, the giggle slipping out too fast. "Maybe I'd prefer that."

He arched a brow. "What, a public faceplant?"

"At least then I wouldn't have to see your insufferable face hovering over me."

"Ouch." He twirled me, a little smug. "You really do hate me."

"Honestly? I do. I might even say you are... my mortal enemy."

"Oh wow. Mortal. You're going Shakespeare on me now."

"No. I'm going accurate."

"Fair"

"You're the one always saying you hate me," I said. "So reclaim your brand."

"You're mad about what I said, aren't you?" I narrowed my eyes, catching the faint flicker of something behind his teasing.

"Me? Mad?" I said in that princely, fake-offended tone. "Of course not. I'm simply glowing with joy Mr. Prince Hotshot."

My foot nearly slipped.

"Do you think I am hot?"

"I do not"

"You did. Just now."

"There are no records. This isn't a courtroom."

"Oh, but it is." He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against my cheek. "And you're guilty."

"Of what?"

"Thinking I'm hot."

I nearly choked on air. "No. Absolutely not."

"I'm just saying," he said with an obnoxious shrug, "it happened."

"I am mad at you. Like right now. In this moment."

He grinned. "Okay, but you still called me hot."

"You're exhausting. I didn't smoke enough for this level of delusion."

He halted mid-step. "Wait. What? You smoked?"

"No-what? No! Oh my god-don't put things in my mouth!"

He blinked, his grin breaking wider "That was... quite the choice of words."

I paused. My eyes widened as the phrase caught up to me. "Okay-wow-yes, no. We are absolutely rephrasing that. That was... ew. Nope. Not my best verbal moment."

Maxwell was already laughing. Not a smirk, not a little royal huff-but real, low, crinkly-eyed laughter that made it impossible not to smile back, even if I was actively trying to hate him.

"I hate you," I muttered under my breath.

He laughed harder. "You're welcome. You're definitely sobered up now."

"Oh no," I grinned, shaking my head. "You're worse than weed."

"And you," he said, spinning me again with maddening ease, "are kind of adorable when you're chaotic."

"I am never chaotic."

"You're literally dancing high at a royal ball."

I blinked at him. "Wait, did you just say I was adorable? Oh my god. Am I on mushrooms?"

I frowned, completely disoriented. "Did I die?"

He tilted his head. "Is it that insane to think I might find you adorable?"

"Yes," I said immediately. "It's obviously a symptom. Probably from mixing high-grade panic with weed."

He snorted. "You're cute when you ramble."

"Okay, now we're just stacking delusions."

He didn't answer. Just smiled softly, eyes drifting over my face, then somewhere above my head. It was... too much. The music swelled. The dance ended. We stepped back and bowed, and I still had that same dumbfounded expression plastered to my face like a badly glued-on mask.

"You good?" he asked, not teasing now-just... real.

I blinked again. "Are you caring about my emotional well-being?" I gasped. "That is wildly suspicious."

And before he could say anything else, I pivoted on my heel and escaped the dance floor like Cinderella after an edible, headed straight for the only thing that made sense anymore: snacks.

Jennie and Clarice were at the long buffet table like it was a competitive eating contest. Plates stacked high with little cakes, tiny sandwiches, meat medallions, and at least three types of mysterious fish.

"You guys look like you've been here for three hours," I said, grabbing a chair and collapsing into it.

"We have," Clarice said with her mouth full. "Time slowed down. It's the fish."

"Do you have chocolate?"

Jennie passed me a brownie without even breaking eye contact with the truffle display. I took a big bite, grateful, and chewed in contemplative silence.

That was when he showed up again-because of course he did-Maxwell, sliding into the seat next to mine like it was reserved.

"You okay now?" he asked.

I stared at him, chocolate crumbs still in my mouth. "I don't trust you."

"Fair," he said, unfazed. "But I still brought you this." He held up a fancy little dessert-one of those gold-dusted macaron things that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

I looked at it, then at him.

"I don't take bribes," I said, and snatched it from his hand.

Clarice whispered, "Are we witnessing a moment?"

"No," I hissed.

"Yes," Jennie whispered back, eyes wide.

Maxwell leaned back in his chair, looking annoyingly pleased with himself.

"I'm going to regret this entire night, aren't I?" I muttered.

"Probably," he said, grinning.

Just as I was about to finally have a peaceful moment with my brownie and the absurd amount of sugar I'd consumed in the last ten minutes, Frederick plopped down on my other side like he belonged there.

"Party's better over here," he declared, tossing a grape into his mouth with infuriating aim.

I stared at him. Then at Maxwell. Then at the grape he had just decapitated.

"Oh great," I muttered. "The royal ego parade has arrived in stereo."

Maxwell didn't even flinch. "Freddie, don't you have someone else to bother? Preferably someone not actively eating her feelings?"

Frederick shrugged, all sunshine and smugness. "Nope. I go where the vibes are." He looked at me. "And you, Cherry Tops, have the best chaos-to-snack ratio at this table."

"She's mine tonight," Maxwell said without looking at him.

I choked on the macaron.

"Am I actually on mushrooms?" I coughed looking at jennie who quickly looked at her purse and then nodded a 'no' at me

Frederick blinked, eyebrows raised. "That's quite the declaration."

Maxwell's jaw tensed like he only just realized what he said. "I meant, she's my dance partner. She was. For the dance. I already had the-don't make this weird."

"You made it weird," I said through a coughing fit.

Jennie leaned over, whispering theatrically to Clarice, "Are we watching a love triangle or a slow-motion train wreck?"

"Both, " Clarice whispered back, shoving another mini éclair in her mouth.

Frederick smirked, suddenly very amused. "You know, Max, if you're getting territorial, maybe just get her a tiara and declare your intentions in front of the court. Preferably with fireworks."

I glared at them both. "I am not a tiara. I am a human person who-" I pointed at my plate. "-is currently married to this brownie."

Frederick winked. "Jealous of that brownie, honestly."

"You're flirting with me and being annoying," I said "That doesn't sound like a dream..."

"Two-for-one special," he replied smoothly, taking a bread roll and tearing it in half like it had personally insulted him.

Maxwell crossed his arms. "Are you drunk?"

"No," Frederick said. "But I did smell something suspicious earlier... Near the fountain?"

My whole body froze.

Clarice audibly choked.

Jennie dropped her fork.

I blurted out the only thing my panicked brain could produce: "It was the flowers. Very... exotic flora here. Pungent."

Maxwell raised an eyebrow.

Frederick just looked smug. "Oh sure. The flowers. The ones that mysteriously made the three of you giggle like pirates and look terrified of ceiling chandeliers."

"Do chandeliers... swing?" Jennie whispered.

"No," I snapped.

Maxwell looked between us, very slowly. "You're all menaces."

"We've always been," Clarice said proudly, still chewing.

Just then, Octavia's voice sliced through the ballroom, crisp and commanding as ever:
"Students, please assemble by the east terrace. The royals will join you shortly for the evening toast."

I groaned, dramatic and entirely unladylike. "Ugh. More royal pressure. Fantastic. Can't wait to accidentally curtsy at a chair."

Frederick stood, brushing absolutely nothing off his lapel like he was being filmed for a cologne ad. "Come on, Cherry Tops. Time to step back into the lion's den."

Maxwell didn't move. He was frowning, arms crossed, eyes flicking over our still-chaotic table. "We can't leave them like this. They're about to meet our parents. And our grandparents. They can't even see straight."

Frederick squinted at Clarice, who was trying to eat a cube of cheese with chopsticks. "Hmm. Strong point."

"She brought her own chopsticks," Maxwell added.

"You are getting good at it," Jennie smiled

"Thanks, J." Clarice said happily

"She's prepared," Frederick said, impressed.

"Can you two focus?" I snapped, standing too fast and wobbling like a newborn deer. "If I have to face a full royal toast while mildly-high and emotionally unstable, you are both coming with me. And if I pass out, I'm haunting you from beyond."

Jennie looped her arm through mine. "You say that, but your blush says otherwise."

"My blush says Nars Orgasm and 38 euros well spent."

That got a laugh from all of them.

"They even have an invented language," Frederick muttered, scandalized. "It's bad."

"It's retail-coded," Clarice added, still chewing something suspicious.

"Come on, girls. Up we go." Maxwell reached out and physically hoisted Clarice and me to our feet like we were dolls, while Frederick gallantly lifted Jennie by the elbows like she was Cinderella being helped into a pumpkin carriage.

"I've seen less chaotic people get escorted out of Vegas," I grumbled.

"And yet here we are," Frederick said brightly. "Headed into royal society like we're not on the brink of a collective identity crisis."

The ballroom doors opened, spilling soft golden light into the terrace. Our classmates were already lining up, perfectly straight and stiff like a catalog ad for anxiety. Music floated in the distance - gentle, stately, annoyingly calming.

We stepped outside.

The air was cooler, kissed with rosewater and pine from the royal gardens. Tinkling laughter and champagne flutes echoed through the night, the stars above twinkling like even they had RSVP'd to this royal mess.

"Okay," Jennie whispered as we lined up, heels sinking slightly into the marble. "Everyone suck in, chin up, eyes open. We practiced this."

"I don't even remember my own name," Clarice mumbled.

"It's fine," I said through clenched teeth. "I'll respond to literally anything royal-sounding. 'Lady Meh of Stressville,' whatever."

The doors from the other side of the terrace opened, and a wave of silence swept over the crowd.

The King and Queen had arrived, well they were already here but now they in a terrace so little and cute.

They didn't glide. They floated.
All posture and poise and centuries of breeding that screamed old money and older expectations.

Queen Adelaide's diamond tiara probably had its own security detail. King Leopold's shoulders were as broad and stiff as his reputation. They both had that sharp, no-nonsense look that could wither crops.

And then they began to walk and we followed as we reached a big big very expensive like living room.

They both sat down, as we stood up looking at them

"Children, welcome to the palace. I hope you are well and having a fantastic time at the school of journaling. The crown has told me about your efforts and works. It seems like Lady Octavia as a beautiful class of hardworkers and future helpers of the royals" The kind said

"But as you know not all must thrive, in this four days tree of you will go home. Back to normality. " The queen said and "Are you under-" she coughed "stood? Pardon"

I held still.

So did Jennie.

So did Clarice.

Until the queen paused just a breath too long and coughed again, and Clarice made a quiet squeaking sound.

That was it. We were done.

Jennie's shoulder started to shake.

Clarice bit her lip, hard.

I stared straight ahead like a mannequin and tried not to lose it as the queen moved on - but Jennie snorted.

SNORTED.

A communner snort. Treasonous.

I cracked.

A laugh escaped me - silent, horrified, but very real. I slammed a hand over my mouth and tried to disguise it as a cough, but it only made it worse.
Clarice wheezed into a sudden fit of fake sneezing like she'd been possessed by spring allergies in mid-December.
Jennie dug her nails into my arm like we were on the Titanic and I was the last door floating.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Maxwell facepalm, dragging his hand down his face with the elegance of a man who just watched his credibility vanish.

Frederick, on the other hand, was grinning, absolutely delighted by the chaos - like a raccoon watching a firework show.

The King and Queen didn't even blink. They passed right by us, perfectly trained expressions of royal indifference. Which, somehow, was worse.

And then-
"Is something funny?" the Queen asked.

Her voice was like iced silk - beautiful, measured, and dangerous.
She didn't look at us directly.
No. She looked at us.
Really at us.

Maxwell's hand snapped up like he was answering a question in class. "It's okay, Your Majesty," he said quickly, smoothly. "Frederick and I were just talking. I apologize."

Frederick nodded solemnly. "Deep philosophical debate about whether gold embroidery counts as formal or ostentatious. Heated stuff."

The Queen narrowed her eyes for a fraction of a second - then nodded. "Right."

She moved on.

So did the King.

I didn't exhale until I was sure they were at least ten feet away.

"Heated stuff?" I hissed at Frederick under my breath.

He shrugged, still grinning. "Would you have preferred I blamed your drug problem?"

Jennie snorted.

Clarice started laughing again - quietly, but her shoulders were shaking so hard I thought she might pull a muscle.

"I'm going to be banned from the kingdom," I whispered. "They're going to send me back to school on a donkey."

"You're fine," Maxwell said, clearly trying to believe it himself. "No one noticed. Except everyone. And the Queen."

"Fantastic."

Then, as if summoned by the Royal Chaos Gods, Octavia appeared out of nowhere like a ghost trained by MI6.

"Smile," she said through her teeth, her lips barely moving. "And if any of you twitch, laugh, or even breathe wrong during the toast, I will personally enroll you in etiquette rehab."

"Yes, ma'am," we all said at once, like little soldiers freshly shamed.

As the Queen raised her glass for the toast, we straightened up, pressed smiles onto our faces, and tried to look like we hadn't just barely escaped the guillotine of royal decorum.

"To tradition," she said, voice ringing out across the terrace.

"To legacy," added the King.

And I, with trembling hands and the faintest lingering scent of weed and danger on my borrowed perfume, raised my glass and whispered under my breath:

"To survival."