Chapter 1: HEATHROW
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Heathrow doesn't smell like Cape Town International. It smells like nothing. Like air-con and money.
Amara Jacobs stands in the queue for Border Force with a passport that says SOUTH AFRICA, a suitcase from Ackermans that she spray-painted gold, and a Ziploc bag with 42 lipsticks. Her lipsticks.
The officer looks at her. Coloured girl, 24, braids, hoops, full beat — even at 6am after 12 hours flying, her face is done. Foundation shade: _Mitchells Plain 04 — For Girls Who Were Never Invited._
"Purpose of visit?" he asks.
Amara smiles. She has practiced this smile in the mirror since she was 14, when she used to watch her ma clean the madam's house in Constantia and the madam would say "You're pretty for a coloured girl."
"Royal Beauty Incubator," she says, loud enough for the white people behind her to hear. "I've been invited by the Crown to build a makeup empire."
He stamps. Doesn't look up. "90 days."
Ninety days. That's all she has to make them remember her name.
Outside, London is grey. The kind of grey that makes you understand why these people colonized the whole world — they needed sun.
A black car waits. Not for her. For _her_ — but not her. A sign: *AMARA JACOBS — ROYAL FOUNDATION*.
Inside is a white woman in a trench coat, clipboard, face that says she eats diversity for breakfast.
"Amara? I'm Pippa, Palace PR. We are so excited for your story. The girl from the Cape Flats who made lipstick from her mother's madam's bins? Iconic. The Daily Mail will weep."
Amara holds her Ziploc tighter. "It's GLAM'D. Not lipstick from bins. It's shades for brown skin. 40 shades."
"Yes! Love that. So authentic," Pippa says, not writing it down. "We have you in a flatshare in Zone 4, with the other incubator girls — the Nigerian hair girl and the Indian henna girl. Super diverse. And tomorrow, you meet your mentor."
"My mentor is Pat McGrath?"
Pippa laughs. "Better. Prince Theo. He's our Royal Patron for Beauty and Redemption. He needs some positive press. You need some royal sparkle. Synergy!"
The car pulls up to a house in Croydon. Not a palace. A damp semi with mold. Amara thinks of Sarah Naidoo — R500 passport, basement in Hatton Garden. Same story, different crown.
She goes to her tiny room, unpacks her 42 lipsticks, lines them up like soldiers. Takes a photo for TikTok.
Caption: _Day 1 in London. They invited a coloured girl from Mitchells Plain to the palace because they wanted a story. I'm going to give them an empire._
She doesn't know Prince Theo is already watching her TikTok from a club in Mayfair, hungover, disgraced, about to be cut off. He watches her blend _Mitchells Plain 04_ into her skin and his PR says:
"That's her. That's your new girlfriend."
He says: "She's hot."
PR says: "She's useful."
Both are true.
At midnight, her phone buzzes. Unknown number.
> _HRH Prince Theo of York. My people say I need to fake date you for 90 days. You in? - T_
Amara looks at her 42 lipsticks. At the mold on the ceiling. At London outside.
She types:
> _Only if I get the Royal Warrant and you don't touch my lipsticks without asking. And I want 51%. - A_
He replies in 2 seconds:
> _You drive a hard bargain for a girl in Zone 4. See you tomorrow, fake girlfriend._
She smiles. That Mitchells Plain smile. The one that says: You think I'm here for luxury? No, my bru. Luxury is here for me.
