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Shutting the car door behind me, I steel myself, squaring my shoulders as I face it down. East End’s palace is tall, but West End’s clock tower is taller. As I glance over my shoulder to scan Forsyth’s skyline, I can see the clock face all the way from this beautiful, wilted island.

It’s never felt so far away.

The dress is massive.Yards and yards of glaring white fabric, covered in a thick spread of beads and sequins greets me when I’m ushered into my dressing spot. The skirt curves out from the waist like a bell, stuffed with crinoline, and grazes the floor. The strapless bodice has a scalloped design edging across the chest. The lace accents are beaded with tiny crystals that catch the light. It’s expensive for sure, the designer’s tag hand-stitched in gold in the back.

It’s pristine.

Bridal.

Virginal.

It’s not the first time I’ve felt that little swell of excitement at the prospect of being chosen, but it’s the first time I’ve felt it this tangibly. Cutsluts aren’t made for silk, brocade, lace, and crystals. We’re made for Lycra and denim, skin-tight and frayed around the edges.

As much as I hate to admit it, just looking at this dress makes me feel like a Princess.

By the end of the night, maybe that’s what I’ll be.

ThePrincess. The house girl for Psi Nu Zeta.

God, it feels wrong to even think it.

“Oh my god,” a girl gasps. “I can’t believe they got Velma Kang to design our dresses.”

I blink, brought back to the fact I’m not alone in the room. There are eleven other girls who all arrived at the Purple Palace doorstep at the same time that I did. Each is beautiful, each bubbling with excitement, all clutching that same golden ticket in their hand—an invitation to the Prince’s Royal masquerade: an opportunity to be chosen as the next Princess.

I don’t need to pull mine out, because I’ve already memorized every square inch of it, from the foiled edges to the dark ink.

Verity Sinclaire has been cordially invited to attend the Princes’ seventy-eighth Masquerade ball, which will be celebrated at the Purple Palace on January 6th.

As an esteemed guest of honor, you’ll have the opportunity to become Forsyth’s next Princess, a position of the highest prestige.

Your attire and accommodations will be provided.

Respond by January 3rd.

The other girls and I have been escorted to the third floor, where a lushly decorated room has been designated, at least for the night, as a dressing room. From the looks of the tall stained glass facing westward–a thorn-clad baby being crowned with a halo, surrounded by three wise men–I’m guessing this room probably served as a chapel back in the early days of Forsyth.

Or maybe it’s just a depiction of the Princes.

Bigger egos have happened.

Twelve matching dresses hang on the wall, positioned next to twelve floor length mirrors. Everything is uniform, from the shoes to underwear.

A beaded, feathered mask is attached to the top of the mirror, looking down with vacant, watchful eyes.

The girl next to me is already in her corset and panty set, an evil-looking contraption that makes her waist seem dramatically narrow and her breasts abnormally full. Other than a small blue bow tied between the breasts, it’s the same shade of white as the dress.

“They’re gorgeous,” the girl next to her agrees, gushing. “I heard a custom Kang dress is a minimum of twenty grand.” Her dark, shiny hair falls over her shoulders as she tugs at the top of her identical corset. Her breasts spill out of the top, at least a cup size bigger than everyone else in the room. Her skin is perfect, too—a warm, rich, dewy brown. The tag attached to her mirror says her name is Lakshmi.

“Just imagine what the wardrobe allowance will be if one dress costs thousands of dollars.” I clutch my robe at the waist and lean over enough to see that the girl next to me is named Heather. “Piper had the most adorable boots from Freebird.”

“Yeah, well Piper fucked up,” a voice chimes in from behind us. In the reflection, I see her name is Gina. “She fucked aroundandfound out.”

The room erupts into laughter but there’s a nervous tinge to it. Piper had been the Princess in the fall, and we’re here to replace her. She’d gotten pregnant well within the three-month deadline, but when the mandatory paternity results came in, the baby wasn’t one of the Princes’. She and her men had been booted from the Palace, opening up the positions of three new Princes and one new Princess. All to be chosen by the Prince King himself: Ashby.

“I can’t believe my father refuses to pay for a boob job,” Heather goes on, frowning as she cups her breasts. “I told him that these B-cups were going to keep me from success one day.”

“If it helps, my mother’s sister’s yoga instructor said that Ashby has a thing for blondes,” Lakshmi says.