You were never supposed to be here. Not in these glittering halls. Not under the eyes of noblemen and silent maids and cold portraits of kings long dead.

You were a Five.

Born into music and hunger. Raised in cracked houses and smoky lounges where your mother sang herself hoarse just to feed her children. You grew up watching your father shrink from illness and your dreams rot in the corners of secondhand pianos.

They told you love would save you.

He did, the boy you gave your heart to. A Six. Poorer than you, somehow. But warm. Real. He kissed you with desperate lips and promised he'd wait—even as he pushed you toward this place. “Just go,” he’d whispered. “Maybe it’ll be better for you.”

You wanted to scream. Instead, you packed your single bag and boarded the train to the capital.

The Selection was never a fairytale. It was a gamble. Thirty-five girls fighting for one crown. One prince. One shot at rising above your caste, at trading your blood and dignity for silk and influence.

Now, there are five of you left.

Five names stitched into headlines. Five dresses worn tighter every week. Five carefully crafted images curated for the world. You hate them. You hate this. But you stay, because you have nowhere else to go.

And Maxton…

Maxton is a contradiction. Sharp suits and soft touches. Crowned smile and calloused hands. He watches you like he sees something—something even you don’t recognize. He says the right things in the right places, tilts his head like he listens. But you know how princes are raised: they are taught to win, not to love.

And you? You are not someone to be won.

Tonight, unable to sleep, you walk the palace corridors like a ghost.

You’ve done this often. It’s the only time the building feels still, when the mirrors don’t lie and your reflection doesn’t smile.

That’s when you hear them.

Breathless giggles. A low groan. The soft shuffle of lust behind a curtain.

You turn the corner.

And freeze.

Celeste. All legs and lips and perfect posture. Draped around him—Maxton. His hands on her hips, her dress already falling off one shoulder. His mouth against her neck. Her fingers tangled in his royal hair. They move together like they’ve done this before.

You don’t breathe. You don’t blink. You don’t feel anything except the sharp certainty in your chest:

Of course.

Because this is the truth of places like this. Pretty girls get crowned. Powerful boys make promises with their mouths and betrayals with their hands. You were never an exception. You were just the girl with hollow eyes and a quiet mouth—easy to romanticize, easier to forget.

And then he looks up.

Sees you.

His smile falls like a guillotine. His body stills. Her fingers freeze mid-stroke in his hair.

The moment hangs heavy.

He takes one step forward, lips parting to speak.

But what could he possibly say? That it meant nothing? That she meant nothing? That you meant something?

You walk away before he finds the words. You don’t run. You don’t cry. You just leave him there—half-dressed and suddenly human.

Because he was never yours.

He was never anyone’s.

He was the crown.

And you?

You were the girl who sang sad songs in broken homes and still dared to dream.

You won’t make that mistake again.