If there is one thing I hate more than jet lag, it is seeing my own face on a screen first thing in the morning.
I wake to the sound of my phone buzzing across the nightstand like it's trying to escape.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I groan into my pillow.
"Non," I mumble. "Five more minutes."
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
It does not stop.
With a dramatic sigh worthy of an Oscar, I grope for the phone and squint at the screen.
Forty-three new notifications.
Forty-three.
"Okay, what fresh hell is this?" I mutter.
I tap the first alert.
It is a text from Aaliyah.
Aaliyah: Don't panic.
Immediately, I panic.
Another from her, sent thirty seconds later:
Aaliyah: Actually, you're going to panic anyway so just… do it quietly.
I sit up.
"Quoi?"
Mixed in with her messages are links. News sites. Gossip accounts. A school forum I didn't even know existed.
My thumb hovers.
I tap one.
A headline loads, bold and shining, above a photo of me on Madison's front steps.
FRENCH PRINCESS TAKES D.C. – PRESIDENT'S SON AND MONIQUE DE BEAUMONT SPARK RUMORS AFTER EXCLUSIVE SUBURBAN SOIRÉE.
The photo is not even flattering.
My eyes are half-closed. My mouth is mid-word. Charles is just behind me, laughing at something Aaliyah said. To a stranger, it looks like we are sharing a private joke.
Of course it does.
I scroll.
"They arrived together," the article gushes. "They left together. Sources say the pair were 'inseparable' at the party hosted by local It-girl Madison Hayes."
Inseparable.
We were in the same building.
It continues.
"Witnesses report that the princess and the First Son spent time alone upstairs and shared an 'intense conversation' in Hayes' private study."
Intense conversation.
We talked.
And almost started an international cheese crisis.
I scroll faster.
"Could this be the beginning of a modern political fairytale? Only time will tell."
I throw my phone onto the bed.
"Je déteste ce pays," I mutter.
The phone buzzes again.
More alerts.
Another headline: FIRST SON SKIPS D.C. ELITE GALA TO ATTEND HIGH SCHOOL PARTY WITH FRENCH ROYAL.
Another: MONIQUE DE BEAUMONT: THE EUROPEAN PRINCESS DISRUPTING AMERICAN HIGH SCHOOL HIERARCHY.
And another, with an unforgivable photo of me eating a chip in Madison's kitchen:
ROYAL CRUNCH – PRINCESS PROVES SHE'S JUST LIKE US.
I want to die.
Or at least delete the internet.
There is a knock at my door.
Sharp.
Three times.
"Monique?" my mother's voice. Calm. Too calm. "We need to talk."
Oh no.
I grab my robe, tie it in a knot that could hold a nation together, and open the door.
My mother stands there in a soft cream blouse and dark trousers, her hair already perfect, her expression… complicated.
Behind her, I glimpse another figure down the hall.
Charles.
He is in sweatpants and a T-shirt, hair sticking up like he fought his pillow and lost. He looks as tired as I feel.
We make eye contact.
"Ah," I say. "So you have also seen the horror."
"Which one?" he asks. "The one where they caught me mid-sneeze or the one where they said we were 'gazing at each other longingly on the porch'?"
I wince. "Both."
My mother clears her throat gently.
"Into the room, please," she says. "Both of you."
We obey.
Because we are not entirely stupid.
Once the door is closed, she crosses to my desk, where my laptop sits.
"Have you looked at the coverage?" she asks.
"Some," I admit. "Enough."
She opens the laptop, types faster than any royal person should be able to type, and brings up a news site. Photos fill the screen.
Us on the steps.
Us in the foyer.
A blurry shot of us in the study, taken through the crack of the door, probably with a phone camera.
I feel sick.
"Who took that?" I whisper.
"Someone with very poor boundaries," my mother says tightly.
"Or Madison's favorite photographer," Charles mutters.
My mother gives him a look.
"Do not pick fights with that girl's parents just yet," she says. "We have enough problems."
She scrolls.
"Most of these are just gossip," she says. "Speculation. Pretty words that mean nothing. But some of them are being picked up by larger outlets."
She clicks to another tab.
A cable news site.
A panel of very serious people discussing us.
I want to vomit.
"'Is this appropriate behavior for the heir to the French throne?'" one of them reads aloud. "'Is the French government comfortable with their princess being used as a photo op for American teen politics?'"
I shut the laptop.
"I have heard enough," I say.
My mother exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Your father has called twice," she says. "We spoke briefly. He is… concerned."
"Concerned about what?" I demand. "That I dared to exist in a house with music?"
"Concerned," she says evenly, "because your image is not just yours, Monique. It represents more than you. It always has."
I drop onto the edge of my bed.
"I know that," I say quietly. "I am not stupid."
"I did not say you were," she replies, her voice softening. "But you are also seventeen. You deserve to make some mistakes without the entire world turning them into headlines."
She looks at both of us.
"Which," she adds wryly, "is unfortunately not the world we live in."
Charles sinks into my desk chair, running a hand through his hair.
"My dad's team is already drafting a statement," he says. "Clarifications. 'The First Son attended a supervised social gathering with fellow students, including foreign guests…'"
He makes a face.
"Including foreign guests," I repeat. "How generous."
"He wants to get ahead of it before certain networks spin this into 'reckless French influence corrupts American youth' or something," Charles adds.
I snort despite myself. "That headline would be at least fifty percent true."
My mother doesn't smile.
"Here is what we need to decide," she says, switching to the tone that means she's fully in strategic mode. "Do we say nothing and let this die out on its own, or do we… adjust the narrative?"
"Adjust," I say immediately.
Charles blinks. "You want to respond?"
"Yes," I say. "If we say nothing, they will write whatever story they like. If we say something, at least part of the story is ours."
My mother nods slowly.
"Careful, ma chérie," she says. "You are starting to sound like you grew up in a palace."
"I did," I remind her.
"I was hoping there was a chance you had forgotten," she murmurs.
She sits beside me on the bed.
"Whatever we say," she continues, "must be coordinated with the president's team. We cannot contradict each other. It will make both of you look careless."
She looks at Charles.
"Have you spoken to your parents this morning?"
"Not yet," he says. "I was busy being personally victimized by my notifications."
"After breakfast," she says, "we will all sit down. You, me, the president, his wife, their advisors. We will agree on a line. And you"—she turns back to me—"will try not to start a revolution at the table."
I cross my arms.
"No promises," I mutter.
She kisses my forehead.
"Get dressed," she says, standing. "And maybe… stay away from your phone for an hour. For your own peace of mind."
She leaves.
The room feels heavy.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then Charles exhales loudly.
"Well," he says. "That was fun."
I glare at him.
"Do you always joke when you want to scream?" I ask.
"Yes," he says. "It's my primary coping mechanism."
"It is annoying," I say.
"It keeps me from punching walls," he replies.
"That is fair," I admit.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
I laugh once.
"Am I okay?" I repeat. "No. I am not. I am tired. I am angry. I am embarrassed. And I hate that strangers I will never meet are discussing my life like it is a show."
"Welcome to my world," he says softly.
I look at him.
He looks… smaller than usual.
Not physically.
Just… less wrapped in his usual armor of jokes.
"You have done this for years," I say. "How do you stand it?"
He shrugs one shoulder.
"Sometimes I don't," he says. "Sometimes I hide. Sometimes I do stupid things so they'll talk about that instead of what actually scares me. Sometimes I… show up anyway."
He meets my eyes.
"Today," he says, "we show up."
I swallow.
"Okay," I say. "Then we show up."
The breakfast room feels like a stage.
The president sits at one end of the table, a tablet in front of him. His wife, the First Lady, sits beside him, fingers wrapped around a coffee mug. My mother occupies the other end, posture straight, her calm expression concealing a thousand calculations.
Charles and I take the seats in the middle, facing each other across the polished wood.
A communications advisor I recognize from television—Ms. Porter—stands near the windows, scrolling on her phone. Another man, younger, with sharp eyes and a too-neat tie, hovers with a notebook.
The air smells like coffee and tension.
"Good morning," the president says. His tone is gentle, but there are fine lines at the corners of his eyes that weren't there last week.
"Good morning, Mr. President," I say.
"Good morning, sir," Charles adds.
The First Lady offers me a small, apologetic smile.
"Quite the weekend," she says softly.
"Yes," I reply. "Your son throws excellent scandals."
"Hey," Charles protests.
The president sighs.
"Let's be clear," he says, glancing at Ms. Porter. "This is not a scandal. It's two teenagers attending a social event. The problem is not what you did. It's what people think it means."
"The perception," Ms. Porter says, looking up at last, "is starting to shift from 'fun human interest story' to 'potential diplomatic complication.' We need to move it back."
"Diplomatic complication," I repeat. "Because we breathed in the same room."
My mother gives me a warning look.
I press my lips together.
The younger aide clears his throat.
"Several European outlets have picked up the story," he says, sliding a printed packet across the table. "They're mostly focused on Your Highness's… public behavior."
I glance at the top page.
LA PRINCESSE DE FRANCE ENFLAMME LES RÉSEAUX SOCIAUX AMÉRICAINS.
Lovely.
"Some are harmless," he continues. "Speculation. Fashion commentary. Others are asking… less harmless questions."
He taps one line.
"'Does this mark a new informal alliance between the Élysée and the White House?'" he reads. "We need to make sure the answer is clearly 'no'—or at least 'not like this.'"
The president leans back.
"Officially," he says, "we will release a joint statement emphasizing that Monique is here for educational and cultural exchange, that Charles was simply accompanying a house guest to a supervised social gathering, and that any romantic speculation is just that—speculation."
"Untrue," his wife adds firmly.
"Untrue," he echoes.
I feel heat rise in my cheeks.
Not because it is untrue.
But because the word feels… exposed.
"And unofficially?" my mother asks.
"Unofficially," Ms. Porter says, "we encourage both of them to be… careful. No more being photographed alone in private rooms. No more disappearing from events people expect you to attend. No more giving the gossip sites easy storylines."
"So," Charles says, "no more being human in public."
"Charles," his mother says quietly.
He slumps a little.
"Sorry," he mutters.
Ms. Porter softens her tone.
"Look," she says, "I know this is unfair. You're kids. You should get to make dumb choices without worrying about Paris and D.C. analyzing them. But you're also symbols, whether you like it or not. And symbols don't get privacy."
I stare at the table.
Symbols.
Pieces.
I think of Farron in the market.
Of the broken crown on the well.
Of Liora watching from rooftops.
Of Madison on her Homecoming stage.
We are all symbols in someone's story.
I am tired of being only that.
"We will follow your recommendations," my mother says smoothly. "For the official press. But I would also like my daughter to have a voice."
All eyes shift to me.
"Ma chérie," she says, "if you could say one thing to the world right now about this situation, without diplomacy, what would it be?"
I blink.
"No diplomacy?" I echo.
"No filters," she says. "Just… truth."
The president looks intrigued. Ms. Porter looks mildly alarmed.
Charles looks like he is bracing for impact.
I wrap my fingers around the edge of my plate.
"I would say," I begin slowly, "that I am seventeen. That I came here to learn, not to be dissected. That I went to a party because I wanted to see how American teenagers live, not because I wanted to start a scandal. That Charles is my friend, not my political accessory. And that if people spent half as much energy worrying about actual policy as they do about who I stand next to in a photograph, the world might be less stupid."
Silence.
Then Charles bursts out laughing.
"Please," he says. "Please let her say exactly that."
Ms. Porter rubs her temples.
"Okay," she says. "Maybe… a slightly edited version."
My mother smiles faintly.
"But the sentiment," she says, "is useful. We can work with that. Honesty plays well, if we frame it correctly."
The president nods slowly.
"Let her speak," he says. "Within reason. People are tired of polished statements. A little unvarnished truth might help."
Ms. Porter sighs.
"All right," she says. "Here is my recommendation: the official joint statement comes from us. Boring. Formal. Reassuring. Then, later today, Monique posts something personal on her own accounts. Short. Clear. Human. No royal letterhead. No flags."
She looks at me.
"Something like," she says, thinking aloud, "'Yes, that was me at a party. Yes, Charles is my friend. No, the world is not ending.' But with your words."
I consider it.
A direct line.
Not filtered through anyone else's mouth.
"I can do that," I say.
The president glances at his wife.
"Thoughts?" he asks.
"I think," she says, studying me, "that if Monique writes it herself, and we approve it together, it will feel real. And maybe—just maybe—that will remind people that she's a teenager, not a subplot."
"Thank you," I say quietly.
After breakfast, Charles and I retreat to the small sitting room near the east wing—a place with soft chairs and big windows and, crucially, no advisors.
I curl into an armchair with my phone and a notebook.
He sprawls on the couch, watching me.
"So," he says. "What do you want to say to the entire internet?"
"Nothing," I say. "I want to say nothing and disappear into the mountains."
"Cool," he says. "We'll save that for Plan B."
I tap my pen against the page.
The blank screen of my social media app stares back at me.
"You have accounts already?" he asks.
"Yes," I say. "Carefully curated 'official' ones. Photos from events. Charity work. Occasional 'behind the scenes' that are actually staged."
He makes a face. "Gross."
"Welcome to monarchy," I reply.
I inhale.
Exhale.
Then I start to write.
Not on the phone.
On paper.
Dear world—
No.
Too dramatic.
I cross it out.
Hi.
Too casual.
Bonjour.
Obvious.
I close my eyes.
How would I talk to Farron? To Aaliyah? To Grandma?
I lower the pen.
I write:
Yes, that really was me at a party last night.
I pause.
Then I keep going.
Yes, that really was me at a party last night. Yes, the music was too loud. Yes, I said no to drinking things in red cups because I am not stupid.
Across the room, Charles snorts.
"Accurate," he says.
I keep writing.
I came to America to study, to see how people my age live here, to eat far too many questionable cafeteria meals, and apparently, to learn that some things look much bigger on camera than they feel in real life.
I look up.
"Is that too much?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "It's perfect."
I add:
Charles is my friend. He is also the president's son, which seems to make people forget that he is a person and not just a headline. We went to a friend's house. We played stupid games. We talked about real things. That's all.
I chew on the end of the pen.
Then I write the last part.
I know my life is not normal. I know my choices travel farther than most. But I am still seventeen. I will make mistakes. I will also learn from them. If you are going to watch me grow up, at least remember that I am human.
Merci.
– Monique
I slide the notebook to him.
He reads.
His mouth curves.
"You killed it," he says.
"Is that a good thing?" I ask.
"Yes," he says. "Very."
"Now we show this to your mother and Ms. Porter," I say. "And they will remove all the parts with humor and anything that sounds like me."
He grins.
"Want to make a bet?" he asks.
"No," I say. "You cheat."
"I strategize," he corrects.
Surprisingly, they do not gut it.
They tweak.
A word here.
A phrase there.
"'Not stupid' should be 'making safe choices,'" Ms. Porter says, crossing out the line about red cups. "We don't want to imply that any kids who drank last night are idiots. Their parents also vote."
"'Appear bigger on camera' is good," the president says. "It acknowledges the gap without sounding resentful."
"The part about Charles being a person stays," his wife says firmly. "They need to hear that."
My mother only changes one thing.
She taps the line I will make mistakes.
"Say 'I will not always get everything right,'" she suggests. "It says the same thing, but sounds less like you're planning to streak across the Mall."
"I am not planning that," I say quickly.
"Good," she replies. "Then you don't need to promise it."
In the end, it still feels like me.
A slightly more diplomatic me.
But me.
When I finally post it, my hands shake.
The app takes a second to load.
Then the message appears.
Out.
Gone.
Into the wild mess of the internet.
I set my phone down.
"There," I say. "I have jumped off the cliff."
"Now we see if there's water," Charles says.
The first responses are predictable.
Some people are kind.
You shouldn't have to explain this.
You're doing great, sweetie.
(That one is from Grandma.)
Some are less kind.
Privilege complaining about being watched. Boo hoo.
If you don't like it, give up the title.
Some are… odd.
Marry me, I make good baguettes.
I show that one to Charles.
"At least one person in this country understands my needs," I say.
He laughs.
Over the next hour, the larger outlets begin to pick it up.
Not as scandal.
As story.
"Princess Responds with Grace," one headline reads.
"Teen Royal Reminds Us She's Still a Kid," says another.
A talk show host plays the text on screen and says, "Honestly? Hard to argue with that."
The fire lowers.
Not gone.
Never gone.
But less.
Manageable.
By evening, the worst of it has burned itself out.
The world has moved on to something else.
An actor's divorce.
A storm off the coast.
A sports upset.
Human attention is short.
Thank God.
That night, as I brush my hair before bed, my phone buzzes again.
A number I don't recognize.
+33.
France.
My heart jumps.
I answer.
"Allô?"
"Ma petite."
Grandma.
I sit on the bed.
"Grand-mère," I breathe. "You saw?"
"Of course I saw," she says. "My friends called me at six in the morning. 'Your granddaughter is on the American news again! She has better posture than their anchors!'"
I laugh.
"You are not angry?" I ask.
"I am angry that they use you for entertainment," she says. "Not angry that you danced in a house and told the truth afterward."
There is a rustle on the line.
"And this boy," she says. "The president's son. He is… kind?"
I picture him in the study.
On the couch.
At my door that morning.
"He tries," I say. "That is more than many."
She hums.
"Be careful with him," she says. "And with the girl who smiles with too many teeth."
"Madison?" I ask.
"Yes," she says. "Her eyes scared me in one photo. She looks like she is always hungry."
I swallow.
"She is," I say softly. "For control."
"Mm," Grandma says. "I know that hunger. I had it when I was her age."
"You?" I say, surprised.
"Oh, yes," she replies. "Ask your mother someday about the boys I scared away from her father before I accepted him."
I make a mental note.
"Monique," she says, her tone shifting. "Do not let them make you hard."
I stare at the wall.
"I am trying to be… strong," I say. "There is a difference."
"Yes," she says. "And the line between them is thin. Keep people around you who remind you which side you are on."
"I have some," I say. "Here. Already."
"Good," she says. "Then you will be all right. Even when the screens are loud."
"Merci, Grand-mère," I whisper.
"Dors bien, ma chérie," she says. "Sleep well."
When I hang up, the room feels less heavy.
I climb into bed.
For the first time since the party, my chest doesn't feel like it is carrying a stone.
Monday at school is… strange.
People still stare.
Of course they do.
But there is a new flavor to it.
Less "exotic exhibit."
More… curiosity.
Respect, even, from some.
Aaliyah meets me by the lockers.
"Well, look at you," she says. "Queen of crisis management."
"It was not just me," I say. "There was an entire army of adults smoothing it."
"Sure," she says. "But you were the one who said, 'I'm human.' That matters."
Maya bounces up behind her.
"Can I just say," she announces, "your post gave me life. 'I will not always get everything right'? Mood."
Jonah lifts two fingers in a lazy salute. "Solid PR. 9/10. Would retweet."
I smile, small but real.
"Merci," I say. "For… not treating me like I exploded your phones personally."
"Please," Aaliyah scoffs. "We go to school with the First Son. Our phones explode every time he breathes near a camera."
"Rude," Charles says, appearing beside us.
"True," she counters.
He glances at me.
"You survived," he says.
"So did you," I reply.
"Barely," he says. "My dad gave me the 'you are not a circus' talk for the third time this month."
"And did you listen?" I ask.
"Absolutely not," he says. "But I appreciated the effort."
I roll my eyes.
From across the hallway, Madison watches us.
Her expression is unreadable.
She makes her way over, ignoring the way people part for her.
"Monique," she says. "Good statement."
I blink.
"Merci," I say cautiously.
"It bought you some goodwill," she adds. "People are less likely to hate you just because you breathe now."
"How generous of them," I say.
She smirks.
"This doesn't mean I suddenly love you," she says. "But I'd rather you be the kind of princess who fights back than the kind who cries in a corner."
"I do not cry in corners," I say stiffly.
"Everyone does," she replies. "We just pick different corners."
She glances at Charles.
"And you," she says, "managed not to make this worse. I'm… impressed."
He lifts a hand to his heart.
"Be still," he says. "Madison Hayes gave me half a compliment. Mark the date."
She rolls her eyes.
"I have a student council meeting," she says. "Try not to set anything on fire while I'm gone."
"No promises," I murmur.
She walks away.
Aaliyah watches her go.
"Well," she says. "That's a new tone."
"It will not last," I say. "But I will take it."
Later, in English, Mrs. Carter pauses halfway through a discussion of symbolism.
"I read your post, Monique," she says suddenly.
The class turns.
I resist the urge to sink into my chair.
"It was thoughtful," she continues. "Brave. Mature."
I clear my throat.
"Merci," I say.
She smiles.
"And now," she says briskly, "let's talk about the symbolic weight of Gatsby's parties compared to Madison Hayes's. Discuss."
The room explodes in laughter.
Madison, from her seat near the middle, raises her hand.
"Actually," she says coolly, "I'd argue mine are less self-destructive."
"Debatable," Aaliyah mutters.
I cannot help it.
I laugh.
For the first time since arriving in America, it feels like maybe—just maybe—I am not only something being watched.
I am something participating.
Not just a symbol.
A person.
A player.
And as the discussion devolves into a spirited argument about American parties versus European balls, Charles leans over and whispers,
"Hey."
"Yes?" I whisper back.
"Next time there's a scandal," he says, "can we make it about something less stressful? Like you exposing the cafeteria's fake croissants?"
I grin.
"That," I say, "is a hill I am willing to die on."
He laughs.
The girl beside us shushes us.
We both look down, trying—and failing—not to smile.
The headlines will come again.
The cameras will flash.
There will be more parties.
More games.
More chances for the world to misunderstand me.
But for now, in this loud, ridiculous classroom, with ink on my fingers and a boy beside me who refuses to be just a supporting character, I let myself feel one simple, dangerous thing.
Hope.
Not that things will be easy.
Just that they will be mine.
Written by me.
One messy, complicated, human chapter at a time.