being the tutor she wanted

As she sat down in her room, her mind was awash with thoughts—thoughts of how she might find favour in the good graces of the seventeen-year-old princess, and how she could, in her own right, become a truly remarkable tutor. She reflected, not without irony, on the years she herself had spent unschooled and tutored. Never once had she liked her own tutors. They had read to her as though they were casting the evening news—flat, impersonal, devoid of life. They posed questions not out of curiosity or engagement, but as a duty performed. It had always been dreadfully boring.

Perhaps, she mused, if she endeavoured to do exactly what her own tutors had never done—those tutors her father, Chairman Kim, had so carefully hired for her during her high school years—then the princess might, in time, come to like her. She would give the princess the kind of tutor she herself had always longed for.

She remembered well that Princess Ran Ya was a fervent admirer of BTS. Playing one of the group's songs, she thought, would be an excellent beginning. It would not be difficult; she too was fond of their music—especially the soft, mellifluous voice of Jooheon and the resonant poetry embedded in their lyrics. And from her experience as a fan, she knew—knew with conviction—that every true be the spark (BTS) devotee held Never Let You Go close to heart. The raps, the words—each line was crafted with such emotional clarity it could, she believed, shift the mood of even the most dispirited soul.

She would sing that song softly to herself, earphones nestled gently in her ears, as she made her way to the princess's room.

There was a portfolio spread neatly on her bed. It outlined, with unwavering precision, every detail of her day: the time the princess would rise, the place where she would dine, the attire she was to wear, and the hour her lessons would commence. It was a schedule drawn with the rigour of a court's decree. And yet, she intended to bring into its cold structure a measure of warmth, of laughter, of all the things her own education had so sorely lacked.

---

The morning broke over Aureliah in silence, the kind of silence only the ultra-wealthy could afford. The kind that came with triple-layered windows, guards stationed discreetly beyond every corridor, and marble courtyards wide enough to quiet the sound of a soul in conflict.

Julia Kim—known to the palace as Jane Lucas—lay awake before the call to prayer, her eyes fixed on the gilded ceiling above her. It was her second day in the royal palace of Al Farsi, but already the illusion of belonging was beginning to fray. She felt it in the careful way the staff greeted her, in the relentless choreography of her schedule, in the eyes of portraits that lined the corridor—long-dead sheikhs and queens, all silently asking who are you, really?

The portfolio lay beside her, untouched since she had folded it the night before. But now, in the blue hush before sunrise, she opened it again—not to obey it, but to understand it.

Today, Princess Ran Ya was to rise at 6:10 a.m. sharp. Her breakfast—dates, honeyed yogurt, and saffron tea—would be served in the Garden of Nine Arches, the private courtyard reserved only for royal women. By 7:00, she would be dressed by the court's female stylists in shams al-thulāthāʾ, the traditional Tuesday garb woven with golden thread from the looms of Madinat al-Khalid. No perfume was permitted, only the essence of raw oud.

Julia's fingers traced the calligraphic script on the schedule. Even the ink whispered tradition.

The princess's lessons would begin at precisely 7:45 in the Marhaba Study Hall—though the title was deceiving. The room was not a study, but a sanctuary of inheritance. Its walls bore the verses of Ibn Arabi and Al-Mutanabbi in lapis-lazuli and pearl. One did not merely teach in that room; one bowed to history and hoped to be useful.

Julia exhaled slowly. She was still "Jane" here—an invented name, a shield. But inside, she was still Julia Kim, daughter of Chairman Kim, a girl educated under tutors she had hated, under a father she had feared. She had not entered the palace to teach. She had come to survive. To disappear.

And yet here she was, about to instruct the daughter of the most powerful royal line in the world.

She shut the portfolio gently, but its presence lingered like incense. What kind of life was this, really? To live by a parchment, to have even one's smiles rationed and scheduled?

Still lying back, she reached for her earphones and played the opening chords of Never Let You Go. She let it fill her—Jooheon's voice smooth as silk, wrapping around her heartbeat like a familiar balm. If she could just share this feeling with Ran Ya… if she could make even one corner of the girl's gilded cage feel free… it would be something.

She rose and dressed carefully, not as a palace tutor, but as someone preparing to step onto a stage. Her black abaya was simple but edged in silver thread, enough to be respectful, not enough to draw attention. Her face was still her mask—Jane Lucas. But her mind was sharp. Watching. Calculating.

Because in a palace like this, every gesture was a performance, and every mistake could cost more than a name.

---

The ninth arch loomed ahead like a gate of judgment, carved with ancient script and crowned in quiet authority. Julia Kim—known within these walls as Jane Lucas—paused beneath its shadow. Her scarf was perfectly in place. Her stride measured. Her accent, carefully buried beneath years of practiced neutrality.

This was not a morning for mistakes.

In her earphones, the soft strains of BTS's Never Let You Go threaded through her mind like a shield. She had timed it to start just before she reached the final arch. Not loud enough to distract, just enough to center her. It was part of her plan—the one she had crafted in the quiet of her chamber the night before while reviewing the portfolio on the princess.

Princess Ran Ya. Seventeen. Brilliant. Unforgiving. Devoted BTS fan.

Julia, too, was a fan—not just of the music, but of what it did to people. Never Let You Go was more than a song; it was a balm. The lyrics, the soft instrumental, and Jooheon's haunting verse in particular had a way of softening even the hardest silences.

And today, silence would be her battleground.

She tapped the pause on her earbuds just before the final chorus and slipped them into her coat pocket. The Garden of Nine Arches shimmered ahead in pale dawn. Dew clung to lemon blossoms. The air smelled of neroli and something older—maybe history. Maybe power.

And seated at the marble lip of the fountain was Princess Ran Ya.

She looked like a page torn from a legend—poised, composed, and utterly aware of her lineage. Her posture was unyielding, hands folded in her lap, eyes sharp as cut glass. She studied Julia not like a stranger, but like a flaw in the palace's perfection she'd already begun measuring.

"Your Highness," Julia said, bowing with exact restraint. "Good morning."

"Do not call me that unless we are in public," the princess replied coolly. "I am not a ruling royal. Just a daughter."

Her Arabic was pristine, clipped with the refinement only old nobility could carry. Julia met her eyes evenly. "Then, what shall I call you?"

"Miss Ran. Nothing more."

"Understood." Julia remained standing. The portfolio had warned her: The princess permits familiarity only on her terms. Wait until you are invited to sit.

Ran Ya's gaze sharpened. "You don't look Arab. Yet your pronunciation is nearly flawless."

"I was raised in Spain," Julia said, her tone steady, her story flowing like well-practiced scripture. "My father was half Arabic, half German. He taught me Arabic and classical grammar. My mother was French. Between them, I grew up speaking French, Spanish, and Arabic. English came later. And Korean—I picked that up at university from a close friend."

"Convenient," Ran Ya muttered.

"Which is why I'm here."

Ran Ya narrowed her eyes. "I'm fluent in three of those already. I'll expect precision. No translation errors. No lazy Western interpretations of Eastern texts. No condescension."

"Of course," Julia said—in French this time.

Then in Spanish: "I have no intention of underestimating you."

Finally, in Korean, softly: "And I never teach what I don't understand."

The princess blinked. "Your Korean has a northern intonation. Odd."

"My friend… she was born in Dandong. I suppose I picked it up without realizing."

Ran Ya's expression shifted slightly. Not softened—merely curious now. "Most tutors start with grammar drills. You didn't bring a whiteboard. Or books."

Julia allowed the barest smile. "I brought music."

Ran Ya's brow lifted. "Music?"

"I noticed you like BTS. Never Let You Go is playing in my earphones. I thought it might be a good place to start."

The faintest flicker of surprise touched Ran Ya's otherwise composed face. Not delight—but something close. Maybe approval.

"You're still standing," she said.

Julia nodded. "I'll stand until you say otherwise."

Ran Ya gestured toward the opposite side of the fountain. "Then sit. Let's see if you actually know what you're doing."

Julia obeyed, smooth and without flourish.

The princess picked up a velvet-bound book from her side. "This is a collection of ghazals by al-Hamawi. Do you know the difference between a ghazal and a qasida?"