What is there about myself that I can tell him?
He said "Let's talk" and I felt that in my rent debt. Felt it all the way in the bottom of my overdrawn soul. I knew the type—people who say that with smooth voices and long pauses. People who could afford to be curious because their lives weren't on fire.
I was someone who hadn't achieved a single fucking thing. Nothing worth mentioning. Nothing worth putting in a neat little anecdote for mysterious princes in borrowed castles.
I'd worked part-time all through college. Restaurants, cafés, arcades—every service job known to mankind. If it had a uniform and a manager with dead eyes, I'd probably clocked in at least once.
And after graduation? Nothing. No job offers. No golden ticket. Just silence. Like I'd stepped off the edge of a cliff and landed in a forgotten inbox somewhere.
Even my internship—a painfully unpaid, caffeine-fueled mess—got cut short because some entitled jackass decided to sabotage me just so he could snake the position when it opened up. And he did. I watched it happen like it was a bad soap opera I'd been accidentally cast in.
Not a single thing has ever worked my way.
I used to think maybe I was just lazy. Maybe it was me. Locus of control, they call it in psych textbooks. The idea that some people blame the world for everything instead of taking responsibility.
But I'm not hiding behind that. I'm not using it as a crutch or an excuse or some poetic reason to stay miserable.
I really do have bad luck. Like cosmically bad. Cursed-object-in-a-museum level. One of those people who never wins raffles or coin tosses or life.
It's not self-pity. It's just math.
I've played the game. Filled the forms. Showed up. Stayed quiet. Tried loud. Smiled. Shrunk. Adapted. Starved. And still, the world seemed to look straight through me and say, "Not this one."
And now here I am.
In a castle that smells like lavender and politics, drinking tea brewed by someone who probably owns land, while trying to figure out how to act like someone worth talking to.
Lucien watched me patiently. Still waiting.
I didn't say any of it.
I just smiled faintly, like I had something mysterious going on behind my eyes.
But really, I was just thinking— I hope this is real. I hope this works. Because I don't have a backup plan.
And I really, really need something—anything—to finally work.
Lucien took another slow sip of his tea, then set the cup down gently, the porcelain barely making a sound against the marble.
"You have a very quiet mind," he said, almost like a compliment. "Still."
I snorted before I could stop myself. "That's a bold lie."
He arched a golden eyebrow, smiling like he'd just caught me in something.
"I mean it," he said. "You're present. Measured. Most people chatter to fill the air. But you sit still. You think first."
"Sure," I muttered. "Or maybe I'm just buffering."
His smile widened, and for a second I couldn't tell if he was laughing at me or admiring the performance.
I leaned back into the chair, fingers wrapped around the cup I still hadn't sipped from. "I'm twenty-six, by the way. Jobless. Unless you count freelancing as some sort of financial survival tactic."
"Freelancing is noble," Lucien said instantly, with way too much enthusiasm.
"Mm, yeah. I recently got a gig editing a cinematic piece." I said it with air quotes so sharp they could've sliced the upholstery. "Very intimate. Very raw. Very… lotion-heavy."
Lucien lit up like I'd told him I directed a short film at Cannes.
"That's fantastic!"
I blinked. "No. It really wasn't."
"You're doing creative work. That's something."
"I'm doing it so I don't starve."
"Motivation comes in many forms."
I gave him a look.
He held my gaze, still smiling.
And despite everything—the castle, the tea, the weird lighting, the fact that this could still be a glorified scam—I found myself saying, "Okay. Your turn."
Lucien tilted his head slightly.
"Tell me about yourself," I said. "Since you know my tragic little résumé."
He exhaled through his nose, a short amused sound, like he'd been waiting for this.
"Well," he said, "I'm twenty-nine."
Of course he is. The perfect age for mysterious wealth and well-structured eyebrows.
"And technically, I'm the third son of King Arthelion IV—"
"Of Blech," I added, trying not to laugh.
"Yes," he said proudly, as if it weren't a name that sounded like a wet cough.
He continued, unbothered. "Prince of Blech, though mostly in title. My father's kingdom is small, ceremonial in many ways. Not exactly the power it used to be, but we have tradition. Land. Influence."
"Matching towels?" I offered.
He gave me a knowing look. "Monogrammed."
I laughed, surprising even myself.
Lucien leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees now, as if he were getting comfortable with me. "I've lived in several places over the last few years. London. Marseille. Then here."
"Why here?"
He shrugged, and this time the smile dropped just enough to show a sliver of something less polished. "Let's just say I needed space. The kind of space where people don't ask too many questions."
A pause settled between us.
Outside the tall windows, the wind moved through the trees with a soft, steady rustle. Inside, it was just two strangers sipping tea and pretending they weren't both probably hiding a hundred things they weren't ready to say yet.
"Anyway," he said, sitting back, "that's the basic royal package. I'm Lucien. I'm a prince. And I'm very glad you're here."
I sipped the tea at last. Still warm. Still floral. Still dangerous.
Lucien's eyes lingered on mine a second longer than usual—something in his gaze sharpening, but not cold. Not threatening. Just more present. Less performance. Like we'd reached the moment where the music fades and the real conversation begins.
"I suppose," he said quietly, "we should discuss why you're really here."
I set the cup down, suddenly more alert.
"Yes," I said. "That would be great. Because so far, this feels like the intro to a very expensive prank show."
He laughed softly, then rubbed his thumb against his jaw, as if searching for how honest he wanted to be.
"The truth is," he began, "the email wasn't supposed to lead to anything."
I raised an eyebrow.
"I was… bored," he said, with a sigh. "Frustrated. Restless. Being who I am comes with a particular kind of cage—one lined with gold, sure, but still a cage. So I wrote that message as a joke. A kind of… social experiment, I suppose."
"A fake prince emailing people for money?"
"A real prince," he corrected, smirking. "Emailing people with something ridiculous, just to see what the world would throw back. I wanted to see who'd respond. If anyone would. I sent a few. Most replies were crude. One person told me to go back to my castle and choke on caviar."
"Not a bad line."
"No, quite creative." He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees again. "But then I got your reply."
I hesitated. "Which part got your attention? The part where I told you your fake country sounded like vomit?"
He laughed, more freely now. "Yes, exactly that. You had humor. Intelligence. And, more importantly, you didn't take the bait. You questioned it."
I narrowed my eyes. "So I passed your vibe check, and now I'm here?"
"Something like that." He smiled again, softer this time. "I don't believe in accidents, Reed. I believe in recognizing opportunity when it slips under the door dressed as chaos."
My throat tightened a little. Maybe it was the phrasing. Maybe it was how earnestly he said it.
"So," I said slowly, "what is this opportunity?"
Lucien leaned back, crossing one leg neatly over the other. "It's a business. Discreet. Global. Perfectly legal—though, yes, it requires discretion."
"...Okay."
"I work with several financial structures. Entities. Investments, technically. Many of them are held in less-than-stable regions, and I require third parties—independent contractors, if you will—to assist in the logistics of moving assets across borders in ways that don't raise unnecessary attention."
I blinked. "That sounds… vague. And suspicious."
"I know," he admitted. "But it's not. You wouldn't be moving money directly, and you wouldn't be doing anything you couldn't explain in a sentence if someone asked. You'd be setting up small channels—legitimate ones. Businesses. Accounts. Shells, but with purpose. All papered correctly. No lies, no aliases. You'd be a real participant in a real structure."
"That sounds like corporate consulting, but messier."
"It's closer to portfolio management, in a way," he said. "Only instead of one company, we're managing the visibility of multiple liquid assets across global markets. And I need someone like you—not because of what's on your résumé, but because of how you think. You know how to work quietly. You don't flinch at shadows. You see absurdity for what it is, but you still move through it."
I stared at him, heart doing strange little ticks under my ribs.
He continued, voice smooth but calm now. "The work wouldn't be heavy. You'd get your own stipend, a percentage from the transfers you facilitate, and a portfolio that technically belongs to you—on paper, of course. It's income, Reed. Passive, mostly. Legal. And generous."
I didn't respond immediately.
Because it didn't sound illegal.
But it also didn't sound like something people just offer strangers who mocked them online.
"So… I'm a front?" I asked, cautiously.
"You're a participant," he said. "An asset-holder. A partner, in name. In return, you get a cut. No one's asking you to sell drugs or commit treason. We just need faces that the systems don't question. People the banks don't look twice at."
I swallowed. "And how many people like me do you have?"
"Enough," he said. "But not like you."
And that… shouldn't have sounded flattering. But it did. Because for once, someone wasn't questioning my qualifications. Someone was offering me a seat. Not out of pity. Not to fill a quota.
Just… because.
I sat up a little straighter in my chair.
This was happening. Somehow, in a castle, with sunlight on silk drapes and tea that probably cost more than my entire kitchen. I was being offered a "portfolio management" position by a man whose cardigan probably had a lineage.
And now I had to respond like I had any idea what he was talking about.
"Right," I said slowly, nodding like I'd once read a Forbes article. "So… let's talk logistics."
Lucien's smile twitched upward, and I swear, he leaned in just the tiniest bit, like he was both entertained and impressed that I hadn't fled the room screaming yet.
"Of course," he said, calm as ever. "Ask anything."
I cleared my throat and tried to keep my voice level. "Let's say I agree to this. Where does the money actually go? Like, are we talking… bank accounts? Offshore accounts? Swiss banks with little chocolate fountains?"
"Mostly accounts," he said with a small laugh. "Some offshore. Some domestic. All clean. You'd simply be listed as a shareholder or a beneficiary, depending on the setup. In most cases, you wouldn't need to touch the money directly—just authorize transfers, sign off on digital documents, and allow us to route things through."
I nodded like this was the sort of thing I discussed every Tuesday.
"And the businesses," I added, "are they real?"
"They're functional," Lucien said. "Registered, licensed, tax-paying. We keep things tidy. Some sell things. Some exist only to hold capital. But we make sure they have enough motion to be believable."
I exhaled, like that was somehow comforting. "Okay. And I'd… be working remotely?"
"Mostly," he said. "Though occasionally, you may be asked to sign something in person. Maybe meet with a contact, check on a property we use. Nothing you couldn't wear jeans to."
Right. Casual crime.
"And taxes?"
Lucien raised an elegant eyebrow. "All yours. You'll report whatever you're paid. We don't handle your filings—but we will guide you on what not to say."
That part felt a little closer to illegal adjacent, but he said it so cleanly it almost sounded responsible.
I hesitated. "What if someone starts… asking questions?"
"They won't," he said smoothly. "We don't pick people who attract attention. That's the whole point."
I stared at him. "So I'm forgettable?"
"You're perfectly ordinary," he said, like it was a compliment. "No debt collectors. No scandals. No flashy purchases. You live simply. You're invisible in all the right ways."
It was probably the worst pitch anyone had ever given me, and yet, it was also… accurate. Alarmingly so.
I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to keep my tone professional. "And the money I get… how much are we talking?"
"Five percent of each transaction that passes through your channel," Lucien replied, already reaching into a sleek black folder beside him. "On average, that would bring you—conservatively speaking—around ten to fifteen thousand a month."
I blinked. Once.
Then again.
"Come again?"
He passed the folder to me without blinking. "You'll find the projections inside. It's modest compared to the volume we're moving, but you'd be compensated fairly."
Ten to fifteen. Thousand. Dollars. A month.
From doing… what, exactly? Letting a ghost business wear my name like a mask?
I flipped through the pages, pretending to absorb numbers I barely understood. All the graphs had colors and headings. It looked official. Professional. Like someone had designed it specifically to fool someone like me.
And the terrifying part?
It was working.
I closed the folder slowly, the kind of slow you do when you're pretending you understand what you just read. I didn't. Not really. But I understood the number. And I understood what it could do for me.
One month of that income would cover rent. Groceries. The kind of toothpaste that didn't burn. Maybe even a haircut.
Two months, and I could start thinking beyond survival. Maybe even buy a jacket that wasn't held together by stubbornness and memories.
Three months? I could look my grandmother in the eye without flinching.
I glanced up at Lucien. He was watching me, hands steepled lightly under his chin, his expression calm—but not neutral. There was something behind it. Not quite manipulation. Not pity. Something more like… knowing.
He knew exactly what he was offering. And exactly who he was offering it to.
I let the silence hang a little longer. Let myself pretend I had any real power in this negotiation.
Then I extended my hand.
Lucien's gaze flicked to it, then back to my face. His mouth curved just slightly—not smug, not triumphant. Just… pleased.
He leaned forward and shook it.
His grip was firm. Warm. Unhurried.
"We have an agreement then," he said quietly.
"Looks like we do," I replied, as evenly as I could manage.
I told myself it was just business. A smart move. A lifeline.
But as our hands parted, I couldn't help the slight chill that crept in behind the warmth. Not fear. Not exactly. Just the kind of unease that comes from walking into a room you can't walk out of the same way.
Still—I smiled. Just a little.
Because I had nothing left to lose. And for once, something to gain.