Chapter 2: The Birdcage

They came for me at 4:00 AM.

In the movies, when the rebellious heroine gets shipped off to a foreign country, there’s usually a montage. Packing a suitcase, sobbing into a pillow, maybe one last dramatic cigarette on the balcony while the rain pours down.

In reality, it was significantly less cinematic.

I had fifteen minutes. No suitcase. No luggage. Just a burly Secret Service agent shoving a toothbrush and a change of underwear into a canvas duffel bag while I stood in the middle of my bedroom in my bathrobe.

"Make sure you pack the good moisturizer," I said, watching Agent Miller shove my expensive French face cream into the bag with the delicacy of a gorilla handling a Ming vase. "If I break out in a hives rash in Regalia, I’m sending you the bill."

"You’re not supposed to be worrying about skincare right now, Ms. Forbes," Miller grunted, zipping the bag shut with a sound like a gunshot. "You’re supposed to be saying goodbye to your life."

"I already did," I said, staring at the poster of David Bowie on my wall. "I said goodbye to Bowie when I was seven. Saying goodbye to DC is easier."

We moved through the White House like ghosts. The corridors were silent, the shadows long and stretching under the flickering chandeliers. Even the portraits seemed to be asleep. I walked past the Lincoln Bedroom, resisting the urge to run in there and hide under the bed until the inauguration.

The shark—the man who called himself Ambassador Vane—was waiting on the South Lawn.

He wasn't standing under the harsh floodlights like a criminal. He was leaning against the open door of a black SUV, smoking a cigarette. The smoke curled up into the humid D.C. air, grey and ghostly.

As we approached, he dropped the cigarette, grinding it out with the heel of a boot that looked polished enough to reflect your soul.

"Ms. Forbes," he said. His voice was that same velvet-over-razor tone he’d used in the Oval Office. "The car is waiting."

"Agent Vane," I drawled, crossing my arms over my chest. "Or is it Ambassador? I’m still deciding which title sounds more pretentious."

He ignored me, taking the duffel bag from Miller. He didn't strain. The man was built like a vending machine; he probably didn't know the meaning of the word 'strain.'

"We are taking the back entrance," he said, opening the car door. "No press. No fanfare. The President wants this quiet."

"Of course he does," I muttered, sliding onto the leather seat. "Can’t have the voters knowing he sold his daughter to pay off the national debt."

The drive to Andrews Air Force Base was suffocating. I stared out the window, watching the familiar monuments slide by. The Washington Monument, phallic and pale in the moonlight. The Capitol building, a white wedding cake of corruption.

"Can I turn on the radio?" I asked the silence.

"No," Vane said.

"Can I have a cigarette?"

"No."

"Can I jump out of the moving vehicle?"

"If you wish," he said, checking his watch. "But the cervical fracture would be instantaneous, and you’d miss the view from the plane."

I looked at him sharply. He was staring straight ahead, his profile cut from stone. There was something about his eyes… they weren't just cold; they were *assessing*. Like he was calculating the exact amount of pressure needed to snap my neck versus the amount needed to keep me breathing.

"You know," I said, shifting in my seat, "most guys buy me dinner before they kidnap me."

"I didn't kidnap you, Marigold," he said softly, finally turning to look at me. "I’m just the delivery boy."

We arrived at the base. The SUV drove right onto the tarmac, bypassing the terminal entirely. Parked in the center of the runway, engines humming with a low, predatory thrum, sat the most beautiful plane I had ever seen.

It wasn't Air Force One. It was sleeker. Darker. A private jet painted in matte black, with gold accents running along the fuselage. But it wasn't the paint job that made my stomach drop.

It was the symbol on the tail fin.

A gold crown, entwined with a thorny vine.

**The Kingdom of Regalia.**

My knees felt weak. I’d seen that symbol in history books. In fairy tales. But looking at it now, illuminated by the runway lights, it didn't look like a fairy tale. It looked like a cage door slamming shut.

Miller opened the car door. The wind whipped my hair into my face. Vane—let's call him the Shark—took my arm.

"Time to go."

"I'm not getting on that," I said, digging my heels into the tarmac. "I’m not."

"Ms. Forbes," Miller sighed, looking exhausted. "Don't make this harder."

"I'm not getting on that!" I screamed, ripping my arm away from the Shark. "You can’t do this! It’s illegal! It’s a violation of my human rights!"

My voice echoed across the empty airfield. It bounced off the metal skin of the plane, shrill and terrified.

The Shark didn't react to my outburst. He didn't try to soothe me. He just stepped closer, invading my personal space until I could smell that scent again. Sandalwood and gun oil.

"Your father signed the extradition agreement," he said, his voice dangerously low. "By the laws of this country and mine, you are no longer a private citizen. You are property of the Crown."

"I am a human being!" I shoved his chest. It felt like shoving a marble wall. He didn't budge an inch.

"Get on the plane, Marigold." His eyes bored into mine. "Or I will carry you. And I promise you, you won't like how I do it."

I glared at him. I glared with every ounce of hatred I had in my body. I thought about spitting in his face. I thought about kicking him in the shins. But looking at those dead grey eyes, I knew he wasn't bluffing. He would throw me over his shoulder and haul me up the stairs like a sack of potatoes.

So, I straightened my spine. I lifted my chin. I summoned the spirit of every pissed-off Queen who ever ruled.

"Fine," I said, smoothing down my bathrobe. "But I’m flying coach."

I stomped up the stairs, my flip-flops slapping loudly against the metal. If I was going into exile, I was going to make noise doing it.

The inside of the plane was… offensive.

It was plush. Cream-colored leather seats, mahogany tables, crystal chandeliers. It smelled like money. Old money. Money that crushed people. There was a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket near the entrance.

The Shark followed me in, closing the door with a heavy *thud* that sealed my fate.

The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. "Cleared for takeoff. Destination: Regalia."

I sat in the nearest chair, buckling the seatbelt with aggressive force. The Shark took the seat opposite me. He didn’t buckle up. He just sat there, watching me like a hawk in a suit.

"Okay," I said, as the engines roared and the plane began to taxi. "Let’s get the rules straight. No touching me. No talking to me unless it’s an emergency. And I want the vegan meal option."

The Shark stared at me.

"What about the videos?" he asked.

The plane accelerated. The pressure pushed me back into the leather.

"What videos?" I lied.

He pulled a sleek tablet from his jacket pocket. He tapped the screen and slid it across the mahogany table toward me.

I looked down.

It was a grainy security camera video. Timestamp: 3:14 AM, July 4th.

I was in the White House kitchen. I was dancing on the counter in a flag bikini, swinging a bottle of rum over my head like a lasso. Behind me, two interns were cheering. On the counter, a fire was blazing in a frying pan.

The sound was off, thank God, but the visual was damning. *Damning.*

I looked at my reflection in the tablet screen. I looked drunk. I looked wild.

"That’s not me," I said. "Deepfake technology is scary these days."

"It’s you," he said. "And this is just the appetizer. We have photos of you in the Lincoln Bedroom with a certain Senator’s son. We have the security footage from the Diplomatic Corps gala where you punched a foreign dignitary."

My stomach dropped. "He touched my ass!"

"Regardless," the Shark said smoothly. "If you do not play your role in Regalia, these will be released to the Associated Press within the hour. Your father’s administration will crumble. You will be a pariah. A joke."

"I’m already a joke," I whispered.

"No," he said, leaning forward. The cabin lights dimmed, casting his face in shadow. "You’re a liability. But in Regalia, we have uses for liabilities."

The plane lifted off the ground. The Washington Monument became a toothpick. The White House became a dot. Then, the clouds swallowed us whole.

I unbuckled my seatbelt the moment the seatbelt sign dinged off. I needed a drink. I needed ten drinks. I marched to the bar, grabbed the bottle of champagne, and popped the cork. It hit the ceiling and ricocheted into the Shark’s lap.

He didn't flinch.

I downed half the bottle straight from the bottle. The bubbles burned, but I didn't care.

"So," I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "What’s your deal? You’re not just an Ambassador. Ambassadors are usually old, fat, and sweaty. You’re… none of those things."

He picked up the cork and examined it. "My name is not Vane."

"No? You look like a Vane. Sharp, pointy, prone to giving people cuts."

"My name is Armano Sanchez," he said.

The name hit me with the force of a physical blow. *Armano Sanchez.*

I knew that name. I’d heard it in hushed whispers in the Situation Room, usually followed by words like *extraction*, *assassination*, or *cleanup*.

"You’re the King’s executioner," I breathed. "The head of the Iron Guard."

Armano’s face remained impassive, but the air in the cabin grew heavy. "I am the Captain of the Royal Guard. And you, Ms. Forbes, are the most valuable cargo I have ever transported."

"Why?" I asked, clutching the champagne bottle like a weapon. "Why send the King’s butcher to pick up a disgraced First Daughter? Why not send a nanny?"

"Because," Armando stood up. He was tall. Too tall. The ceiling of the plane felt lower when he was standing. "Because your father didn't just sell you to the Crown."

He walked toward me. I backed up until my spine hit the bar.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.

"He sold you to the Resistance," Armando said.

My brain short-circuited. "The what?"

"The Resistance," he repeated, stepping closer. He was inches away now. I could see the faint scar running through his eyebrow, a white line against his tanned skin. "My King is old. He is weak. His son, your intended, is a fool. There are those in Regalia who want change."

"And you?" I whispered. "Who do you work for?"

"I work for the Crown," he said. "But the Crown... is heavy."

He reached out, his hand moving toward my face. I flinched, expecting him to hit me. Instead, his fingers brushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His touch was surprisingly gentle. Terrifyingly gentle.

"If the Resistance gets you," he murmured, "they will kill you. If the King gets you, he will use you. Your only chance of survival is me."

"Survival?" I let out a hysterical laugh. "I’m being dragged to a country I’ve never heard of to marry a man I’ve never met because my father is a coward. How is this survival?"

"Because," Armando Sanchez, the most dangerous man in Europe, looked me in the eye. "I know the truth about your mother."

The room spun. I grabbed the edge of the bar to steady myself. "My mother is dead. She died when I was a baby."

"That," Armando said, turning his back on me and walking back to his seat, "is the biggest lie the White House has ever told you."

I stared at his back. The champagne bottle slipped from my fingers and shattered on the plush carpet.

He sat down, crossed his legs, and picked up a magazine. He didn't even look at the mess.

"Clean that up," he said, without looking up. "We land in four hours."

I looked at the broken glass, soaking into the cream carpet. Golden liquid spreading like blood.

My hands were shaking.

"Armano," I said. My voice was small.

He looked up.

"If my mother is alive," I said, "I swear to God, I will burn your entire kingdom to the ground."

Armano’s lips curled into the faintest, coldest smile I had ever seen.

"Welcome to the team, Marigold."