Mira Lawson had exactly three goals in life:
1. Avoid unnecessary drama.
2. Avoid anything that smelled like responsibility.
3. Avoid aristocrats, academies, and televised nonsense.
Unfortunately, fate had a terrible sense of humour.
The annual Lucky Star Lottery was blasting on TV, louder than necessary, because her sister, Sophia, believed the event was equivalent to the World Cup. Mira, meanwhile, was trying, truly trying, to fold laundry and pretend her name didn't even exist in the same universe as the spinning golden lottery ball.
Sophia was kneeling on the floor, eyes glued to the broadcast, vibrating like a charged battery. "Mira! Any moment now! Imagine you, in that school, eating real food! Wearing uniforms that weren't stitched by… whoever stitched yours!"
"My uniforms are fine," Mira grumbled. "And I'm not watching. Lottery shows are just Hunger Games without the honesty."
But the TV kept shouting. The host kept smiling. The camera swept across the grand stage where the Academy, Aristella Institute, displayed its wealth like a show-off peacock.
Mira rolled her eyes so hard they almost detached. "Sophia, only rich kids go there. The lottery pick is always someone photogenic or tragic. I'm neither."
Sophia ignored that. "Shhh! They're picking now."
The ball slowed. The host dipped his hand in.
Mira folded a sock.
Sophia held her breath.
The host pulled out a slip.
Mira wondered if they had coffee left.
And then,
"Mira Lawson."
Silence.
Actual silence.
Mira froze mid-blink. Sophia screamed loud enough to awaken the ancestors.
"No," Mira said calmly, like someone refusing a telemarketer. "Nope. Impossible. Wrong Mira. Wrong Lawson. Wrong planet."
The TV disagreed by showing her full name, her hometown, and, God help her, a childhood photo where she had bangs cut by a vengeful toddler.
Before Mira could launch herself out the window, officials showed up at their door. Fancy suits. Black cars. A woman who smelled like expensive ice.
Sophia shoved Mira forward. "You're going. You're absolutely going. Don't embarrass us!"
"I always embarrass us," Mira hissed.
The woman in the expensive ice-coat smiled. "Miss Lawson, congratulations. You will be escorted to Aristella immediately."
Mira crossed her arms. "What if I say no?"
"You cannot decline," the woman replied pleasantly. "The contract was signed when your mother entered your name at birth."
Mira turned to her mother, who shrugged unapologetically. "Baby, I needed a discount on baby formula. They gave points for entering."
Mira's jaw dropped. "I was traded for coupon points?!"
But before she could yell further, she was swept into a polished black car, driven past camera crews, and escorted through gates taller than her self-esteem.
Aristella Institute was not a school. It was wealth manifest. Marble fountains. Gold-tipped gates. Students who looked like they had trust funds for their trust funds.
Mira stared at everything with the exact expression one has before a migraine.
"Try to smile," said the ice-coat woman.
"No," Mira answered.
They guided her toward orientation, which looked like a royal ceremony pretending to be a school assembly. People stared. Whispered. Filmed. Girls gasped at her shoes (which were clean but apparently lacking diamonds). Boys stared like she was a new species.
Mira ignored all of them.
But the more she tried to act normal, the more she realized everyone else lived on a different planet. A girl walked by holding a baby tiger. A group of boys discussed which private island had the best sunrise. Someone had a servant strictly for umbrella-shadow management.
Mira muttered under her breath, "You people are… wow."
Unfortunately, someone heard her.
A tall boy with a perfect haircut blinked. "Thank you?"
"That wasn't a compliment," she said.
He gasped dramatically. "How refreshing."
Word spread quickly: the Lucky Star wasn't scared of anyone.
Not the nobles.
Not the cameras.
Not the rules.
And definitely not the cafeteria.
The cafeteria was a cathedral of gold, polished wood, and chandeliers heavy enough to crush an average citizen. Mira entered like a soldier walking into enemy territory.
She marched to the drink station and grabbed the only normal thing she could find: coffee. Not the gold-plated cappuccinos everyone else had, but a simple paper cup with a simple lid for simple humans.
She told herself: Just stay quiet. Stay invisible.
But invisibility was impossible when she accidentally walked right into the centre of the royal table's line of sight.
She didn't know it was the royal table.
She only knew it was big, dramatic, and unnecessarily polished.
Someone bumped her from behind, some noble kid too important to say "sorry", and Mira stumbled forward.
Her coffee flew.
Straight.
Into.
Royalty.
The cafeteria gasped like a synchronized choir.
The Crown Prince, Adrian Everhart, stood slowly, coffee dripping off his immaculate black sleeve like a crime scene.
He looked terrifying.
Mira looked unimpressed.
"Who dares, ?" Adrian began, voice cold, royal, dramatic.
"Me," Mira said before he could finish. "And it was an accident. A certain someone pushed me."
The crowd trembled with shock.
No one talked back to the Crown Prince.
"Do you know who I am?" Adrian asked, stepping closer.
Mira stepped closer too.
"I know you're the person who should take this up with whoever designed slippery floors and rude students. Not me."
Dead silence.
The nobles stared like she had slapped a god.
Adrian's eyes narrowed. "You spilled coffee on the heir to the throne."
Mira crossed her arms.
"I'll spill another one if you keep talking to me like that."
The cafeteria collectively died.
Then resurrected.
Then died again.
A freshman fainted.
Adrian stared at her like she was a glitch in the Matrix. He wasn't used to anyone, ANYONE, talking back.
And Mira wasn't used to bowing for anyone, not kings, not princes, not people with fancy laundry detergent.
Their standoff crackled like live electricity.
Finally, Mira exhaled sharply and muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear:
"Relax. It's just coffee, not boiling lava. You'll survive."
Phones came out. Cameras flashed. Someone whispered, "God, I love her."
Adrian's jaw tightened. "You will write an apology letter."
"No, I won't."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me, Your Highness. I'm sorry it happened, but I'm not writing a love poem about your sleeve."
The cafeteria exploded into whispers.
Mira didn't flinch. Didn't wilt. Didn't bow.
She stood there, chin up, coffee-stained, stubborn as fire.
And the crown prince…
…for the first time in his existence…
…had no idea what to say.