Chapter One
Princess Allegra von Wildern of Valenstadt had never, in her entire pampered life, checked into a hotel that smelled like people.
Not the citrus-and-linen scent of five-star people, either. No, this was the musk of unfiltered humanity: sweat, stale cigarettes, and the faint but unmistakable tang of regret.
She hovered in the lobby ofHotel Paradis, a name that, in hindsight, should have been her first clue. Behind the desk, a man in a faded Johnny Hallyday tour shirt slouched in his chair, phone in hand, scrolling with single-minded focus. A woman in a neon-purple tracksuit drifted past, humming “Material Girl” like a foghorn and cradling a baguette under one arm as though it were a long-lost child.
Abort mission,Allegra’s brain screamed.
Too late,her pride replied.
She had picked this dubiously two-star Geneva hotel for one reason: to vanish. No security detail. No aides adjusting her hem, her schedule, her life. Just Ella Fischer, at least according to the fake ID burning a hole in her pocket. A normal twenty-three-year-old woman who absolutely, categorically did not have her own Wikipedia page translated into twelve languages.
Geneva had seemed like the logical choice, if “logical” included panic-booking her first-ever EasyJet flight while hyperventilating into a silk scarf. She knew the city from childhood. Summers spent skimming the lake in a sailboat, licking overpriced gelato, and ignoring the ever-present shadowof men with walkie-talkies. Mostly, though, she had picked it for the Swiss talent of looking the other way.
And right now,don’t ask, don’t tellwas her kind of tourism.
She sucked in a shaky breath and tugged at the hem of her T-shirt, a white, duty-free abomination complete with a glittery Eiffel Tower. Beneath it, the emerald Dior slip she had been stuffed into that morning clung to her skin like an expensive layer of guilt. At least the oversized sunglasses hid her eyes.
Dragging her suitcase, she stepped toward the desk, her Louboutins squelching against the damp carpet.
“Checking in?” the man said in English, barely glancing up from behind the monitor.
She nodded. “Yes, uh—Ella.” Her posh Germanic accent betrayed her. She cleared her throat and tried again, slower, flatter. “Ella Fischer.”
Smooth,she told herself.
He held out a hand. “ID?”
Allegra fished out the fake card and slid it across the counter. The man squinted at it, then shrugged. He handed it back with a chewed ballpoint pen and a registration form. “Fill this out.”
Name, easy. Date of birth, she hesitated and rounded down a year.Why not?Country. Her hand moved before her brain caught up, the pen scrawlingValenstadtin neat cursive.
A principality so tiny it barely earned a dot on the map, wedged between Austria and Switzerland. Famous for tax loopholes, an annual statue-polishing festival, and legal anachronisms that made pub-quiz hosts weep with joy. Technically, a woman could still be burned at the stake for owning a frog. Not that anyone had tried, but officially? Totally on the books.
Someday she was meant to rule it. “Rule” mostly meant smiling at people in expensive dresses, raising champagneflutes, and pretending ribbon cuttings were thrilling. Royalty in theory; a glorified mascot in practice.
Right now? She was nobody.
Oh, for—
She crossed outValenstadtso aggressively that the paper tore, then wroteAustriaunderneath. When she glanced up, the receptionist was staring.
“Long day,” she said, forcing a smile as she handed back the form.
He peered at it and frowned. “Only staying three nights?”
“For now,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I might extend.”
He grunted. “Credit card.”
She handed one over, praying he wouldn’t look too closely at the mismatched names. He didn’t. Just swiped it through the machine and passed it back. From under the counter, he produced a keycard.
“Room seven-o-three. Seventh floor. Lift’s broken.”
Allegra took the keycard. The man’s gaze flicked to her suitcase, then back to his phone, as if he’d already forgotten she existed.
“Right,” she muttered under her breath. “Guess I’m doing this myself.”
