10 AM sharp, I stood outside my building like I had a purpose, like I was someone who regularly got picked up by luxury cars for mysterious business meetings with foreign royalty.
The vehicle that pulled up to the curb looked like it could pay off my student loans just by existing. Black, sleek, silent. The kind of car that didn't purr—it hummed—like it had secrets, probably whispered in multiple languages and buried bodies on three continents. If it cost anything less than both of my kidneys and a slice of liver, I'd be shocked.
So… it was either a very well-prepared scam with an absurdly high production value, or it was real.
And if it was real?
I was about to nail those 30%.
Look, I'm not stupid. I'm painfully aware this entire thing had "FBI warning label" written all over it. The shady foreign prince, the urgent email, the car with blacked-out windows. I knew the signs. I just chose to ignore them, like a true financially desperate intellectual.
But I couldn't help it. That small, stupid flicker of what if was still alive in me, dancing like a moth into the nearest buzz saw. What if this wasn't a scam? What if it was real?
Sure, there was probably some sort of morally bankrupt, legally grey, potentially felonious business behind it. But honestly? I was okay with that. If it meant I could pay off my rent, buy actual groceries instead of gambling with instant noodles and old mustard, I'd let my conscience take a nap.
At worst, I'd end up dead in a ditch with a slightly dramatic obituary. At best? Financial freedom.
And honestly, both sounded like upgrades.
"Mr. Mercer?" the driver asked, stepping out of the vehicle. He wore a dark suit so crisp it might've been ironed by angels, and he had an accent that I couldn't place but immediately trusted. Eastern European, maybe. Or expensive. Definitely expensive.
"Yes," I said, straightening my hoodie like it was a tailored blazer. I kept my expression neutral, professional—like I knew what the hell I was doing. Like I hadn't packed a taser and a granola bar as my emergency exit strategy.
"Please, get in," he said, with a polite smile. He opened the door and held it, the way people in movies do before they drive you to either a private island or your doom.
I nodded and climbed in, trying not to show how tense I was. The interior smelled like leather and money. I didn't dare touch anything.
The door closed with the softest click I'd ever heard. Like even the locks had class.
And then we drove.
At first, the streets were familiar—sunlight bleeding across storefronts, people rushing past with purpose I no longer remembered. But then we started veering off, taking roads that led to the edges of the city. To exits and overpasses and tree-lined stretches that made my stomach twist.
Was I scared? A little.
Not screaming-yet level, but definitely alert enough to memorize the shape of the driver's ears in case I needed to describe him to the police.
I glanced at my phone. Still sharing my location with Doug. If this went sideways, he'd come looking. Reassuring.
I didn't know where we were going. I didn't know who I was meeting.
But I sat back, clutching my backpack like it was a lifeline, eyes fixed on the blur of trees outside the tinted window.
And I waited to see what kind of hell—or castle—waited at the end of the road.
We were maybe thirty minutes into the drive when the silence started to get personal.
At first, it was fine. Comfortable, even. Just me and the quiet hum of the engine, the leather seats too nice for someone who once duct-taped his shoes together. But after a while, I started to feel like the silence was judging me. Like it knew I didn't belong in this car.
So I cleared my throat.
The driver didn't glance back. Just kept his hands perfectly steady on the wheel.
"I, uh… nice car," I said. Classic. Timeless. Oscar-worthy dialogue.
Still nothing.
We drove on in blessed, suffocating silence until he suddenly spoke.
"It is bulletproof," he said, in that same accent—smooth, deliberate. Like each word had been vetted by a panel of diplomats.
I blinked. "Oh. Cool. That's… comforting."
He nodded once. "Yes. In case of hostile attack or politically motivated ambush."
"...Right." I adjusted the strap of my backpack. "That happens often when picking up freelancers from low-income neighborhoods?"
"Sometimes."
Okay.
We hit another stretch of highway. Trees blurred past like nature's way of saying mind your business. I tried not to let my face betray the way I was spiraling internally.
"Do you do this often?" I asked. "You know… drive around mysterious guests for foreign royalty?"
He paused. "I do many things."
That wasn't comforting. That was the kind of answer people give when they own gloves specifically for burying things.
He finally glanced at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes were very calm. Too calm. Like he'd seen some things.
"Have you ever had goat brain?" he asked, as if we'd been talking about brunch plans all along.
"Excuse me?"
"Goat brain," he repeated. "Served with crushed mint and olive oil. It is popular where I am from."
I stared at him. He stared at the road. We sat in the shared silence of two men on very different spiritual journeys.
"I had toast this morning," I offered.
He didn't respond.
For a moment, I wondered if this was some kind of test. Like, if I said yes, he'd be like "Ah, a man of culture" and unlock a secret compartment with a velvet envelope and a briefcase of cash.
But I didn't say yes. Because I had not eaten goat brain.
We drove in silence again.
Ten more minutes passed before he turned on the radio. Classical music. Something haunting, full of violins and the unmistakable mood of someone's about to be poisoned in a manor.
He tapped the steering wheel lightly, then said, "Don't worry. The prince is kind. Very charming."
"Oh, great," I muttered. "That's exactly what people say before someone gets sacrificed in a wine cellar."
He smiled.
The car kept rolling.
I considered opening the window, just to remind myself air still existed.
But I stayed.
Because broke people don't get to be picky about ominous chauffeurs and unsettling cuisine recommendations.
The car slowed.
The tires crunched over a gravel path that wound through a long stretch of countryside, framed on both sides by tall, whispering trees. The sun filtered through their leaves in broken fragments, casting gold over green in a way that felt almost staged. Like someone had arranged the light itself to impress me.
And then I saw it.
The castle.
Or, well—castle.
It wasn't some towering gothic fortress with spires and battlements and a moat full of crocodiles. No dragons perched on turrets, no haunted wind howling through the stones. It was small. Tasteful. The kind of castle people rented for weddings and influencer engagements. Cream-colored stone with elegant ivy climbing its sides. Rose bushes planted in deliberate patches. A few tall windows arched like they were trying to look important.
It looked like the architectural version of a white lie.
And yet… It was beautiful.
A wrought-iron gate stood open at the front, the tips curled like they'd been hand-forged just to look expensive. The air smelled like wildflowers and clean water, and something faintly herbal—lavender, maybe, or the scent of rich people not trying too hard.
Beyond the gate, the path curved around a fountain that was actively working, which was suspicious in itself. A stone cherub spat water from its mouth into a marble basin, its eyes empty and judgmental. The kind of detail that screams someone paid a designer for this.
We pulled to a stop at the front entrance.
The doors were wide. Wooden. Painted a glossy charcoal with gold handles that gleamed obnoxiously in the morning sun. A pair of trimmed hedges sat in stone planters on either side, shaped like they'd been harassed by a very focused gardener.
The driver got out and opened my door like this was a normal Tuesday.
I stepped out slowly, blinking at the brightness, the cleanliness, the surreal stillness of it all.
The sun warmed the gravel beneath my shoes, and the breeze kissed the side of my face like it was welcoming me to something I definitely wasn't dressed for.
And for a brief second, I almost forgot I was broke. Almost forgot I'd come here in blind trust after replying to a scam email.
Because standing here, in front of this absurd little palace of curated luxury, everything looked… convincing. Too convincing.
Like a fantasy so well-maintained it dared you to believe in it.
I adjusted the strap of my backpack. Felt the weight of the taser pressing against the inside pocket. Just in case.
The driver gave a short nod. "Inside. The prince is expecting you."
Of course he is.
I walked toward the doors, each step echoing slightly on the stone.
And then I pushed them open.
The doors opened with a satisfying weight. Not creaky or dramatic, just smooth—well-oiled and expensive, like everything else in this fever dream.
Inside, the air was noticeably cooler, laced with something floral and faintly citrus, like an overpriced candle named "Aristocratic Renewal" or "18th Century Wealth (Now With Notes of Bergamot)." Sunlight streamed in through the tall arched windows, painting the marble floor in golden swaths. The space echoed faintly with the soft tick of an antique clock and the kind of silence that suggested money and passive-aggressive emails.
And then she appeared.
From behind a double-wide mahogany desk near the grand staircase, a woman stood up with the precision of someone who could dismantle a bomb or a boardroom with the same expression.
"Mr. Mercer?" she asked, already halfway around the desk, heels clicking like punctuation marks.
"Yes," I said, standing very still, like a stray dog who just realized he was inside a five-star hotel.
She was short—maybe five feet flat, but carried herself like she was six-two with a court order. Bangs cut with surgical precision framed her face, and her hair—luscious, chestnut, enviably healthy—was pulled back into a sleek ponytail that swayed with judgment. Her blouse was neatly tucked, her slacks flawless, and she wore exactly one ring—subtle, tasteful, and probably worth more than my childhood home.
"I'm Margo," she said. "The prince's personal assistant and household coordinator."
"Nice to meet you," I said, then immediately regretted how formal it sounded. As if we were at a networking brunch instead of a maybe-scam castle pulled from a Pinterest board.
She gave me a small smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes but didn't need to. It was perfectly polite. Practiced. Weaponized warmth.
"I'll take you to the sitting room," she continued. "The prince will join you shortly."
I nodded, adjusting my backpack as casually as possible, trying not to look like a guy who'd packed a taser.
Margo turned on her heel and began walking, her steps unhurried but intentional, like she had a full schedule but had built in exactly ten minutes for whatever I was.
As I followed her down the hallway, I noticed every detail of the place was curated to perfection. Gold-trimmed picture frames. Tall mirrors with no fingerprints. Fresh flowers in vases that definitely weren't from IKEA. It all felt… manicured. Like someone had made a lifestyle out of illusion.
Margo glanced back over her shoulder.
"If you'd like something to drink, we have coffee, tea, sparkling water, or freshly squeezed orange juice."
I almost asked, is the orange juice metaphorical or literal, but I decided to behave—for now.
"Just water, thanks."
She nodded once, then led me into a lavish sitting room with sun-washed velvet chairs, a low marble table, and the kind of rug that looked like it had never suffered under the weight of a budget vacuum.
"Please wait here," she said. "I'll inform the prince you've arrived."
With that, she turned and walked out, leaving me alone in a room that felt like it belonged in a European film that ends in betrayal.
I sat there for a solid minute, pretending to admire the crown molding while trying not to fidget like a kidnapped intern. The water Margo had delivered sat untouched on the low table, glistening like it had secrets.
Eventually, curiosity won.
I stood and drifted casually—not snooping, just observing—toward the bookshelf. Of course there was a bookshelf. Tall, dark-wood, glass-paned, filled with hardcovers that looked like they'd never been opened outside of interior design catalogs. The titles were dramatic and international. French literature, philosophy, several leather-bound volumes with no names on the spine like they belonged to a secret society or a very pretentious café.
I peeked behind one—just in case there was a hidden switch or safe or interdimensional portal.
Nothing. Just more books. Disappointing.
Next was the fireplace—unlit, but decorated with white candles in antique holders and a minimalist art piece hanging above it. A single flower sat in a slim glass vase on the mantel. It looked too alive. Too fresh. Like someone changed it every hour to avoid imperfection.
The whole place felt like a movie set. The kind you weren't allowed to touch. It was beautiful, sure—but there was something uncanny about it. Too perfect. Too composed. Like the house smiled with its mouth closed.
I wandered over to the side table, where a small silver frame caught my eye. A photo, black and white, slightly faded. A young man standing beside an older gentleman, both in tailored suits, both with the same sharp eyes and half-smiles. One of them might've been Lucien. Or maybe a brother. Or a hologram. Who knew.
I turned to keep exploring, and nearly jumped out of my skin.
Because someone was standing in the doorway.
Not just someone. Him.
Lucien.
Not dressed like a prince. Not in robes or anything dramatic. Just a simple, soft oatmeal-colored cardigan over a Henley shirt with a few buttons undone, collar slightly loose like he'd gotten comfortable just moments before stepping in. The sunlight followed him in from the hall, catching his blond hair and turning it gold at the edges. His features were stupidly symmetrical—the kind of face you'd expect to find on the front of a skincare ad or sculpted onto marble by a Roman artist with romantic issues.
He smiled as if he'd been watching me snoop for the past five minutes and found it charming instead of criminal.
"Reed Mercer," he said warmly, his voice smooth, deep, and disarmingly calm. "I hope the room didn't bore you to death."
I blinked.
For a long second, I forgot my fake composure. Forgot I'd packed a taser. Forgot I'd arrived expecting a scam. My brain short-circuited in the presence of someone who looked like a Pinterest mood board crossed with danger.
"You're real," I blurted out.
Lucien laughed—low and soft, like a secret slipping from velvet.
"Well, I'd hope so. I did send a very expensive car."
He stepped further in, the door clicking shut behind him.
Lucien crossed the room like it belonged to him—and of course, it did. Not just the castle, but the space. The air seemed to part for him, warm and easy, like even the atmosphere didn't want to interrupt his entrance.
He moved with that particular confidence rich people have—shoulders relaxed, hands tucked loosely into his cardigan pockets, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth like he already knew how the story ended.
"I apologize for the wait," he said, his voice smooth enough to be weaponized. "Margo tends to overprepare. She once delayed a guest fifteen minutes because a fruit bowl didn't look seasonally appropriate."
I gave him a polite smile back, still trying to assess what kind of crazy this was. "I didn't mind. Gave me time to… absorb the atmosphere."
He tilted his head. "Ah, yes. Absorbing. A noble activity."
He walked past me—close enough that I caught a whiff of something fresh and quietly expensive. Like citrus and old money. He gestured toward the plush velvet chairs. "Please, sit. Or stand. Or wander. Whatever keeps you in your natural habitat."
I sat, mostly to keep from awkwardly hovering like a high schooler at a job interview.
Lucien, of course, didn't sit. He leaned against the edge of the window sill, one leg casually crossed over the other, his chin resting on his hand like a Renaissance painting that had learned sarcasm.
He studied me for a moment—openly, shamelessly—as if I were a curious species he'd been meaning to document.
"You're very punctual," he said. "A rare trait these days."
"I figured if someone was sending a luxury car to pick me up, the least I could do was be on time."
"Practical and grateful. Dangerous combination."
I narrowed my eyes slightly, trying not to look thrown off by… well, everything.
"You still haven't told me what this is actually about," I said, my voice carefully neutral. "All I know is that you're either rich, crazy, or incredibly committed to performance art."
His smile widened—just a fraction. "Why can't I be all three?"
"Statistically speaking?" I shrugged. "That's probably the most accurate answer."
Lucien laughed again, a warm sound that wrapped around the room like a well-placed spotlight. He didn't seem offended. If anything, he seemed entertained—like I was his favorite new show.
"I understand your hesitation," he said finally, pushing off the windowsill and walking toward the coffee cart tucked elegantly in the corner. "You've been cautious. That's good. Most people would've deleted the email."
"I almost did."
"But you didn't," he said, pouring something into a ceramic cup with far too much grace. "Which tells me something about you."
"That I'm desperate?"
He turned, carrying two cups. "That you're curious."
He handed me the cup without asking what I wanted. It smelled faintly of cardamom and something I couldn't identify. I held it like a prop, not drinking yet. Just in case.
Lucien settled into the seat across from me—finally—and leaned back with the ease of someone who had nothing to prove.
"I'll tell you everything soon, Reed. I promise. But first…" he tilted his head, eyes bright with something unreadable. "Let's just talk."
A pause.
"Tell me about yourself."
And that was it. No pitch. No numbers. No promises of wire transfers or vaults or offshore anything.
Just a prince in soft clothing, offering tea and casual interrogation like this was a date and not an unraveling.