“Somewhere they won’t think to look.”
“Allegra.”
“Fine. Geneva.”
“Geneva? Wait, why?”
“Because fleeing to Switzerland is so ridiculouslySound of Music, no one will take it seriously. Plus, the Swiss have better things to do than gossip.”
Another pause. “Anyone know you’re there?”
“Only you. I checked in under a fake ID. The one from our secret worst-case scenario kit.”
“That’s reassuring.”
Allegra stretched out on the bed. “I just need a few days. Time to think. To breathe. To feel what it’s like to be a human and not a headline.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know?” she said finally, which was both honest and deeply unsatisfying. “Maybe throw on my trashiest top. Drink too many cocktails. Wake up next to a stranger. Or three.” She paused, then added, because she was committing to the bit now, “And for once, no one’s running their names through Interpol and filing a dossier.”
Clara snorted. Not a polite snort. A full-bodied,you’re insanesnort. “Wow. Really selling the whole ‘runaway royal’ fantasy.”
Allegra frowned at the phone. “I’m serious!” She hated how instinctively she rushed to justify herself—to prove she wasn’t acting spoiled, or bored, or dramatic. “Papa won’t live forever. And before I’m signed up for progeny-producing duties, I’d quite like my slutty era.” She hesitated. Revised. “Or at least a spirited weekend version.”
“You?” Clara said. “The girl whose Cannes gown got vetoed for too much clavicle?”
“Exactly!” Allegra pushed up on an elbow, suddenly animated. “That’s my point. This might be my one shot at being a normal twenty-something. The kind who makes dumb choices and gets to cringe about them in private. No press releases. No six Jürgens in a boardroom deciding how I should feel about my mistakes.”
She pictured it for a moment: Ella stumbling out of a club at three in the morning, heels in hand, mascara smudged like a Rorschach test, clinging to some random guy she’d let buy her a drink called theHeartbreaker. The fantasy glowed warm in her chest.
“Okay,” Clara said. “But come on. Progeny duties? Sure, Papa’s got control issues, but it’s not like he’s about to auction you off to the House of Windsor.”
“Not yet,” she scoffed. “But I wasn’t even allowed a boyfriend until I was nineteen. Leopold Lichtenau. Basically picked him out for me. Then scared him off, by the way. Very efficient.” She jabbed a finger at the screen. “Besides, you know the rules. If the von Wilderns don’t produce an heir, Valenstadt gets absorbed back into Austria.” She paused. “Actual annexation. Tiny stakes, really.”
There it was. The absurdity of it all. Her life reduced to geopolitical footnotes and bloodlines, all wrapped up in designer tailoring.
Clara dragged a hand down her face. “Fine. I’ll cover for you as long as I can. But don’t get cozy. Someone’s bound to spot you.”
Allegra swallowed, the fantasy dimming. She knew that. Freedom for her could never be a forever thing. Just a borrowed moment before the door of her gilded cage slammed shut again.
“I know,” she said. Then, trying for breezy: “But until the cavalry arrives, cocktails?”
Clara rolled her eyes. “Promise you’ll text once a day. So I know you’re alive.”
“Can do. Ooh, with a selfie of me doing something scandalous. Like eating a kebab.”
Clara laughed. “You’re impossible.”
Allegra laughed too, the sound bright at first, but it dwindled into a sigh. She sat up, hugging her knees. “I did the right thing, right? Breaking up with Julien?”
Her sister hesitated. “You’ve made a mess. But maybe it’s the kind of mess you needed?”
Allegra let the words sink in. A tentative smile tugged at her lips. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”
“Goodnight, Maus.”
“Goodnight, Your Highness,” her sister teased and hung up.
