The first time Alexandra’s tiara hit an American high school floor, it shattered into three clean pieces and a hundred sharp reflections of who she used to be.

The hallway at Bookside High smelled like bleach and vending machine chips. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Students pressed themselves against the lockers to get out of the way as the little crown skittered across the linoleum, metal ringing against tile before coming to rest at the scuffed sneaker of a girl who thought of herself as royalty.

Mallory Monroe, self-appointed queen of Bookside, tilted her head and smirked.

“Oops,” she said, not sounding even slightly sorry. “Guess customs forgot to bubble-wrap the princess.”

She stepped on the tiara with the heel of her boot. The metal bent with a soft, sick sound.

Alexandra flinched, fingers curling at her sides. Every cell in her body screamed at her to straighten, to frost over, to remind this American girl that back home, in the tiny European kingdom of Theodonia, people bowed when she entered a room and stood when she left.

But here, in Los Angeles County, she was just “Alex.” Exchange student. New girl. Nobody that mattered.

That was the entire point.

“Wow,” said Mallory’s friend Nava, leaning on the locker beside her. “I didn’t realize plastic could break like that.”

Alexandra forced a smile. “It’s fine,” she said. Her accent softened the edges of the words, turning the hallway’s noise into distant surf. “I was thinking of going for a more… understated look anyway.”

She bent to pick up the pieces. A boy’s hand got there first.

“Here,” he said quietly. “Careful. That thing’s got more sharp edges than these three put together.”

He nodded toward Mallory and her two shadows. The boy wore the janitor’s ID on a lanyard and a faded school maintenance shirt, but his eyes were clear and steady.

“Thanks,” Alexandra said, taking the bent metal from him. Their fingers brushed. There was grease at the edge of his nails, a faint smell of cleaning chemicals clinging to him.

“Jack,” he added. “In case you need emergency tiara repairs again.”

He gave a half smile and moved past her with his cleaning cart.

Mallory watched the exchange with narrowed eyes. “Make way,” she called, raising her voice for the benefit of everyone within earshot. “Royalty coming through.”

Students laughed nervously and stepped aside as she strolled to the locker directly behind Alexandra.

“Move,” Mallory told her, snapping her fingers. “You’re standing in front of the queen’s locker.”

Alexandra turned slowly. “You do know that being homecoming queen doesn’t make you actual royalty, right?” she asked, keeping her tone light. “Your constitution doesn’t secretly mention you, I checked.”

A ripple of surprised laughter ran through the crowd. Mallory’s smile tightened.

“Yeah? Well, your outfit is unfortunate,” she shot back.

“Your name literally means ‘unfortunate,’” Alexandra replied before she could stop herself.

Mallory’s nostrils flared. Nava’s mouth fell open. Mara, the third in their little court, let out a low “ohhh” and clapped a hand over her lips.

Alexandra bit down on her own. She felt suddenly, acutely, exactly how far she was from the marble corridors of the palace in Theodonia, where offending a princess could get you exiled from polite society and your entire family whispered about for a generation.

Here, offending a girl like Mallory just got you a target painted on your back.

“Last time I checked,” Mallory said, stepping in until they were almost nose to nose, “nobody invited you to sit with us. Or stand with us. Or breathe near us. Stay in your lane, Alex. Or whatever your name is.”

She bumped Alexandra’s shoulder hard enough to make her stumble, then flipped her hair and stalked away.

The hallway slowly resumed its flow. Alexandra gathered the broken tiara pieces into her bag and exhaled.

Only the principal knows who you are, she reminded herself. Only Principal McKenna and Victoria. No one else.

“Alexandra!”

The one person in the building who knew the truth hurried toward her now, heels clicking. Principal McKenna had the permanent air of a woman who knew everything before anyone told her and pretended not to.

“Is everything alright?” she asked in a low voice. Her eyes flicked to the bent metal in Alexandra’s hand. “Oh dear.”

“It’s fine,” Alexandra said. “Just… cultural exchange.”

Principal McKenna’s lips twitched. “Well, Alex,” she said in a louder, more cheerful tone, “ready for your next class at an American high school?”

Alexandra straightened, letting the role slide back into place like a costume.

“I think so,” she said. “As long as there are no tests on… tiara resilience.”

McKenna laughed and steered her toward the stairs.

The first time Alexandra had asked for this—freedom, anonymity, a life beyond the palace—her parents had looked at her as if she’d asked to abolish the monarchy and turn Theodonia into a theme park.

They had been standing in the throne room, sunlight filtering through stained glass, dust motes swirling like slow snow. The carpets were deep and red, the tapestries older than the United States itself. From the dais, portraits of stern ancestors watched her.

“Have you given any thought to what you would like for your eighteenth birthday?” King Frederick asked, gloved hands folded over the head of his cane.

“I suppose I assumed I’d get a husband,” Alexandra said lightly. “Tradition, isn’t it? Eighteenth year, suitable royal, economy stabilized, princess disappears into duty.”

Queen Eleanor had given her a sharp look. “Do not be dramatic, Alexandra,” she said. “Prince Philip is a perfectly acceptable match. And the trade deal with Tasaria will secure our future.”

“Yes,” Alexandra said. “Our future. And my… permanent absence from my own life.”

She took a breath, hearing how bold her words sounded on the echoing air.

“If I must marry him,” she said, “I want something first. A gift for my birthday. A real one.”

“What could you possibly lack?” her father asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Freedom,” Alexandra said. “Just for a little while. To live somewhere no one knows me. To walk down a street without bodyguards. To make mistakes that aren’t front-page gossip. To see how people live beyond our border and beyond the palace walls. Like a royal rumspringa.”

She’d read about the Amish in America late one night, when insomnia and the palace’s weak Wi-Fi had sent her down a rabbit hole of Articles You Might Like. The idea had stuck: a sanctioned season of wildness before committing for life.

“A what?” her mother asked.

“A… sabbatical,” Victoria had supplied smoothly from her position near the door. Lady-in-waiting, handmaid, shadow—Victoria had been all of those and more. “A few months abroad, Majesty. It could be framed as cultural research. International understanding. Very modern. Very American.”

The king had frowned. “And then you come back,” he said to his daughter. “You marry Philip. You do your duty. That is non-negotiable.”

“Yes,” Alexandra said. “I just… want to know who I am before I give that person away.”

In the end, it had been the prime minister of Theodonia who talked him into it. “Imagine the headlines in the United States,” he said. “Princess studies in Los Angeles. It will put us on the map, Majesty. And Americans adore a royal.”

They loved the idea of the Americans’ love. They trusted Victoria to keep Alexandra in line. They trusted the trade agreement with Tasaria to make everything worthwhile.

They did not trust their daughter’s restless heart.

In California, Bookside High buzzed with the same low-level drama as every other public school in the country—tests, crushes, fights over parking spaces and prom dates. The only difference was that one of the juniors was secretly a princess.

“Alex,” said Sophia, the first person to offer her a genuine smile at lunch. “You can sit with me if Mallory’s kingdom is full.”

“It appears so,” Alexandra said, sliding onto the bench. The cafeteria felt bizarrely familiar after years of American teen shows streaming inside the palace walls. Plastic trays, mystery meat, fluorescent lighting. If you ignored the palm trees outside the windows and the occasional UCLA hoodie, it could have been any school in any state.

Sophia laughed. “You talk funny,” she said. “In a good way. Where are you from again?”

“Tiny country in Europe you’ve never heard of,” Alexandra said. “We export cheese and designer scarves. And drama.”

“Sounds like a Netflix show,” Sophia replied. “I’d watch it.”

On the far side of the room, Jack carried mop buckets back to the kitchen, moving carefully between tables. When one student “accidentally” knocked a soda onto the floor in front of him, he didn’t flinch.

“Hey, new girl,” Mallory called, strolling past Alexandra’s table. “Love your thrift-store chic. Did you fish that jacket out of a donation bin or did someone pay you to take it?”

Sophia bristled. “Last time I checked, we didn’t invite you to sit here with us,” she said.

“Last time I checked, I was just trying to get lunch with my friend Sophia,” Alexandra replied. “Now, you three. And you—” she tipped her chin at Mallory—“keep calling yourself royalty, but all I see is an insecure, bratty teen girl.”

The cafeteria fell briefly silent.

Then the noise resumed, louder than before.

Alexandra’s heart hammered, but she kept her gaze steady. Back home, she’d been trained all her life to lower her eyes, swallow her opinions, be the essence of modesty and self-effacement. Future queens didn’t get to have public arguments.

In California, it turned out, you were allowed to call a bully what she was.

After school, as the sun dropped behind the hills and the American flag in front of Bookside flapped in the evening breeze, Alexandra followed Jack down the sidewalk.

“Jack,” she called. “Wait.”

He turned, surprised. His backpack was frayed at the straps, his sneakers worn at the toes.

“Hey, tiara girl,” he said. “You okay? Mallory didn’t push you down any stairs after lunch, did she?”

“I wanted to ask you something,” Alexandra said. “Do you… have another job? Outside school.”

“Three,” Jack said. “Why?”

Her chest tightened. “I was wondering if you could help me get one,” she said quickly. “I want to… work. To see what it’s like.”

He blinked. “Like, a job job? As in… paycheck, customers, minimum wage, welcome to the wonderful world of American capitalism?”

“Yes,” she said. “That.”

He huffed a little laugh. “Most students pretend to forget we have a Burger Kingdom right across from campus,” he said. “You want fries with that?”

“Please,” she said. “I want everything I’ve never had.”

Burger Kingdom smelled like fryer oil and sugar, like every fast-food restaurant in every American movie she’d ever watched. The crown logo over the door made her want to laugh and cry at the same time.

“Alex, this is Jack,” said the manager, a harried woman named Carla. “He’s our star employee. He’ll train you over the next few shifts.”

Jack gave a mock bow. “Welcome to the other side of the counter, your—uh, Alex,” he said. “Let me show you the POS.”

“The what?”

“Point-of-sale,” he said. “Cash register. Where hungry people become slightly less hungry, and we become slightly more exhausted.”

By the end of her first night, Alexandra’s feet ached, her hair smelled like fries, and she had more grease on her apron than she’d known it was possible to acquire in four hours. She also had thirty-eight dollars in tips and something she’d never had in Theodonia: the feeling of having earned every cent.

“Didn’t know working could be… fun,” she admitted as Jack walked her to the bus stop.

“It’s not always,” he said. “But it beats watching your mom stare at unpaid bills.”

“Your mother…?” Alexandra prompted.

He hesitated, then shrugged. “She’s disabled,” he said. “Can’t work. My little sister’s in middle school. I’m the only one bringing in money right now. So yeah, I take every shift I can.”

The next time Mallory and her girls walked into Burger Kingdom and saw Alexandra behind the counter in a paper crown and a uniform polo, they nearly dropped their phones.

“Oh. My. God,” Mallory said. “Look at this. The real Burger Queen.”

Nava snorted a laugh. Mara held up her phone, already filming.

“What can I get you?” Alexandra asked, tapping in the order. Her voice didn’t shake. She was oddly proud of that.

“I’ll take a number five combo,” Mallory said. “And an explanation. Are you, like, collecting experiences for your sad little memoir? Poor girl goes undercover as poorer girl?”

Jack stepped in before Alexandra could reply. “Here’s a tip,” he said, leaning on the counter. “Order or get out.”

Mallory’s eyes flashed. “Don’t be bitter,” she said. “Just because you have to wear that ridiculous outfit and serve me.”

“Your name literally means bitter,” he pointed out. “Mallory. ‘Unlucky, ill-fated.’ Might want to take that up with your parents.”

Nava giggled despite herself. “He’s got a point.”

Mallory scowled. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“Then stop talking to her like that,” Jack said. “She’s working. You want to be a decent human being, you can start by not harassing minimum-wage workers with your phone out like you’re filming a reality show.”

Alexandra watched him, admiration cutting through the anxiety like sunlight.

“How are you able to stand up to people so easily?” she asked later, when they stood side by side in the small apartment kitchen he shared with his mom and sister. He’d invited her over for dinner after a shift, apologizing for the tiny space like he owned the palace and she owned the kitchen.

He stirred mushrooms in a dented pan, the smell of garlic filling the room. “I guess,” he said slowly, “I just stopped putting up with people’s… nonsense.”

He shot her a quick look, editing his language out of respect.

“In my life, I didn’t really have a choice,” he went on. “My dad was the backbone of the family. After he passed, everything went sideways. People started looking at my mom like she was broken, like she was less. Then the kids at school started picking on my little sister. And me. You learn pretty quick you have to stand up for yourself before you can stand up for others. Or you get crushed.”

“You’re truly admirable,” Alexandra said quietly. “I could never be like you.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he said. “You know your name means ‘defender,’ right?”

Before she could answer, the pan hissed and he hissed too, jerking his hand back.

“Jack!” she cried. “Your hand—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he said, turning off the burner. “Just a little burn. Will you run that under cold water for me?”

She guided his hand under the tap, heart pounding. His skin was warm beneath hers.

He smiled ruefully. “Guess I’m not as tough as I pretend to be.”

“You are,” she said. “You just… don’t have someone to defend you.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and something electric hummed between them.

That night, back in the hotel suite where Victoria insisted she stay “for security,” Alexandra lay awake, replaying his words.

You have to stand up for yourself before you stand up for others.

She thought of her father’s voice echoing in the throne room: As a proper princess, you will not offer opinions. You will not draw attention. You will not bring about scandal. You will be the essence of modesty and self-effacement.

She thought of Jack’s burned hand and his mother’s quiet smile when Alexandra had handed over a paper bag of burgers, insisting she’d “brought too many home.”

She thought of Prince Philip, whose idea of conversation was policy and appearance and his own reflection in polished silver. He’d never asked what she wanted. Nobody ever had.

The next day at school, Ms. Peters wheeled in a cart loaded with folders and props. The whiteboard behind her read: MOCK TRADE SUMMIT.

“Today,” she announced, “you will represent fictitious nations in a high-stakes international trade scenario, based loosely on our existing global economy. You can form partnerships, set terms, or threaten sanctions, but remember, all bad deals have consequences. This is your final project. Think creatively. Think strategically. And maybe try not to start World War III in my classroom.”

Alexandra flipped open her folder and almost laughed. Her country assignment: Verdonia, a small constitutional monarchy in Eastern Europe whose economy depended heavily on export agreements.

Theodonia in all but name.

Cody slid his desk closer. “Guess we’re partners,” he said. “I’m Verdonia’s finance minister. You’re the monarch. Try not to sell us to the highest bidder.”

As the timer ticked down, alliances formed and crumbled. One group played Draovia, a thinly veiled stand-in for a larger aggressive power. Another played Tasaria, resource-rich and strategic. Yet another held the role of a Pacific nation with advanced renewable tech and coveted trade routes.

When Draovia tried to bully Verdonia into a one-sided deal—“We’ll protect you if you give us everything and talk to nobody else”—Alexandra’s jaw clenched.

“We already have treaties with Soul Reign, Eurasia, and Balkstan,” she said coolly. “We will not be bullied into servitude.”

Jack, representing a neutral tech powerhouse, caught her eye. “Trade you solar grids for access to your markets,” he said. “We’ll help you modernize without owning you.”

“Deal,” she said.

When the timer rang, Ms. Peters clapped. “Well done, Verdonia,” she said. “You secured economic growth, advanced tech, and security without losing your autonomy. Bonus points for maintaining regional stability. Meanwhile, Draovia, I hope you enjoy your sanctions.”

The class laughed. Alexandra felt her chest swell with something new: pride in her own mind, not just her title.

Later, in a phone call that bounced between time zones and centuries, King Frederick’s voice crackled down the line.

“You must ensure she doesn’t get any silly ideas while she’s across the pond,” he told Victoria. “Those Americans can be… persuasive.”

“I assure you, Majesty,” Victoria said smoothly from the hotel suite’s window, watching Alexandra laugh at a text from Jack. “I will guarantee that does not happen. You do understand what’s at stake if she doesn’t return.”

“Of course,” the king said. “If she does not marry Philip, Tasaria will pull out of the trade deal. Our economy cannot withstand another shock. The entire country hangs on this marriage. Remind her of that, if you must.”

“And if I succeed?” Victoria asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then I will consider your request regarding Prince Ken,” the king said. “But only if Alexandra walks down that aisle.”

Victoria ended the call, her stomach twisting. Her own future—her chance to marry the man she loved instead of continuing as a glorified servant forever—was now chained to Alexandra’s choices.

A week later, the plan almost blew up.

“Phone’s acting up,” read the text Alexandra received on her hotel room nightstand. “Meet me in room 301 at 6 p.m. We’ll grab dinner to celebrate. Love, Jack.”

Her heart flipped. He’d never signed a text like that before. Dinner. Celebrate. Love.

She spent too long picking an outfit, only to end up in jeans and the lip color he’d complimented once. In the hallway, her hand shook as she raised it to knock.

The door swung open before she could touch it.

“Hi,” Mallerie said, sitting on Jack’s bed like she’d always belonged there.

Alexandra froze.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered.

“I could ask you the same,” Mallerie replied, smirking. “Looks like your little American love story wasn’t as exclusive as you thought.”

Jack came out of the bathroom, towel in hand, eyes wide. “Alex,” he said. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Really?” she asked. “So she just… casually wandered into your room and sat on your bed? Alone?”

“She invited me,” Mallerie cut in sweetly. “You didn’t know? He texted me too. I guess when you’re a guy with options…”

“Stop,” Jack said sharply. “That’s not—”

“I trusted you,” Alexandra said, her throat tight. “I thought you were different.”

“You’re one to talk,” Mallerie said. “Lying about who you are. Pretending to be one of us when you’re not.”

“What are you talking about?” Jack demanded.

“Ask your princess,” Mallerie said. “She’s got more secrets than this whole floor.”

Before Jack could get to her, Alexandra turned and fled.

By the time Victoria found her, she was halfway through packing.

“I assume you’ve seen the photos,” Victoria said softly. Paparazzi images were already bouncing around the internet back home: Princess Alexandra, undercover in California, working at a burger joint, hugging a boy in a maintenance shirt, wearing jeans and a crooked crown from a fast-food restaurant. And, courtesy of Victoria’s own leak, a blurry shot of Mallerie on Jack’s bed.

“I was happy,” Alexandra whispered, the words cracking. “Truly happy, in a way I had never been. And it was all a lie.”

“Not all of it,” Victoria said. Her voice trembled. “Jack didn’t betray you. I did.”

Alexandra’s head snapped up.

“What?”

“Before we left for America, your father caught Prince Callen and me together,” Victoria confessed. “He threatened to throw me in prison if I did not ensure your safe return and your marriage to Philip. If I succeeded, he would allow me to marry Callen. If I failed…”

She swallowed.

“So I panicked,” she said. “I gave Mallory a key to Jack’s room. I helped her slip that fake note under your door. I leaked just enough to the media to keep the pressure on. I made you think…” She shook her head. “I’m deeply sorry. You cannot marry Philip, not after what I’ve learned. But I was so afraid of losing my own chance at happiness that I risked yours.”

“What are you talking about?” Alexandra asked, numb.

“Prince Philip has been having an affair with our palace guard,” Victoria said. “I have proof. This marriage is rotten at its core.”

“You need to tell my father,” Alexandra said.

“He won’t listen to me,” Victoria replied. “You’re the only one who can stop this. But you have to go home to do it.”

Alexandra closed her eyes.

She had wanted freedom, and she had found Jack. She had wanted anonymity, and she had found herself. Now her choices would affect not just her own life, but the future of Theodonia.

Perhaps, she thought, there was a way to be both defender and princess.

The wedding day dawned gray over the palace. Cameras were already lined up outside, American and European networks elbowing for position. Commentators whispered about the fairy-tale union between Theodonia and Tasaria, about the way America had “softened” the princess, about her time “studying incognito in Los Angeles.”

In the chapel, King Frederick paced. Queen Eleanor fanned herself. Prince Philip adjusted his cuffs and flirted with a bridesmaid.

Alexandra stood in front of the mirror in her private chamber, veil hanging heavy. The dress felt like armor she hadn’t agreed to wear.

“Dearly beloved,” the archbishop intoned as she walked down the aisle. “We are gathered here today to celebrate—”

“Stop,” a voice shouted from the back.

Heads turned. Gasps echoed.

Jack, in a borrowed suit and sneakers, stood in the doorway, chest heaving. Beside him, Victoria, face pale but resolute.

“Unhand her,” Jack said to Philip, who had grabbed Alexandra’s arm. “She can’t go through with this.”

“You will remove him at once,” the king thundered.

“Wait,” Alexandra said, pulling her veil back. “Please. Let them speak.”

“The princess does not love Philip,” Jack said. “She loves me.”

“That’s enough,” Philip snapped. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“And I never cheated,” Alexandra added, her voice ringing off the stone. “That was all Victoria. Please. Let her explain.”

Victoria stepped forward and bowed her head. “It’s true,” she said. “Before we left for America, Your Majesty, you caught Prince Callen and me together. You gave me a choice: ensure Alexandra’s return and her marriage, or spend the rest of my life in prison. I chose my own survival. I arranged the scene in Jack’s room. I leaked news to the press. I manipulated everything.”

Gasps rippled through the pews.

“But there is more you must know,” she continued. “Prince Philip has been unfaithful. He has been seeing Officer Renard from the palace guard. I have messages, photos, and witnesses. This marriage would not secure Theodonia’s future. It would make us a global punchline.”

“That cannot be,” Philip sputtered. “There is no evidence.”

Victoria handed a folder to the king.

King Frederick flipped through the pages, his face darkening.

“That settles it,” he said finally. “This wedding cannot continue.”

Philip turned purple. “You can’t just—”

“I wish you and Officer Renard a happy union,” Alexandra said crisply. “In whatever country tolerates your hypocrisy.”

Snickers broke out in the back pews. The archbishop coughed violently to hide a laugh.

“Father,” Alexandra said, turning to the king. “I know you are thinking of the trade deal with Tasaria. But our whole economy cannot rest on my silence and his lies.”

“Our economy does rest on that deal,” he snapped. “Without it, we face bankruptcy within the year. This marriage was supposed to secure our trade and our future. Do you understand what you have risked?”

“Yes,” she said. “Which is why I have a proposal.”

Minutes later, a very confused prime minister from Tasaria found himself sitting at a table across from a princess who spoke in clear, precise terms about renewable tech, infrastructure, and mutual benefit.

“I spent time in America observing how they negotiate,” she told him. “How they form alliances. Our original agreement was good for you and disastrous for us. But I believe we can do better—for both sides.”

She laid out a plan inspired by Ms. Peters’ mock summit in that fluorescent classroom at Bookside: tech for trade routes, investment for natural resources, security guarantees without sacrificing sovereignty. She spoke of long-term growth, not short-term optics.

By the time she finished, the prime minister was leaning forward, eyes bright.

“Princess,” he said. “I believe your time in Los Angeles was not a waste after all. Your proposal is bold. Fair. And, frankly, more beneficial to us than the original.”

“You’ll sign?” she asked.

He smiled. “Gladly.”

King Frederick stared as his daughter walked back into the great hall with a signed agreement in her hand.

“What is this?” he asked.

“A trade deal,” she said. “One that doesn’t require me to sell myself to anyone.”

He read it once, twice. His shoulders slowly dropped.

“I suppose my knickers were in a twist for nothing,” he murmured.

“Father,” she said. “The world has changed. We can’t keep pretending my only value is as a bride. Let me serve Theodonia in other ways. Let me use what I learned in America.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“I may never understand that country,” he admitted. “But I understand this: you just saved us from ruin. And I nearly forced you into one.”

He sighed. “Go,” he said. “Take a little trip. Theodonia will not collapse if its princess visits California again.”

Jack was waiting at the foot of the palace steps when she emerged, suit tie crooked, eyes full.

“I heard you called off your wedding,” he said.

“Victoria confessed everything,” she replied. “And I… fixed a few things.”

“You don’t have to explain,” he said. “You never did. I just wanted to say thank you. For standing up for yourself. For your country. For me. And I want to ask, though it’s a bit untraditional…”

She dropped to one knee on the marble steps of a European palace, conscious somewhere in the back of her mind that every American gossip site was going to eat this up.

“Jack Miller,” she said, holding out a ring she’d slipped off her own finger, “would you marry me?”

He blinked, then laughed, shaking his head.

“In America,” he said, taking both her hands and pulling her to her feet, “we don’t usually get married this young. Especially when one of us runs a country and the other runs a deep fryer.”

Her heart dropped.

“But,” he added quickly, “I would love to date you. For real. Out in the open. No tiaras, no fake names. Just Jack and Alex. We’ll see where it goes.”

She exhaled, relief and joy mixing until she almost felt dizzy.

“I can live with that,” she said.

Back at Bookside a few weeks later, Mallory slammed a plastic crown against a locker, trying to snap it in half. It bent and sprang back every time.

“Why won’t this stupid thing break?” she snapped.

“Because she’s a real princess,” Sophia said from behind her. “Not a wannabe.”

“Mallory. Nava. Mara. My office. Now.”

Principal McKenna’s voice cut through the hallway. The three girls froze.

As they shuffled down the hall, Alexandra—hair loose, books under one arm, American hoodie over a designer T-shirt—leaned against her locker and watched.

Across the hall, Jack caught her eye and grinned.

She smiled back.

She was still a princess of Theodonia. She still had duties and treaties and state dinners in her future. But she was also a girl who’d worked a closing shift in a burger joint, who’d stood up to bullies in a California hallway, who’d chosen her own heart and still managed to save her country.

For the first time, Alexandra felt like both parts of her were allowed to exist in the same skin.

Somewhere between the palace and the public school, between tiaras and paper crowns, she’d finally figured out how to be royalty on her own terms.

And in a fast-food booth in a Los Angeles suburb, under a faded poster for a combo meal, a princess and a janitor’s son sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing fries and planning a future no king had signed off on—but one that felt, finally, completely their own.