The hallway outside our rooms hummed with nervous energy as Octavia swept in, her sharp eyes slicing through the line of students gathered before their doors. "Listen up," she commanded, her voice crisp and unwavering. "The Northwald Presentation Ceremony Ball isn't just any event—this is your first royal engagement. You will be introduced to the Crown, the monarchs, and the highest circles of society. You must be flawless."

Her gaze locked on each of us, weighing and judging like a hawk scouting its prey. "The boys and girls will be separated into two rooms. Each group will have a fashion designer, two makeup specialists, and a hairstylist assigned. Your mission: full glam. Every detail counts. Leave nothing undone."

Excited whispers fluttered between the girls, the promise of gowns and glamour sparking a flicker of joy even inside me. But beneath it all, a knot of anxiety tightened in my chest. I forced myself to breathe deep and followed the others toward the rooms.

Sitting down as the preparations began, a familiar thrill washed over me—the soft brushes against skin, the sparkle of makeup palettes, the rustle of silk and satin. For a moment, I was transported back to another life: late nights spent prepping for parties, laughter spilling between friends as we slipped into sequins and heels. I loved this part—the transformation, the chance to become someone else, even if only for a night.

But then, sharp and unforgiving, the voice slithered back into my mind like a shadow:
"It's too much. Where do you think you're going like that? You look desperate for attention, Amy. You look like a fucking slut."

My hands trembled as the makeup artist lifted a shimmering highlighter near my cheekbone. I blinked hard, willing myself to focus.

Then, unexpectedly, the fashion designer—a tall man with kind, thoughtful eyes—leaned in with a soft, amused smile. "And what shall we do with you?" he mused, studying me with a hand resting lightly under his chin. "Surely you know you've got that rare kind of natural beauty. And... are those real freckles?"

"Yeah," I said, a little caught off guard.

He gasped playfully. "Oh my stars, I knew it! I have just the thing."

"But—please," I whispered quickly, leaning in so only he could hear, "nothing too flashy. I don't want a lot of makeup... or anything too revealing."

Some of the girls nearby turned to glance at me—just for a second—but long enough to make me feel their silent judgments. I couldn't help but laugh quietly to myself.

Funny. A couple of years ago, I used to love dressing up—loved the attention, the shine, the thrill of walking into a room and knowing every eye would find me. Back then, they hated me for being "too much," for "asking for it." Now that I want to keep it simple, quiet, even invisible... I'm still too much, just in a different direction. A freak for not wanting to shine.

But the designer didn't seem bothered by any of it. He leaned back, smiling like he had discovered a hidden treasure. "Oh, darling," he said with a wink, voice warm as silk, "gingers are divine in red. Crimson, rosewood, rust—you'll glow. And with that lovely skin of yours, we'll do just the faintest kiss of makeup. And absolutely no hiding these beauty marks."

"My beauty marks?" I echoed.

"Your freckles, silly. They're magic. Come on."

Something flickered in me then. A strange, quiet warmth. His words cracked open a door I hadn't even realized I'd sealed shut.

Beauty marks. It sounded ridiculous—and yet, it stayed with me. Not flaws. Not something to erase. Something that made me... me.

The room began to fill with the sound of fabric swishing, zippers, laughter, and exclamations over shoes and gowns. Dress ideas were flying. Textures, colors, silks, velvets. I started to loosen up, even smile. I said yes to trying on a rich garnet gown with an open back, something that shimmered just slightly under the light. I let them run a gold comb through my hair and curl a few strands.

And when I caught my reflection halfway through the process, I paused.

Not because I looked different—but because, for the first time in a long time, I looked like myself. Not the scared version. Not the broken one. Just me.

Jennie and Clarice gasped when I stepped out from behind the screen.

"Oh my God, Amy," Jennie said, beaming. "You look... like fire and silk. You're going to destroy everyone in that ballroom."

The designer nodded happily, "Told you red was your color. Nico Vellani is never wrong."

I didn't say anything. I just smiled—a real, full smile, wide and warm, probably the first honest one I'd allowed myself in two years.

And for a moment, I felt okay in a dress.

The other girls were still getting their hair pinned, dresses adjusted, or makeup touched up, so I figured I had a moment. I slipped out onto the balcony with my phone in hand, heart thudding a little. This version of me—dressed in garnet silk, hair cascading in soft waves, freckles unapologetically on display—felt like someone worth sharing.

I FaceTimed Alyssa, and the second her face appeared on screen, she screamed.

"STOP. OH. MY. GOD. AAMSSS!" she shrieked, eyes going wide and glassy with tears. A smile burst across her face. "I'm gonna actually cry— GUYS, COME HERE!"

Within seconds, the screen was filled with familiar faces crowding around her phone.

"What are you talking about—let me see—" Nate's voice cut in, and then he saw me. His playful grin faltered into a soft pout. "Oh damn..."

"Holy Aphrodite," Emily gasped, clapping her hands together. "You look insane, Ams."

Selena leaned in, wide-eyed. "Girl, you're gonna make every prince in that place forget their titles. You look dangerous."

"Seriously," Nate said with a teasing smirk. "You're so hot I might actually go straight for you." We all burst into laughter. "After I dump Luke, of course," he added with a wink, but I could see the way his eyes shone a little too bright, like he was holding back tears.

"Where are you going looking like that, beautiful?" he asked more softly.

I smiled, still adjusting the screen. "To a royal ball."

They all froze.

"NO. WAY." Emily nearly jumped.

"You better find yourself a Viscount like Anthony Bridgerton," Selena said, fanning herself.

"I'm not even joking, their jaws are going to hit the floor," Alyssa said, her tone deadly serious. "Like seriously."

"You're going to crush it," Nate said, voice firm and proud.

From somewhere off-camera, I heard Nico yell, "Let's gooo, girls! Time to enchanté the men!"

"I have to go," I said with a laugh, my heart full.

"Bye, beautiful!"

"Bye, my ginger queen!"

"Love you!" they all called out at once, their voices overlapping.

"Love you back"

I ended the call with a deep breath, holding the phone against my chest for a moment. Their voices still rang in my ears like a chorus of love.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt ready to walk into a room and let the world see me.

We lined up like porcelain dolls in shimmering gowns, heels tapping softly against the marble floors as Octavia inspected us one final time. I could feel the faint hum of anticipation in the air—nervous breath, tightened gloves, the faint clink of earrings being adjusted.

The boys were waiting in the entrance hall, each one in full formal attire—tailored suits, polished shoes, and some even with old-fashioned royal sashes that looked like they belonged in a museum. For a second, I had to remind myself that this wasn't a play. This was real.

We were ushered out front, where sleek black limos waited in a perfect row.

"A limo?" Jennie whispered beside me. "It's literally next door."

"They want us to arrive like we've descended from the heavens," Clarice replied, smirking.

"Or like we've been auctioned off," I muttered, and both of them snorted, trying not to laugh.

Inside the limo, the silence between us girls was filled with occasional gasps as we peeked through the windows at the glittering manor ahead—the neighboring royal estate, even more decadent than the one we'd been living in.

The gates opened, and music drifted into the car, a waltz played by a live string quartet on the front lawn, where golden lights hung from every tree. Everything shimmered, like the world had been dipped in champagne.

We pulled up to the front steps where footmen waited, gloved and silent. I stepped out, my heels clicking against the stone, and for a moment I just stood there—blinking under the chandeliers strung like stars above us.

"Ready?" Clarice asked.

I nodded, even though my hands were shaking just slightly.

We climbed the steps together, our dresses rustling, the cool night air brushing our skin like a whisper of the past.

Inside, the ballroom was something out of a dream—gold-trimmed walls gleamed under the chandelier's soft glow, and the marble floor mirrored the flicker of candlelight like water. Overhead, a grand ceiling stretched high and infinite, painted with gods, tempests, and tangled roses. Every detail whispered wealth and centuries of tradition.

As we stepped inside, I felt it—that gaze again.

Intense. Unreadable. Watching.

The group naturally split—boys veering toward the bar, girls fanning into smaller circles. The room pulsed with power: aristocrats, royals, politicians, and socialites dressed like myths. The kind of people you only saw in headlines or history books. And yet, here I was, trying to look like I belonged.

"Hm, I need to eat," Clarice whispered beside me. "I was so nervous I skipped lunch."

"I need alcohol," Jennie added, already scanning the room. "I'll get you a glass too, Amy."

I nodded, too distracted to say much. The room didn't just look like a fairytale—it moved like one, too. Every glance felt loaded, every smile calculated. And then, as if summoned by the thought, I saw him.

Frederick.

Surrounded by women, as always. His charm had a gravitational pull. Tabloid headlines practically floated around him like perfume. He looked up—and when his eyes landed on me, something shifted.

His smirk softened. He stepped away from the crowd and placed a hand on his chest with theatrical flair. "Cherry Top," he said, grinning. "If I didn't already have a reputation, I'd swear you just gave me a heart attack."

I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks betrayed me with a flush.

"So," I said, eyebrow raised, "you planning to save me from all this?"

"I don't think there's a salvation for you," he teased, glancing at the line of women still hovering behind him.

I tilted my head. "Bold. Narcissistic. On brand."

He chuckled, pleased. "What can I say? I love women. And—tragically for them—they love me."

"That, I believe."

"But about your work," he said, his tone shifting, "that's my real salvation."

"I think I did a decent job. Let's see what the Crown thinks."

"For some reason, I trust you." He gave me a two-finger salute. "Alright, I'm off. I have... obligations."

"Yeah," I said with a half-smile, "I can see that."

He turned back toward his fan club, arms open like a returning king. The women closed in instantly. I couldn't help but smile. People looked at him like he was a scandal waiting to happen—but he didn't seem to mind one bit.

I glanced across the ballroom. Most of the remaining girls had their eyes fixed elsewhere—namely, the other royal cousins.

Edmund stood still and poised, like he belonged in a painting, his every movement controlled and clean. He acknowledged me with a nod—formal, polite, and utterly unreadable. A wall with perfect hair.

And then there was Maxwell.

Leaning against a column in the far corner, his posture was the opposite of royal. One hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a drink lazily. His hair had been brushed back for the night, but one stubborn strand had already fallen over his eyes.

Midnight-blue velvet and a silver crest caught the candlelight—he looked like something torn from a gothic romance novel. Brooding. Distant. Angry at something, or maybe everything.

When our eyes met, he didn't look away. But he didn't offer a nod. Or a smirk. Just that same sharp, unreadable stare.

No warmth. No hate either.

Just... tension. Static. Like flint about to spark.

Honestly, he was probably the only person in the room who made my insides burn—not with nerves, but with something closer to... aggravation. Disdain. A twisted knot of emotion I didn't want to name.

I turned away.

He could mope in his velvet corner all night for all I cared.

Just then, Clarice and Jennie returned—Clarice mid-bite into a mountain of cake, and Jennie balancing three champagne flutes like a pro.

"To surviving nobility," Jennie said, handing me one.

We clinked our glasses, and for a moment, surrounded by chandeliers, music, and a thousand watching eyes—I actually felt something like joy.

The murmurs in the ballroom quieted as a group of guards strode in, their polished boots echoing softly on the marble floor.

"Prince Rupert and Princess Arabelle, Duke and Duchess of Northwold," one guard announced, and the crowd turned expectantly. These were Frederick's parents.

The royals entered gracefully, gliding toward the grand chairs set at the center. Rupert's warm smile lit up the room as he stepped forward. Clearing his throat, he addressed the assembly.

"Welcome, esteemed guests, families, and students," Rupert began, his voice rich and confident. "Tonight marks not only a celebration but a new chapter. I am proud to introduce the new students of the International Royal Journalism Program this year"

My heart jumped, and I glanced at Octavia. Her sharp eyes swept the room, then fixed on us.

"Come forward," she commanded, and we filed out from the shadows to stand in a neat line in front of the throne.

Rupert gestured for us to perform the curtsy we had practiced countless times in class. One by one, we bowed with grace and precision, feeling the weight of royal tradition press upon us.

"Well done," Rupert said with a nod. "You have all passed your first test."

A wave of relief washed over me, though I barely dared breathe yet while the rest of the room laughed, probably thinking what an easy test it was doing the courtesy since most of them probably learned how to do it first, then walk.

"But," Rupert added with a teasing smile, "before we can officially announce you to the Crown, there's one more tradition."

The crowd leaned in as Rupert continued. "You must dance."

I blinked. Dance? Of course, it was a royal ball, but I had barely prepared for this.

He grinned. "Any of you who would like to join our reporters and students, please step forward and find your partners, let's show them how to dance."

I glanced around, waiting for someone to approach. Suddenly, Frederick emerged from the crowd, that familiar smirk blazing across his face.

I shook my head slightly at his teasing confidence, but before I could refuse, he reached out his hand toward me.

Well, at least I am dancing with someone I actually know not just someone random.

Just as I was about to take it, another figure stepped smoothly between us, taking the place of my pair and partner for this dance.

Maxwell.

The dress: