The activity room of the Poetry Society had always been quiet, perfect for whiling away an afternoon.

As the president, I was leaning by the window, casually flipping through an old poetry collection. The sunlight was just right, warmly spilling over me, making me drowsy. As a princess of the Windermere Kingdom, this undisturbed tranquility was far more precious than any masked ball at court.


So when a group of people burst in surrounding an unfamiliar girl, I frowned.

"Have you heard? A real princess has come to our academy!"

"It's her, Isabella, the freshman from the Windermere Kingdom!"


My gaze drifted over the crowd to land on the girl called Isabella. She wore an elaborate lace dress, a dignified yet shy smile playing on her lips as she basked in everyone's adoration.

"Isabella, I heard the royal family has an extremely luxurious palace in the suburbs. Is that true?" a member of the Art Society called out.


Isabella raised her chin slightly, her tone carrying just the right hint of casual pride. "Ah, you mean Egret Manor? That is indeed one of my residences, though I usually prefer living in the dormitory to experience life as an ordinary person."

My finger froze on the page.

Egret Manor? That was the gift my father had given me on my sixteenth birthday. The key still lay in the deepest corner of my dormitory drawer.

For a moment, an absurd thought flashed through my mind: Could Father have an illegitimate daughter, and now he'd given her my things? My heart plummeted, that familiar sense of betrayal rising within me.

But I quickly forced myself to calm down.

I examined Isabella carefully. The most obvious mark of the Windermere royal bloodline was our silver hair—unchanged for a hundred years—that shimmered with moonlight luster in the sun. Her hair, however, was the most ordinary dark brown.

Next, I listened to her accent. She tried hard to mimic the capital's refined tones, but her word endings betrayed an unmistakable rural southern drawl. It was a sticky, dragging pronunciation that no court tutor would ever permit from a royal's lips.

Her mannerisms were equally flawed. Her seemingly elegant smile had corners pulled too tight—a mask rehearsed countless times before a mirror.

She was a liar. A complete and utter fraud.

Just as I reached my conclusion, Isabella—surrounded by her admirers—dropped her bombshell: "To celebrate our new friendship, I plan to host a party at Egret Manor and invite you all to attend!"

The crowd erupted in excited cheers.

I closed my poetry book and offered her a gentle, harmless smile.

I won't expose her. Not yet.

I want to see exactly what kind of performance this fake princess intends to deliver.