Morning arrives like an insult.
I know this before I even open my eyes.
The room is too bright. My head feels heavy, my throat dry, and somewhere in the distance I can hear the quiet, efficient movement of White House staff beginning another day as if the world did not explode socially twelve hours ago.
How rude of it.
I lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, and consider several deeply unreasonable options.
One: fake my death. Two: move to New York and hide in my grandmother's sitting room forever. Three: declare war on the internet.
Unfortunately, none of these seem practical before breakfast.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Then buzzes again.
And again.
Of course.
I reach for it with the kind of dread usually reserved for tax audits and family scandals.
The lock screen is a disaster.
Messages. Notifications. Headlines. Three missed calls from an unknown D.C. number, which is somehow more threatening than if it had been known.
At the top is the photo.
Charles and me leaving Madison's house.
His hand is at the small of my back. My face is turned slightly toward him. We look too close, too private, too much like something the internet would happily chew apart and turn into a romance before first period.
The caption is worse than I imagined.
FIRST SON FALLS FOR FRENCH PRINCESS?
Below that: Sources close to Lincoln Private Academy say tensions at Madison Hale's party ended with Charles Winchester leaving early with Princess Monique de Beaumont. Is America's favorite political son finally over his Homecoming Queen ex?
I shut my eyes.
Then reopen them.
The caption is still there.
Ugh.
Another headline says: ROYAL DRAMA AT D.C. TEEN PARTY
Another: WHO IS MONIQUE DE BEAUMONT REALLY?
Another, unbelievably: IS THIS AMERICA'S NEXT POWER COUPLE?
Power couple.
I do not even know how to survive American cafeteria meat safely, and apparently I am now half of a power couple.
I throw the phone onto the blanket beside me.
Then pick it back up immediately because self-destruction, apparently, is part of my morning routine now.
A text from Aaliyah: You awake or are you still in emotional witness protection?
A text from Charles: Please don't read the headlines before tea.
Too late.
A text from Madison: Crazy night. Hope you're okay. People are being ridiculous.
That almost makes me laugh.
Almost.
There is a knock at my door.
Not Charles's knock. His is lighter, more impatient, like the door has personally inconvenienced him.
This knock is measured. Gentle. Adult.
"Monique?" the First Lady calls softly. "May I come in?"
I sit up so fast I nearly drop the phone again.
"Yes," I call, trying to sound less like a girl who was nearly kissed in a hallway and more like someone fit for diplomacy.
The door opens.
She steps inside carrying a tray herself, which feels wrong in a way I cannot explain. A woman like her should not be balancing tea and fruit and croissants before nine in the morning.
And yet she does it with the grace of someone who has probably carried far heavier things than breakfast.
"Good morning," she says.
I glance at the tray. "This is either kindness or a warning."
To my relief, she smiles.
"Possibly both."
That is not reassuring.
She sets the tray down near the window and gestures for me to sit. I do, pulling the robe more tightly around myself, suddenly aware that I am not armoured in blazers or posture yet.
She sits across from me in the chair by the desk.
For a moment, she says nothing.
Just studies me with those calm, observant eyes that miss very little.
It is deeply inconvenient how many adults in this house are good at looking right through people.
"You saw the headlines," she says at last.
"Yes."
"And?"
I exhale sharply. "And I think Americans should be legally banned from writing captions before they have fully developed a frontal lobe."
That makes her laugh.
A real laugh. Short, surprised, warm.
Good.
At least I am not suffering alone.
Then her expression softens again.
"I'm sorry," she says. "For all of it. The party, the filming, the gossip, this house becoming part of the story. None of that is fair."
I look down at the tea.
"I do not think fairness travels well in politics," I say quietly.
"No," she replies. "It doesn't."
Silence settles for a moment.
Not awkward. Just honest.
Then she folds her hands in her lap.
"Your mother called this morning," she says.
My heart drops.
Ah.
There it is.
"And?" I ask carefully.
"She's worried," the First Lady says. "Which is reasonable. Your father is furious, which is also predictable. Your security detail is being increased. The school has been contacted. We're trying to contain the coverage before it gets uglier."
Before it gets uglier.
So this is still considered the manageable stage.
Wonderful.
I stare at her. "He is angry with me?"
Her answer is diplomatic.
"Your father is angry at the situation."
That is not the same thing.
And we both know it.
I look away toward the window.
Outside, the sky is pale and expensive-looking, the kind of morning that would be beautiful if my life were not currently a public relations problem.
"He warned me," I say softly. "He said America would make everything louder."
The First Lady studies me.
"And did he warn you about Charles?"
My head snaps back toward her.
She does not smile.
Which is somehow worse.
I clear my throat. "There is nothing to warn about."
A lie.
A poor one.
She is kind enough not to challenge it directly.
Instead, she says, "Monique, I know my son. He can be charming when he's avoiding honesty, reckless when he feels cornered, and kinder than people notice when he thinks no one is looking."
I say nothing.
Because unfortunately… yes.
"All I'm asking," she continues gently, "is that you protect yourself first. Not the headlines. Not him. Not anyone's reputation. Yourself."
That lands harder than I expect.
Protect yourself first.
Such a simple sentence.
Such an unfamiliar one.
Before I can answer, another knock sounds at the door.
This one impatient.
There he is.
"Mom?" Charles says from outside. "They said you were in here and now that feels threatening."
The First Lady closes her eyes briefly, as if gathering strength.
"You may come in," she calls.
Charles steps inside and immediately stops.
He looks unfairly good for someone ruining my emotional stability before school. His tie is straight today. His blazer actually buttoned. His hair still disobedient, because apparently even national scandal cannot force full discipline on him.
His eyes flick from his mother to me to the tray.
"Wow," he says. "This looks serious. Are we being assassinated politely?"
"No," his mother says dryly. "Though you are welcome to keep testing me."
He shuts up.
For almost three full seconds.
Then he looks at me. "You okay?"
I stare at him.
What an absurd question.
"No," I say. "Apparently, I am in a relationship according to the internet."
His mouth twitches.
He has the audacity to look entertained.
"Charles," his mother says sharply.
"I know," he says quickly, wiping the expression away. "Sorry. It's not funny."
"It is a little funny," I admit, despite myself. "But mostly insulting."
That wins me the smallest smile from him.
"There she is," he murmurs.
The First Lady stands.
"Well," she says, smoothing the front of her dress, "I'm going to leave you two to get ready. Then we'll discuss a plan for school downstairs."
Plan.
How comforting.
How ominous.
She pauses at the door, looks back once, and says to me, "Remember what I said."
Then to Charles: "And you—do not improvise."
He makes a face. "That feels targeted."
"It is."
Then she leaves.
The room is quieter after that.
Not because there is less tension.
Because now all of it is ours.
Charles leans against the door after it closes.
Neither of us speaks immediately.
I pick up my tea just to have something to do with my hands.
He watches me for a second, then says quietly, "I'm sorry."
I glance up.
He means it.
No sarcasm. No grin. No escape hatch.
"For what?" I ask.
"For all of this," he says. "For last night getting out of control. For you getting dragged into a mess that already had my name all over it. For… the picture."
At that, my fingers tighten around the cup.
The picture.
The almost-kiss.
The hallway.
My pulse, stupidly, remembers before the rest of me agrees to.
I set the cup down before I spill it everywhere like an amateur.
"You did not post the picture," I say.
"No," he says. "But I gave them something to photograph."
There it is.
Honesty again.
Messy. Inconvenient. Real.
I look at him for a long moment.
"You are not entirely responsible for every terrible decision made by everyone in this country," I say.
He huffs a quiet laugh. "Only a few million of them."
I do not smile.
Not yet.
"What happened last night…" I begin.
Then stop.
Because now that I have reached the edge of the sentence, I do not know how to cross it.
He helps me by not helping me at all.
He just waits.
Very rude of him.
"What happened last night," I say again, slower this time, "was a very bad moment to choose honesty."
His gaze doesn't leave mine.
"Yeah," he says softly. "Probably."
A beat.
Then:
"But it was honest."
There it is.
The room seems to narrow around those three words.
I hate America.
I hate hallways.
I hate boys with serious eyes and terrible timing.
I look away first.
"Of course it was," I mutter. "That is what makes it inconvenient."
That finally makes him smile.
Small. Careful. Not victorious.
Just there.
"You know," he says, "for someone who acts like feelings are a contagious disease, you're actually pretty brave around them."
I turn back immediately. "That is an insane thing to say."
"It's true."
"I am literally avoiding eye contact with you."
"You came back into a room full of people filming you and told the truth anyway," he says. "That counts."
That is unfair.
And worse, effective.
I straighten slightly. "Well. Do not expect a repeated performance."
He grins. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Liar.
There is another pause.
Less sharp now. More fragile.
Then I ask, "What is Madison doing?"
His expression changes instantly.
A shadow crossing familiar territory.
"Probably damage control," he says. "Which means she'll be calm today."
I frown. "Calm?"
"Yeah," he says. "And trust me, that's worse."
I believe him.
Which is not comforting.
An hour later, fully dressed and defended by a navy blazer, I make my way downstairs.
The breakfast room feels different this morning.
Too polished. Too prepared.
The President is there, reading something on a tablet with the expression of a man who has already disapproved of several headlines before coffee. The First Lady is standing near the sideboard speaking quietly to one of the agents. Charles drops into a chair beside mine like this is any normal school day.
It is not.
Clearly.
The President lowers the tablet when I enter.
"Monique," he says gently. "Rough morning?"
"That depends," I reply, taking my seat. "Is being turned into a political fairytale before eight a normal American experience?"
He smiles despite himself. "Unfortunately, not uncommon in this house."
I glance at Charles.
He raises his hands. "I didn't invent the monarchy angle."
"No," I say. "You only contributed the body language."
He chokes on his coffee.
The First Lady closes her eyes briefly, perhaps in prayer.
Good.
We are all suffering together.
The rest of breakfast is part strategy session, part hostage negotiation.
Security will walk me inside today. The school has been warned about press near the gates. Teachers have been told not to discuss last night. Students, of course, will do whatever they want.
Naturally.
When we finally leave, the car ride is tense in a different way than before.
Not hostile. Just charged.
My phone remains face-down in my lap.
Charles notices.
"You don't want to look?" he asks.
"No," I reply. "I would rather preserve what remains of my optimism."
He nods. "Fair."
Then, after a second: "For what it's worth, Aaliyah says she'll meet us at the front doors and act threatening at anyone who deserves it."
"That is comforting," I say.
"It really is."
The school comes into view too quickly.
Lincoln Private Academy has never looked so eager to ruin my morning.
There are more cars than usual. A cluster of adults near the gate pretending not to be press. Students lingering outside longer than necessary. Phones already in hands.
The second our car stops, I know.
Today will be worse.
"Ready?" Charles asks.
No.
Never.
"Open the door," I say.
We step out into the full force of it.
Whispers hit first. Then stares. Then the unmistakable little flash of cameras trying to be discreet and failing miserably.
Aaliyah is waiting near the steps exactly as promised, arms folded, expression lethal.
"I hate all of them," she says by way of greeting.
I could kiss her.
I do not.
There has already been enough almost-kissing drama for one lifetime.
"Good morning to you too," Charles says.
She ignores him and links her arm through mine. "If anyone asks a stupid question, I'm answering for you."
"That seems wise," I say.
We head inside.
The hallway opens around us like the Red Sea of bad intentions.
People move aside. Not respectfully. Curiously. Hungrily.
I hear pieces of it as we pass.
"—they were definitely about to kiss—" "—Madison's party totally blew up—" "—she's prettier in person—" "—I heard her dad is like actual European old-money—" "—do you think they're dating—"
"Do you all have hobbies?" Aaliyah snaps at one group.
Apparently not.
Charles stays close enough that I can feel him there without touching me. A stupidly careful distance. A stupidly obvious one.
In advisory, the room goes quiet when I walk in.
Mr. Lopez, to his credit, immediately says, "Phones away, everyone."
Half the class obeys. The other half pretends not to hear.
Madison is already in her seat.
And Charles was right.
She is calm.
Beautifully, terrifyingly calm.
No sharp smile. No visible anger. No edge.
Just stillness.
She looks at me once as I enter. Then at Charles. Then back down at her notebook.
That is somehow worse than if she had glared.
I take my seat.
Aaliyah drops into the one beside me before anyone can stop her, even though I am fairly sure it is not hers.
Mr. Lopez starts talking about some school fundraiser no one cares about. I hear exactly none of it.
Because halfway through the announcements, a folded note lands on my desk.
Very elegant. Very high school.
I stare at it. Then unfold it.
The handwriting is neat. Controlled. Infuriatingly feminine.
We need to talk before this gets worse. — M
I do not look up immediately.
I already know what I will see.
When I finally do, Madison is writing in her notebook like she has never in her life passed a note under pressure.
I fold the paper once. Twice. Then slide it into my blazer pocket.
Aaliyah leans closer. "What is it?" she whispers.
"Trouble," I whisper back.
She nods. "Yeah. I could've guessed that."
By lunch, I am exhausted in the specific way only public attention can exhaust you.
Not physically. Socially.
The cafeteria noise feels harsher today. The lights brighter. Everything too visible.
I sit with Aaliyah and the others again, and for once even Jonah is less funny than usual.
"So," he says carefully, "you doing okay?"
"No," I answer.
He nods. "Cool. Honest. Respect."
Maya winces. "That headline was gross."
"Which one?" I ask. "There were several. I am apparently a busy woman."
That gets a small laugh.
Thank God.
Priya glances across the room. "Madison hasn't looked at our table once."
Aaliyah follows her gaze. "That means she's planning."
I touch the folded note in my pocket.
Yes. She is.
Charles appears halfway through lunch, tray in hand, and pauses beside the table.
"Can I?" he asks.
Jonah looks delighted by the drama. "Absolutely."
Charles sits across from me.
The table collectively pretends not to notice the change in air pressure.
He looks at me once. Only once.
But it is enough.
"Madison passed me a note," I say quietly.
Aaliyah nearly drops her fork. "Excuse me?"
Charles goes still.
"What did it say?"
I take it out and hand it to him.
He reads it. His jaw tightens.
Then he gives it to Aaliyah, who reads it and immediately says, "No."
"No?" I repeat.
"No, as in you are absolutely not meeting her alone," she says. "Have you learned nothing in this country?"
"She's right," Charles says.
I look at both of them. "You are becoming very controlling."
"We are becoming very aware that your life is a scandal buffet this week," Aaliyah replies.
"She wants to talk," I say.
"She wants to manage," Charles counters.
"Maybe," I reply. "But if she thinks this is getting worse, then she knows something."
That shuts them both up.
Good.
Because I am right.
I can feel it.
The shift. The pressure. The next piece waiting to fall.
After school, I find out I was correct.
Because as I'm putting books into my locker, my phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
One image attached.
No text.
I open it.
And my blood goes cold.
It is a closer photo from the White House hallway.
Not from the party. Not from the car.
From inside.
Charles standing close to me. His hand lifted toward my shoulder. My face tilted up. The moment before the moment.
Someone was inside the house.
Someone saw.
And beneath the image, finally, one message appears:
You should really talk to Madison.
I stare at the screen.
Then lift my head slowly.
Charles is across the hall, laughing at something Aaliyah just said. Unaware.
For now.
My stomach knots.
Because this is no longer school gossip. No longer just a party. No longer just teenagers with phones and too much time.
Someone is closer than we thought.
And for the first time since arriving in America, I feel something sharper than embarrassment.
Fear.
Real fear.
I lock my phone.
And in that exact moment, I know two things.
First: I am going to meet Madison.
Second: whatever game we were playing before is over.