Mia weaved through the throngs of people on the bustling New York streets. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs, mimicking the staccato click of her heels on the pavement. "Craaaappp!" she hissed, barely dodging a collision with a round-bellied baker emerging from his shop, cradling a cake. A dusting of flour clung to his startled face as the cake wobbled precariously. “Sorry,” Mia yelled back to him with a sheepish grin as the now-furious baker unleashed a torrent of colorful curses.

She ducked into a narrow alleyway, pausing for a sliver of a second before snatching a glance at her watch. The time screamed at her as it lit up. She was late. Way late. Leaning against the rough brick, she took a deep breath. A stray strand of hair escaped her normally tidy bun, and she reached up to smooth it back, muttering under her breath, "She's definitely going to kill me."

Mia pushed open the heavy side door and slipped into the hushed reverence of the auditorium. As she snuck a glance around the darkened room, her eyes darted through the shadows. Ten young women, each a vision of nervous perfection, stood in a line, bathed in a soft spotlight. Their smiles were tight and their gazes were fixed on a panel of five imposing figures at the front of the stage. Mia slunk into an empty seat in the back row, careful not to disturb the almost sacred silence that had engulfed the room.

Her stomach twisted into a knot of worry as she scanned the stage, desperately searching for her friend. Relief washed over her as she found the person she was looking for, just as the women were about to begin their presentations.

Suddenly, the stage erupted in a blaze of light, and there stood the wealthiest women in North America. Some owned hotels, restaurants, and beauty companies, while others were heiresses to enormous financial fortunes. The women were dressed to the nines—designer gowns, flawless makeup, and jewelry that glimmered even in the harsh lighting.

A statuesque blonde with hair the color of spun gold confidently strode to the microphone. Her smile was sharp and her teeth gleamed white against her perfect hair. She spoke with a voice that dripped with expensive education and unwavering self-assurance, "I believe I would be the perfect choice for Princess because..."

Mia sighed as she reached into her purse and withdrew a luxurious black envelope with a golden wax seal bearing Alverna’s crest. This invitation, a coveted symbol of belonging to a rarified elite, was only sent to society’s wealthiest and most influential women. Unfolding the crisp parchment, she skimmed the elegant script:

The Prince of Alverna is holding an invitation-only ball for young ladies of high esteem who hold influential roles within their country. Please join us as we try to find our next Queen.

Mia's gaze snagged on the stage as her best friend, Olivia, practically pranced toward the microphone. When they had first received the invitation, Olivia had jumped up and down, delighted at the prospect of being a princess, while Mia had other things she needed to focus on. Her non-profit organization wasn’t going to run itself.

It felt surreal, a head-spinning detour from reality, to see Olivia here, confidently poised to audition for the role of a princess in a foreign monarchy. Marrying a man she barely knew, a prince no less, seemed like a fantastical notion dreamed up over tea parties, not a serious life choice.

Yet here Olivia was, facing a panel of people who held the key to her supposed destiny. Their pointed questions probed Olivia's views and opinions, transforming the stage into a reality show arena with winner-takes-all stakes. The judges, Mia learned, were on a nationwide mission, scouring the country for the perfect American to represent their nation in the faraway kingdom of Alverna.

After a gauntlet of grueling interviews, brutal auditions, and intense scrutiny, they would select a single, lucky young woman. This chosen one and her counterparts from other nations would be whisked away to a luxurious palace for a three-month royal boot camp. The ultimate goal? To be crowned the crown jewel, the future princess of Alverna.

As Olivia delivered her final answer with a flourish, Mia offered a silent cheer, a two-fingered salute accompanied by a mouthed "good job!" A warm smile graced her lips, but a pang of frustration twisted in her gut. The truth was, Mia would rather be anywhere else. Attending this drawn-out audition wasn't her choice, but a promise made to support Olivia through this bizarre odyssey. A glance at her phone confirmed her worst fear—two more hours to endure before she could escape and return to the normalcy of her own life. With a resigned sigh, Mia settled deeper into her seat, bracing herself for the long haul.

After some eliminations, the spotlight mercilessly scanned the remaining eight women as they stood in tense silence. The judges, with steely authority, peered down with hawk-like intensity. Finally, one judge, her voice clipped and precise, broke the oppressive quiet. "Imagine this," she said, her words echoing in the vast hall. "You are tasked with performing the same mundane action, day in and day out. What would be your response?"

Apprehension rippled through the line of women. Some exchanged nervous glances as their pageant smiles wavered for a fleeting moment. Answers came hesitantly, ranging from playful quips about endless spa days to impassioned pronouncements about dedicating themselves to a worthy cause.

Mia, however, felt a wave of soul-crushing boredom wash over her. “Like this?” Her head lolled back, transforming her neck into a weary pendulum swinging against the unforgiving solidity of the auditorium chair. Her eyes glazed over, mirroring the beige monotony of the surrounding walls. A sigh, heavy with utter tedium, escaped her lips. "Just kill me now," she muttered under her breath, the words barely audible but laced with a potent dose of exasperation.

A stifled snort of laughter jolted her out of her stupor. Slowly, she pivoted in her seat, her gaze drawn to the source of the sound. In the row behind her sat a man shrouded in the shadow cast by a black baseball cap. His face remained obscured, yet a pair of light hazel eyes twinkled like mischievous stars peeking through the darkness. A hint of a smile played on his lips as he leaned forward, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "My apologies," he murmured, "but I couldn't help but agree. That question was enough to make anyone yearn for a swift and merciful end."

"This is a private event..." Mia whipped around, her retort hanging in the air, "...creeper."

The man behind her flinched, a wounded sound escaping his lips. "Creeper? Ouch," he conceded.

Mia didn't grace him with a full turn, keeping her eyes glued to the scene on stage. "Why else would you be at an all-women, extremely exclusive, invitation-only event?" she countered, her voice laced with suspicion.

"I have a perfectly good reason..." the man stammered, a flicker of hesitation dancing in his voice. But before he could elaborate, some movement in the aisle caught his eye. Two figures materialized from the shadows, clad in identical black suits and dark sunglasses. He dove for the floor, the sudden movement sending a tremor through the auditorium chairs, including the one Mia occupied, and jolting her forward.

Looking like his heart was pounding a frantic rhythm, the man cautiously peeked over the back of the chair. The two figures in black were now mere feet away, their presence radiating an unsettling aura of authority. He cursed under his breath, his words laced with frustration and a hint of fear. "Damn it."

In the hushed quiet of the theater, Mia's voice cut through the tension like a knife. "Hmm," she murmured, her tone a cool blend of amusement and suspicion. Her eyes, however, remained glued to the figures traversing the aisles, their movements swift and purposeful. "Seems like they're on the prowl for someone specific."

The man remained crouched low behind her seat, his voice strained. He pleaded, "Please, you have to help me."

Mia didn't turn, her focus still on the men as they crept closer. Her reply was low and firm, "I'm not in the business of aiding creepers," she declared, enunciating each word carefully.

“I’m not a creeper,” The man's voice rose a notch, betraying a touch of desperation. He fumbled with the black baseball cap perched on his head, pulling it down further in a futile attempt to conceal his identity. A tense silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft murmur of the women onstage.

Finally, the man drew in a ragged breath. “I’m Leopold Wren," he blurted, "The Prince's best friend. He sent me to scout the competition. If those guards catch me, it won't just be me in trouble. The Prince will be dragged through the mud with me. Please," he begged, his voice thick with urgency.