London
They say the Royal Academy was built to preserve our legacy-
our faith, our history, our place in the world. But lately, it feels
more like a gilded cage, the walls closing in as the world outside
sharpens its knives.
I push open the heavy oak doors of the main hall, my Louboutins
clicking against the marble floor, and stride inside like I own
the place. Because technically, I do. Or at least, my family does.
The ceiling soars above me, covered in intricate paintings of our
ancestors-kings, queens, and rulers who shaped history. But
beneath them, gathered in tense clusters, are their modern-day
descendants, murmuring in hushed voices. Everyone looks on
edge, their designer uniforms crisp but their eyes shadowed
with something darker.
I spot Paris across the room, perched on one of the academy's
infamous gold-trimmed velvet chairs, scrolling through her
phone. Her raven black hair is pinned back in that effortlessly
royal way only she can pull off, and she looks utterly unbothered.