As Julia mulled over Stacy's words, a stark realization gripped her—those words were her only lifeline. There was no one, not in the vast sprawl of Seoul nor across the oceans abroad, who would ever accept an heiress who had fallen from grace—disowned, disgraced, and smeared across headlines like a scandalous tale best forgotten.
She could no longer stomach the mockery that trailed her like a shadow. And yet, another thought began to flicker in her mind: perhaps she could try to find a job. But she couldn't dare to lie against the royal family of Zephyrabad. No—never them. The Zephyrabian royals were not just monarchs; they were the wealthiest sovereigns on Earth, a family cloaked in mystery and unimaginable power.
Maybe, just maybe, her original plan hadn't been so far-fetched after all.
She reached out to Stacy again. They agreed to meet discreetly at Gassadangamman Gate, nestled within the serenity of Bukhansan National Park. For caution, they would both wear face masks. Julia would don a flowing purple gown and a silk-colored wig, while Stacy would wear a yellow dress with a black wig.
After the call ended, Julia, clinging to a shred of hope, tried reaching out to former acquaintances abroad. Each call delivered a blow harder than the last.
"Sorry, Julia... but you know the Kim Empire. Your family's empire have made it impossible. No company—no matter the continent—will dare hire you. We're deeply sorry, but there's nothing we can do."
And the line went dead.
That was one of the nicer responses.
Her supposed friend Drake had gone so far as to suggest she sell herself—offering her money to sleep with him.
The very people she had once trusted now stripped her of every last illusion. Betrayal had never sounded so casual.
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she sank to the cold floor, her chest hollow, her heart scorched by humiliation. She knew—knew—it was her stepmother's doing. The woman had buried her chances of employment, burned every bridge, and salted the ashes.
Only one path remained.
Zephyrabad.
If it cost her the last drop of her blood, she would make the Wang family pay. She would dismantle their empire brick by brick. And as for Zhiqiang Wang—she would see him rot in a prison cell if it was the last thing she ever did.
At precisely 10 a.m., Julia met with Stacy beneath the ancient stone arch. The quiet of the mountain lent them a false sense of calm.
"I need to know everything," Julia said, voice steely, "about the royal family of Zephyrabad. I can't afford to be caught unprepared."
Stacy nodded solemnly.
"Alright," she began. "The Zephyrabian royal family is enormous—103 members, in fact—but two princes hold true prominence. The Crown Prince, age fifty-three, and Prince Khali Al-Farsi—who, by the way, is devastatingly handsome."
She paused with a smirk, then continued, "Rumors say he's been romantically linked to princesses, actresses, and singers, but no one knows what he actually looks like. He's known across the world as 'The Wealthy Anonymous Prince.'"
"The Crown Prince," she added, "has a seventeen-year-old daughter who's in need of a language tutor. She's obsessed with BTS, so naturally, she wants someone who can speak Korean."
"You, Julia, are perfect for the job."
Stacy pulled out a sealed envelope. "From now on, your name is Jane Lucas. You must maintain heavy makeup, dye your hair gold, and leave no trace of your former self. You'll claim to be an orphan from Spain, who earned a full scholarship to Oxford University, where you majored in Linguistics."
Julia raised an eyebrow. "That's a stretch."
Stacy smirked. "Trust me, it gets better. Your fictional father was half-Arabic, half-German. Your mother was French. You grew up in Spain, and that's how you learned Spanish, French, and Arabic. You picked up Korean from a close Korean friend during university. I've had a hacker slip your name into the official Oxford database, and I've forged the academic records. Everything checks out."
She leaned closer. "The only thing left is your accent. You must speak flawless English. Not a syllable of Korean unless you're speaking the language itself."
Julia exhaled slowly. The risk was astronomical.
But the opportunity?
Priceless.
---
The early morning sky over Seoul was pale and heavy with mist, as though mourning her quiet departure. Julia stood at the edge of Incheon International Airport, her heart caught between dread and defiance. Her fingers clutched the forged passport Stacy had handed her hours before.
"You're sure about this?" Stacy asked, her voice thick with anxiety and affection.
Julia nodded once. "It's either this or vanish forever."
Stacy exhaled, pressing a slim envelope into her hand. "Everything is inside—your boarding pass, arrival clearance, and a coded pass to bypass the second layer of royal screening. The hacker in Prague charged me a fortune, but it'll hold."
Julia gave her a wan smile. "I'll pay you back—every cent."
"You'll pay me back by surviving," Stacy muttered, pulling her into a tight hug. "Remember—Jane Lucas. Spanish. Orphan. Gold hair. Perfect English. Oxford graduate. Fluent in five languages. You're not Julia Kim anymore."
Julia stepped back, placing her sunglasses over her eyes like armor. She didn't look back as she rolled her suitcase into the terminal. Goodbye, Seoul. Goodbye, the ashes of her past.
---
The flight to Zephyrabad was long and cloaked in silence. She barely ate. Sleep was shallow, fragmented by dreams of faceless men in gold robes and the sound of distant, foreign music. By the time the plane descended through the clouds, her nerves buzzed like electricity.
And then—she saw it.
Aureliah.
It rose from the golden desert like a mirage made real. Spires of alabaster and bronze pierced the sky. Floating bridges shimmered between minarets, and wind-towers turned lazily under the high sun. The city radiated a power that didn't scream—but murmured, seduced, and reminded you: this is wealth that never has to beg to be noticed.
Julia felt her breath catch.
She had arrived in the heart of the lion's den.
Inside the Aureliah Skyport, everything was pristine. There was no noise, no rush—only the subtle hum of air-conditioned grace and the scent of oud and white rose. Uniformed attendants moved like silk shadows. Everything about the space whispered of old money and quiet control.
She moved through security. Her documents passed. The hacker had done his job well.
Outside, a sky-chariot awaited—a levitating silver vehicle shaped like a desert falcon. As she stepped in, the driver turned, offering a respectful nod.
"Destination, madam?"
"The Royal Enclave."
The sky-chariot lifted into the air, gliding effortlessly along the floating causeways. Julia watched as the full beauty of Aureliah unfolded beneath her. Aquamarine canals twisted through ivory streets. Market domes bloomed like exotic flowers. Above them all, the palace loomed.
Qasr al-Riham. The Palace of Gentle Rains.
A marvel carved into a mountainside, veiled in mist and mystery. Its towers glowed with pearl-like sheen, its bridges glittered with crushed crystal. It looked less like a place to live and more like a temple to power.
As they touched down on a private rose-quartz platform, a new reality began to weigh on her: this was no performance. One wrong step, and everything would collapse.
Inside, she was led through gleaming corridors by silent attendants. The palace was a labyrinth of marble and moonlight.Eventually she reached the chamber.
The interview began the moment Julia stepped through the carved brass doors.
No welcome. No time to settle. Just a quiet room of perfumed air and suspicion, with Lady Naeema seated like judgment itself behind a gilded table. Her emerald robe shimmered under the soft lanterns, her hands folded neatly as if she had already decided Julia's fate.
"You may sit, Miss Lucas," she said without a smile.
Julia obeyed, careful to cross her legs at the ankle, chin high, just as Stacy had coached her.
Lady Naeema's voice was velvet-laced steel. "We'll begin."
She picked up a tablet and began, her eyes never leaving Julia's.
"Tell me—how would you gain the respect of a student who already believes she knows more than you?"
Julia held her gaze. "By letting her teach me something first."
"A clever answer," Naeema said. "We'll see if it holds weight."
She scrolled.
"How cool was Avid by Mima and Odessen?"
Julia didn't flinch. "Cool enough to make a multilingual teenager feel like someone finally put her emotions into rhythm. It's not just music—it's identity."
"Language," Naeema said. "Is it meant to shape identity—or simply express it?"
"Both," Julia said. "Language shapes the soul by giving it form. We become what we speak."
The questions continued, sharp and unsparing:
"What's the difference between fluency and eloquence?"
"Which does a princess need more—knowledge or restraint?"
"If the Princess asked why women cannot rule in Zephyrabad, what would you say?"
Julia answered them all—not flawlessly, but with poise, warmth, and just enough uncertainty to remain believable.
At last, Naeema set down the tablet. She studied Julia for a long moment. Then she leaned back, the frost in her voice beginning to thaw.
"You're different from the last ten."
Julia's heart skipped.
"They were brilliant," Naeema continued, "but forgettable. Princess Layla dismissed the last one for mispronouncing the word ghazal."
Julia's lips twitched faintly. "I won't make that mistake."
"No," Naeema said, "you'll make others. But perhaps fewer."
She rose.
"Let me make one thing clear, Miss Lucas. Princess Layla is not the future Queen of Zephyrabad. She is a girl born to a man who may never rule. Her grandfather, King Abdulrahman Al Rais, still sits on the throne at ninety-six. Her father, the Crown Prince, is next in line. But should he die before his coronation—his younger brother, Khali Al Rais, will inherit the crown."
Julia nodded, every nerve tuned to memorization.
"She is not the heir," Naeema said softly. "But she is precious. To us. To her father. To this country. And if you harm her—in word, influence, or thought—no Oxford degree will save you."
"I understand," Julia whispered.
"Good." Naeema gestured toward a side door. "Your room is in the west wing. Rest.
.