The Royal Reveal

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 of Hotel 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 shadow of 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 tell was 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 scrawling Valenstadt in 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 champagne flutes, and pretending ribbon cuttings were thrilling. Royalty in theory; a glorified mascot in practice.

Right now? She was nobody.

Oh, for—

She crossed out Valenstadt so aggressively that the paper tore, then wrote Austria underneath. 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.”

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 of Télématin, 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 a ping. 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 flashed Clara. 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, he is the ‘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 was dramatic.” 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.

“Somewhere they won’t think to look.”

“Allegra.”

“Fine. Geneva.”

“Geneva? Wait, why?”

“Because fleeing to Switzerland is so ridiculously Sound 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 insane snort. “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 the Heartbreaker. 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.