Which was fine. She was a grown woman, capable of hauling sixty pounds of baggage up a few flights of stairs. Somewhere between the fifth and sixth floors, her arms started screaming, her lungs burned, and she realized with sinking dread she’d never schlepped anything heavier than a Hermès clutch.
Growing up royal meant everything just appeared. Luggage, meals, entire orchestras if called for. Her parents called it “privilege.” She called it “bubble-wrapped in cashmere.” Luxury, yes, but the stifling kind, where every choice, from outfit to outing, was micromanaged.
By the seventh floor, she was wheezing. Room 703 waited at the far end of a corridor that grew darker and seedier with every step. She swiped her keycard over the lock, shoved the door open, and let it slam shut behind her.
“Finally!” With a dramatic flourish, she yanked off her sunglasses and surveyed her kingdom: a single bed draped in what looked like a plastic tablecloth, a table one deep breath away from collapse, a TV that probably still played VHS tapes, and, oh God, a crooked painting of a fruit bowl.
With a sigh, she dropped her suitcase and then herself, face-first, onto the mattress. It creaked, but held. Rolling onto her side, she grabbed the remote off the bedside table. The screen burst to life with white noise, and there she was. Her own face, filling the TV, while a rapid-fire news anchor rattled above the headline:SCANDALE ROYAL: LA FIANCÉE ROMPT.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Her thumb twitched over the power button. But curiosity, and a little masochism, kept her glued. The clip rolled again. There she was on the set ofTélématin, standing beside Julien, his hand on her waist, his grin so smug she could practically smell the cologne through the screen.
And then came the moment. The slow, terrible, oh-no-here-it-comes moment.
Her on-screen self tugged off the enormous diamond engagement ring, the one that had been on every magazine cover for the last month, and hurled it at Julien’s perfectly coiffed head. It bounced off his temple with aping. He didn’t even flinch. Just turned to the camera, rubbing the spot with a smirk that said,Aren’t I charming?
On screen, Allegra spun on her heel and stalked off set, hair swinging, microphone still on. The clip cut to slow-motion replays of the ring’s trajectory, complete with dramatic music and some idiot commentator calling it“le lancer du siècle”—the throw of the century. Like she’d won an Olympic gold for pettiness.
She groaned and covered her face. “Fantastic. I’m a meme now.”
In the corner of the screen, a window showed a panel of pundits debating whether this was the end of Europe’s most glamorous royal romance. She didn’t wait to hear their conclusions. The TV went dark.
For a moment, the silence of the tiny room pressed in. She exhaled slowly. “Well, at least my aim was good.”
Pushing off the bed, Allegra shuffled to the bathroom and squinted at her reflection in the mirror. Her skin was pale enough to make SPF fifty feel useless. Freckles dusted her nose, and her green eyes, bloodshot from fatigue, blinked back. She twisted her fiery scarlet hair, tied in a ponytail, and made a mental note: dye first thing tomorrow. Maybe some fake glasses, too. If they worked for Clark Kent, surely they could work for a princess in hiding.
Her phone buzzed from the bedroom, making her jump. She abandoned the mirror, crossed the room, and dug through her bag until she snagged the culprit.
The caller ID flashedClara. Of course. Their mother had probably deputized her kid sister, two years younger and infinitely bossier, to stage a royal intervention. She swiped to answer, holding the phone at arm’s length. “Maus, that you?”
“Allegra!” Clara’s face filled the screen, eyes wide, voice pitched to a frantic whisper. “Where are you? The jet’s still parked in Paris. Mum’s crying, Dad’s shouting, and the PR team’s set up an actual war room.”
Allegra dropped back onto the bed with a grunt. “So, a completely normal day at the palace?”
“Don’t joke,” Clara snapped. “Reporters are camped outside the gates. It’s chaos.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why I had to poof.” She made a disappearing motion with her free hand.
“Poof?” Clara hissed. “You didn’t poof, Allegra. You detonated your engagement to Julien LaRoche on live television.”
“Okay, not my proudest moment. But you heard him. He called our engagement ‘excellent exposure material.’ Like I’m some sort of prop in his highlight reel. What was I supposed to do, smile and nod?”
“Yes,” Clara shot back. “Smile, nod, dump him quietly, and let the palace issue a statement about ‘mutual respect and scheduling conflicts.’”
“Mutual respect? It wasn’t only today, Clara. The man’s ego has its own search history. And did I tell you I caught him DMing dick pics to that Belgian pop star? Lotte Van der Meel, the one with the massive—” She faltered, realizing how loudly she’d gestured. “And he swore it was an accident. They were ‘just friends.’ And I believed him. Truly, I deserve a concussion for that level of stupidity.”
Clara sighed. “Well, heisthe ‘Golden Boy’ of French rugby.” She made air quotes. “Perhaps Maybe the glow blinded you?”
Allegra flopped back against the headboard. “Ugh, I’m so over being the supporting character in my own damn life. The relationship, the whole royal act. It’s all scripted to death. And yeah, I was supposed to smile and take it. But I snapped. And I bailed.”
“Uh-huh. I saw. Along with the rest of Europe. It wasdramatic.” Clara hesitated. “But seriously, you okay?”
Allegra stared at the fruit painting. “I thought I’d be devastated. Or furious. But honestly?” She shrugged. “I feel this weird nothingness.”
Clara wrinkled her nose. “I get it. But you can’t just disappear, Allegra. You’re the heir to a monarchy, not a contestant on a dating show.”
“I’m not disappearing. I’m lying low. At least until the paparazzi’s attention span catches up with someone else.”
There was a long pause. “Okay, so where are you?” Clara asked.
