Emma Swan had had this job for just about four years now, and she was fairly sure there was nothing more it could do to surprise her. She had stopped being gobsmacked around the time, after just having taught a roomful of household staff that the proper way to store caviar was in a champagne glass (because clearly, a champagne glass) one of them raised their hand and asked what brand of glassware it should be, because if there was a wrong brand and they used it, their employer would be Very Unhappy at this dereliction of duty. Or when she saw sixteen-year-olds who had as many therapists as they did extracurricular activities, pouring into the International Young Achiever program to mingle with their serried peers, so they'd be the better prepared to go straight from Oxbridge to the Fortune 500 board room. The thought of working a starter job at Primark or Caffè Nero was a fate worse than death, and one which these people never had to consider anyway. On the unlikely chance that they couldn't get one of their daddy's rich friends to take them on, daddy himself would provide a monthly allowance equal to the deposit on most middle-class homes.

For that matter, Emma had no idea how she'd ended up here. Debrett's was the oldest and most prestigious etiquette school in London – or at least that was how it had started out. It had now evolved into a full-service boutique firm for the really, obnoxiously, you-are-the-reason-the-economy-sucks stupid rich. From teaching the subtle nuances between white tie and black tie dress codes, how to properly address the Queen when she invited you to the state dinner at Buckingham Palace, to arranging your personal shopping experience in Paris (minimum one day) or Milan (minimum two days), to weddings (you can only imagine how those went) to the events of the Social Season and who would be at each, to dealing with nepotism at the office (really, that would be a problem? Who could have seen that coming?) – she, Emma Swan, had done it all. None of her clients knew she was actually American, as she had perfected her Received Pronunciation, and of course it would never do to have a Yank instructing them in these time-honored rituals of expensive snobbery. Privileged bubble did not begin to describe it.

Thus, Emma had a certain cynical outsider's perspective on the whole thing. She had not been born into money – quite the opposite, in fact. Didn't see this job as much different from a long-term acting gig, having gotten hired despite her disgracefully un-pedigreed background by working hard, being willing to put up with their shit as long as it kept the paychecks coming, having a certain Look (here meaning thin, blonde, and pretty) and allowing the bosses to feel as if they were doing a good deed and being demographically diverse, down-to-earth, and relatable to the plight of the common man by employing her. Besides, she was a living success story. If an American ex-foster kid, who had never tasted champagne in her life until her first day on the job when she was supposed to be advising a client which one to buy for her society wedding, could learn how to do this, anyone could.

This, however. This might prove to be her white whale, the final quest to trip her up just before the finish. Sir Brennan Jones was one of the billionaires who turned up in the news for buying a private island or being busted for tax evasion (once more, who could have seen that coming?) or appearing at various red-carpet events with his equally handsome sons (they were a good-looking family, she'd give them that) or writing self-righteous newspaper editorials about how they needed to fix the country, apparently with zero awareness that he and his dipshit oligarch buddies were a big part of the problem with it in the first place. That Brennan Jones. He had just engaged Debrett's to give his two sons a crash course in being successful rich people, as that was different from just being rich people, so they could follow him into the family business.

And Emma was the lucky, lucky woman chosen for the job.

Emma had known it was going to be a calamity from the moment she walked into the room with her luxury white client briefing folder and beheld her new pupils. The older one, Liam, seemed to have his head screwed on straight: he got up to shake her hand and look her in the eye, thank her for her time today, so refreshingly normal that she almost wondered if he hadn't meant to go to the place next door and accidentally ended up here instead. Or else he was here very much as a chaperone for the younger one. As for him –

Killian Jones was young, very rich, and very, very good-looking, which was never the best combination for assuring a sensible decision-making process. He also turned up in the papers for less than flattering reasons, which had probably contributed to his father's decision to force him into finishing school so he didn't keep embarrassing them with drunken shenanigans at Glastonbury or being pulled over for doing 120mph in his luxury supercar on the M1. Emma had expected him to be a Rich Kids of Instagram regular, posting stacks of £50 bills that he used to paper his bathroom or whatever else, but she hadn't been able to find him. At any rate, his slouch and baleful look from under his dark fringe told her all she needed to know about him. He did not want to do this, and as such was going to make it as much a chore as he possibly could.

Prodded by his brother, Killian got up and introduced himself, with a little flourishing bow that he clearly expected her to find charming, like the rest of the women who would be falling over themselves by now. Emma gave him a cool stare in return. "Interesting," she said. "We clearly have a lot of work to do with you."

Liam stifled a snort, and Killian glared at him. "Please excuse my little brother, Miss Swan. We can't take him anywhere."

"It's my job to change that, isn't it?" Emma smiled sleekly. She was used to men – boys, really – like Killian. Most of them would complain and bemoan about how they weren't like other people, the terrible burden that their fabulous wealth placed upon them, how they couldn't meet any "real" women, and then ask her if she'd go out with them. As always, she strictly declined. Dating clients was a no-no in any job, especially this one, to avoid any hint that she was just in it for the gold-digging, and she hadn't found anyone she'd want to see again outside the requirements of work. "We wouldn't want your father's money to go to waste, would we?"

Killian muttered something not entirely under his breath about all the good their father's money had ever done anyone. Liam punched him in the arm, then glanced apologetically at her.

That was about when Emma realized just what a challenge this was going to be. Normally she was up for them; there was something satisfying about turning a frog (or sometimes, honestly, a toad) into a prince. But this one, no. This one was clearly going to be a war story for the ages.

Killian Jones hated every minute of finishing school for the first ten and a half of them. The second half of that eleven was when he saw Emma Swan smile for the first time. After that, while not entirely converted to the necessity of the cause, he was suddenly far more willing to give it a try.

He had dragged his heels and resisted every inch of the way. Didn't want to be turned into a bloody photogenic mannequin for their bloody father's press opportunities and business endeavors. Knew he hadn't been behaving that well recently, classic spoiled-douchebag acting up, but he couldn't quite rid himself of the conviction that maybe if he did something really egregious, at least Dad would take the time to talk to him himself, rather than sending the overworked personal assistant with a note about how he should really try not to be arrested the night before Sir Brennan Jones and Sir Richard Branson were announcing a big sale on airline fares. Instead, he just got Liam looking at him disappointedly, which was worse. Their mum had died when they were kids, and while Brennan had run through an endless succession of young and vampy girlfriends with boob jobs and designer sunglasses, it had always been the nannies who raised them. Brennan was home on weekends, maybe, for a few hours. They'd have "informal family brunch" cooked by the five-star in-house chef. He'd be gone again by four o'clock.

Killian was not such an idiot as to not be aware that literally 99% of the world would love to have this problem, that nobody was drowning in their tears for the parentally-neglected rich kid who would just be handed £500 and told to go buy himself something every time he was sad. But it had taken being sent to finishing school, with the express implication that this was supposed to prepare him for stepping into their father's life, to make him realize how much he didn't want it. He didn't have an objection to never having to worry about money, sure, but it cost him in every other way he could think of. He had no idea how to have his own job, how to know if anyone liked him for himself, if he was any use to the world at all or just another pampered twit. Liam was his only friend. And the more their dad used his handsome sons as strategic marketing pieces, the more he couldn't tell what was their family and what was just the brand, the more Killian felt the hollowness inside him where his soul was supposed to be.

So, now. This. Being taught by some – by some – pretty blonde waif how to set a table and tie a bowtie and what cloth was appropriate for your morning jacket (it was not called a morning suit). How you ate peas smashed against the back of the fork (why?) but asparagus with your fingers (really?) All the stuff that, if Dad had really wanted to spend time with them, to mold them into his successors, he should have taught them himself. Instead, he paid someone else to parent them. Just as he had their entire life. Killian didn't even know why he was still surprised.

Emma Swan, though. He had to admit, she wasn't quite what he'd been expecting. On the outside, to look at, the very image of the perfectly groomed, stylishly clad etiquette consultant, but surprisingly ready to take absolutely zero bullshit from him. Most people laughed at his jokes, which weren't really that funny, or sucked up somehow, but she didn't. To say the least. Indeed, by the end of the day as they were leaving, Killian grumbled, "She's a bloody sergeant-major, isn't she? Are you sure Dad wasn't secretly trying to recruit us into the Navy or something?"

"It's good for you." Liam pulled out his phone to call for the car. "Girls need to yell at you more often."

"Thanks, Liam. Glad to know you always have my back." Killian supposed he was used to never having to work for female attention, as it at least was something he could easily and satisfyingly get. He folded his arms, determined to make his displeasure obvious, but at that moment, they were distracted by the sight of Emma Swan herself leaving for the day, pulling a gray sweatshirt hoodie over her smart blouse and wearing trainers in place of her Prada heels. They were, of course, under no more obligation to socialize with her any longer, but Killian found himself taking a step. Determined to be polite, even if to be obnoxious. "Oy," he called. "Hey. Do you want a ride?"

She jumped and looked up. "Wh – oh. No, thank you." For just a moment, oddly, it sounded as if she'd had to switch back into a British accent. "I'll take the train."

"Take the train?" Killian repeated. He'd actually never done that. It sounded almost exciting. "Why would you do that?"

"They don't exactly pay me like a stockbroker." She gave them a polite, closed-mouth smile. "Some of us don't have fleets of Bentleys and Range Rovers at our beck and call, you know. I'll be fine on the Underground."

"You don't have to do that," Liam chimed in. "Let us give you a ride."

"No. I'm fine. I have to see you bright and early tomorrow, anyway." Emma pulled up her hood. "Have a good night, boys."

Killian couldn't help watching her as she walked away briskly, bag over her shoulder, head down, disappearing into the throngs of commuters. As the car appeared, he said impulsively, "Maybe we should take the train too. You know. Just for the hell of it."

Liam raised an eyebrow at him. "You're welcome to, if it's really the train that has you so interested. I'll see you at home."

"I – " When Killian glanced back, Emma had vanished into the crowd. "What are you talking about? I don't like her. She's a pain in the arse and I didn't want to be here anyway."

"Uh-huh." Liam opened the car door and slid into the back seat. "Get in, Don Juan."

"I hate you," Killian grumbled, crawling onto the sleek leather after his brother. "If you die during the night and I have to quit finishing school on account of this tragedy, nobody will ever be able to prove it wasn't an accident."

Over the next few weeks, this was more or less how it went. Emma and Killian constantly bickered at each other over the proper place setting practice and pretending to greet her as if she was the Queen (one time he actually took her hand and kissed it lingeringly, which absolutely would have scandalized the real HM) and the way he constantly managed to come out with his bow tie just a little crooked, so she would have to straighten it for him. The cheeky grin he flashed at her every time she did this only increased her irritation. Finally, after one particularly trying afternoon, she burst out, "I'm not spending time with you for the fun of it! I'm being paid, and frankly not enough, to put up with your shit because your father wants you to be a useful member of society! I'm sorry if you have a problem with that, but I didn't choose it either!"

Liam and Killian both blinked at her in shock – not only because of her very un-etiquette-coach-like outburst, but because, as Emma realized after a moment, she had forgotten to use her British accent in the heat of her frustration. Oh, shit. It was Rule Number One that she not sound provincial when exposed to clients, and if word got out that she had, the agency would probably sack her, because that was just how petty this entire little world was. She clapped a hand to her mouth, but the damage was done. Still blinking, Killian said, "You're American?"

"Yes. Actually." Emma folded her arms tightly.

"How'd you end up working here?" There was something different in his voice. Almost genuine interest, and wondering what else he might have mistaken about her.

Emma glanced up at him in surprise, as this wasn't the reaction she'd expected. "It's a long story, all right? But I – can you just not tell the head of course that I did this? It wasn't easy for me to break in here, and if I lose this job, I'll…" She had no idea what. She'd lived in London for almost five years, but just short of the permanent-residency threshold where she could apply for more concrete status, and God knew there was nothing for her back in Boston. "Look. I didn't ask to be here either. I don't know why you're determined to make my life a hassle when I am likewise trying to help you, but I guess that's just how your set does things."

Killian opened and shut his mouth. He actually looked concerned. "I – Emma, I – I've been a prat, I…"

"He's trying to apologize," Liam said, digging his brother industriously in the ribs. "Aren't you, Killian?"

"Uh – yes. Actually, yes, I am." Killian straightened up. "You're just… you're…"

"Not like other girls?" Emma said wearily. "Yeah, I get that line a lot."

"No, you're just… you're so, well, bloody intimidating. You're so smart and you don't take any of my nonsense and I just keep trying because I suppose, well, I'd rather like to see who you really are. Even if it's not the perfect British etiquette coach. I have a feeling the reality is far more interesting."

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Emma gave him that demure, standoffish smile again. This one had some excellent walls, to be sure. Even higher than his own, and built in a different way – while he used his playboy persona to keep the world at arm's length, she didn't even bother with that. Donned this mask, this armor, so thoroughly that she spent every working day pretending to be someone she wasn't, to polish up idiots like him and never let it slip an inch. He suddenly felt quite thoroughly ashamed of himself.

"Aye," he said softly, in answer to her question, maintaining eye contact. "Perhaps I would."

Emma coughed and turned away. He could see her shoulders rattle with a sigh. Then after a moment, she straightened up, turned around, and said in her work voice, "Well then. Shall we continue?"

The next few days were – well, not better, exactly, because that would mean she actually liked having him around now, and she didn't. But he did seem different. Could be genuinely funny, and not just in that flippant, half mean-spirited way that she had so deplored beforehand. Witty, and thoughtful, and even kind. It was definitely overstating things to think that she had anything to do with this – the savior of rich douchebags was not a job title to which she aspired, though it often fit – but there was a definite and permanent change in his behavior around her. He actually listened to what she said, and then did it. He admitted he had been a total berk and wanted to make it up to her. Dinner?

"Look," Emma said. "I don't date clients, all right?"

"I didn't mean dinner dinner. I meant, well. Just as friends." He sounded uncommonly shy. "I just… I haven't had many friends. You can probably tell, can't you?"

"What?" Emma was surprised. "I thought your dad would have bought those for you too."

He winced, and she felt obliquely guilty. "Yeah," he said, purposefully offhand, clearly trying to act as if he didn't care one way or another what she answered. "Not so much."

"You'd make more friends if you were less of an arse," Liam put in helpfully.

Killian scratched his nose with his middle finger fully extended.

"See, that's what I mean. No wonder Emma has such a tall task trying to give you a winning personality."

"I think you're actually making progress," Emma said, in part to make up for her earlier crack about buying friends. "If you want, we can grab some takeaway or something after we're finished. God knows I don't want to spend any more time in a fancy restaurant."

"Takeaway?" He brightened. "Like Nando's?"

"You really don't have much experience with the real world, do you?"

"No." Killian glanced down, then up at her again, with an expression of such hope that she couldn't quite bring herself to stamp on it. "Come on, Swan. You'll get to embarrass me in front of my brother and the entire city. It'll be fun."

She laughed, despite herself. Once you stripped away the brooding and the bad behavior and the daddy issues, forced past the BS and the defense mechanisms (not that that reminded her of anyone) and made him be sincere, it turned out Killian Jones wasn't entirely insufferable after all.

Thus started a little routine: once etiquette lessons and dog-and-pony-show prancing were finished for the day, they would take off their smart clothes, put on hoodies and jeans and trainers, and go out somewhere in the city, somewhere actually normal: parks, cafes, museums, anywhere the sons of a billionaire would just breeze right on by in their Maserati. Sometimes Liam accompanied them, more often (though Emma and Killian would never admit it) they found reasons for him not to. They started to open up to each other, Emma coaxed into revealing bits and pieces of her past and how she'd wound up as a Connecticut (well, Massachusetts) Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Killian regaling her with various outrageous stories from his childhood that usually ended with him getting into a lot of trouble and having to swear never to do it ever again. They were funny, but Emma couldn't help but detect a certain tragic undercurrent in them as well. Sir Brennan might be a great and massively successful businessman and entrepreneur, but he sure as hell sounded like a shit father.

One night, as Killian was walking Emma home, he said abruptly, "I just thought. The – the course is over next week, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Oddly, she'd almost not wanted to think about it, when beforehand she had been counting the days. "Guess you'll be relieved to get away from that place, huh?"

"I… I suppose." He sounded uncharacteristically tentative, scratching behind his ear and glancing away. "You know, it's improved quite a bit recently. Not bad at all."

"I'll put that on our testimonials page. Right next to the ones from Harrod's."

The color of Killian's cheeks was warm enough to see even by the low streetlights. "So. My dad is having a big fundraiser dinner in a fortnight. Time to see what all that training did, I guess. And I don't actually have anyone to go with. Liam's going with Elsa, but…"

It was a hallmark of how much keeping up with the Joneses had become normal to Emma that the fact that "Elsa" actually meant "Crown Princess Elsa of Norway, glamorous, beautiful international philanthropist and socialite" was of no more than passing interest. "Killian," she said softly. "I don't date clients, remember?"

"Just… call it a work engagement, all right? You have to be along to supervise me to make sure I don't do something terrible. I'll pay for everything. The dress, the makeup, the car, whatever. You spend so much time helping everyone else, Emma, and you never get to do it yourself. I'm probably still a twit, and I would understand if you couldn't wait to be shot of me, but after all this hard work… don't you deserve to enjoy it? Just for a night?"

Emma was torn. "Always the bridesmaid, never the bride" definitely described her life, and for the most part, she had gotten used to it. She was just someone who helped the rich and famous become good at being rich and famous, another faceless member of the armies of domestic staff and assistants and underlings and image professionals that these people hired to work for them. Certainly nobody had ever asked her to a major event, as it would be as déclassé as taking the nanny (they usually just had affairs with those and ended up in the newspapers with their wives instigating divorce proceedings). "Are you sure you're not just doing this for shock value?"

He looked hurt. "Nobody knows who you are, do they? And if they did – look, Emma. I don't care if they do."

"I do." Emma looked away. "My entire point as a professional is that I remain cultured and discreet and anonymous. You don't want the person teaching you these things to be someone plastered all over the tabloids herself. I exist precisely so nobody will know that I ever did. If I did my job right, it's all about more attention for you."

"Well." Killian hesitated. "It's not my place to tell you how to live your life, of course. But maybe you could think about a job where you could actually be yourself."

That startled Emma, not least because she had used this job as an excuse for the longest time to push away whatever or whoever she was now, mostly because she was convinced it was terrible. As long as she had this role to disappear into, it made it easier to keep herself safe, hide behind her walls, and never let any part of her tattered soul show. The idea of leaving it was terrifying – but in a way as if she had come up for air after a very long, very deep dive, and was only now remembering what breathing even felt like. She no longer bothered to use her English accent around them in their sessions, or to act "posh" outside the requirements of teaching them what they were supposed to know, and she realized now that she was dreading having to go back to that with her next clients. Like going back into a cage. Like hiding from the sun. Like falling back asleep, and never knowing when she might wake up again.

"Fine," she said after a long moment. "I'll go with you. As your professional supervisor, remember."

Killian's grin nearly spilled off his face. "Strictly business, Swan. Got it."

Emma had never actually done all the spa days and makeup sessions and shopping trips and brides' days and debutante training that were favored by Debrett's female clientele. She wasn't about to start now, in fact. But after the last half-day of their session, Killian told her to come with him for the afternoon, as he was going to take her to (ironically) Harrod's and she was going to buy whatever she liked. Dress, shoes, scarf, handbag, jewelry, perfume, he didn't care; she had an open tab. In the car ride over, Emma kept pressing him for exceptions, or for the firm budget cutoff, but he told her over and over that there wasn't one. Whatever she wanted.

Emma was certainly not about to callously take advantage of his generosity, but it was true that price tags which made her gulp and tell him that she was sure they could find something cheaper were of absolutely no concern to him. It was then that she started to get both how rich the Jones family actually was, and how much this kind of money could turn you into the kind of people she dealt with every day. If she wanted a designer gown that cost (at the low end) £3,000, Killian regarded that as nothing more than pocket change from the cupholder. If she wanted fine jewelry that cost even more, he likewise wouldn't turn a hair. There had never been any major problem in his world that couldn't be solved by handing over the black AmEx. That he and Liam had ended up any kind of functional human beings at all was probably entirely thanks to their own efforts and character. Even if she had, after all, had to give a few prods along the way.

They bought everything, had it packaged, and once he had dropped her off at home, Emma felt as if merely unwrapping the boxes would cause some burglar to come bursting through the window. She reminded herself that this was, after all, business, and if anyone asked why she was there, she could tell them that. At least she had studied this enough that she knew, in the abstract, exactly what to do. She would know everyone there, would have read their biographies in Debrett's 500 Influential People, would certainly address the Essential Peerage correctly. She would employ the correct fork for her peas. She would not, at least, disgrace herself. It would probably be boring. These things seemed like they were.

If only she could get her knees to stop shaking.

If only her heart would stop skipping a beat at the thought of Killian in a tux.

The night arrived, and Emma stood outside her house, waiting to be picked up, wondering if it was too late to change her mind and flee like Cinderella. This was probably a terrible, terrible idea. She wasn't a princess, she didn't even play one on TV. She didn't live this way, and she didn't even particularly want to. Unlimited money might be fun for a while, but for better or worse, there was still more out of life that she wanted than just that. She didn't want to end up like this, not even able to make scrambled eggs on toast for herself, so spoiled and so used to someone else handling it that she lost any sense of who she really was –

She wanted to know who she really was.

She wanted to try again.

When they arrived at the extremely luxe old mansion that Sir Brennan had rented for the night, she stepped out of the car and the cameras flashed, when she saw Killian waiting for her at the top of the steps with an expression on his face that she felt to the back of her spine, an expression she had never seen from anyone, an expression that made tears prick at her perfectly made-up eyes, she couldn't quite tell herself this was strictly business anymore.

The gossip rags would be abuzz tomorrow as to the identity of the beautiful, mysterious blonde belle of the ball on Killian's arm, as she had previously noted that he ran through quite a few of them, but she didn't care. The two of them couldn't take their eyes off each other, were glued at the hip all night long, and when the dancing started, Killian so actively turned down other potential partners as to be almost rude. Emma elbowed him smartly in the ribs; if he was going to have her along under the guise of his etiquette coach, she damn well was not going to have it look as if all her hard work had gone down the drain. This obliged Killian to meekly apologize to the fair damsels he had shunned, under Emma's eagle eye, and then he bounded straight back to her side. "All right, Swan. Can we dance now?"

"Fine," Emma said, amused. "I have to warn you, though. I don't have any practice at this."

"Well then. You'll just have to pick a partner who knows what he's doing." Again that flourishing little bow, which she had found so annoying the first time they met. "My lady, may I have this honor?"

Giggling despite herself, she took his hand, letting him draw her onto the floor and into the stately rhythms of the waltz. It was then and there, for the first time in her life, that Emma didn't feel like an impostor, like someone lurking on the edges of this world and pretending to know about it, never belonging, never revealing anything real about herself, never slowing, always running. She felt – however inherently silly the whole thing might be, however much she wondered why these people lived this way, how they couldn't possibly feel any guilt about having so much while so many had so little – like she was stepping into a fairytale. It still might end when the clock struck midnight, the coach turned back into a pumpkin and the footmen into mice, but for once in her life, she didn't want to go. Didn't want to look for an excuse to flee to whatever, wherever might come next.

Killian was grinning at her almost as if he couldn't stop, and she raised an eyebrow at him. "Watch it," she said, close in his ear. "I think I'm actually getting the hang of this."

"It's not that." He took her hands in hers, and bowed. "What I mean to say is, Your Highness, is that you appear to be a natural."

Emma scoffed slightly at his flattery, but couldn't help but notice that he too had picked up on the fairytale nature of it. "If I'm the princess," she said, "what does that make you?"

Killian spun her up close against him, their eyes locked, their bodies tangled, guiding each other into the music, into the night, into the magic. "I think we've established, my lady," he said, "that I am most assuredly the frog."

"If I kiss you, do you turn into a prince?"

"Do you want to find out?" His tone was teasing, but his eyes held hers seriously. "I've barely recently upgraded from a toad. I might disappoint you."

"It's all right if you're a little scuffed around the edges," Emma said. "I've always liked pirates better, anyway."

At that, his grin returned, full-throated and dazzling. "That, now. That I can most certainly be."

She didn't know exactly where this was going to go, if she followed the invitation that had been so openly laid before her. She didn't know if it would be safe, she didn't even know if it would work. She didn't know anything at all.

Anything, that was, except that she very, very much wanted to try. Not just for him. But for her. To find out. To open up. To take a chance. That now, if nothing else, she could not go back.

She handed in her resignation two days later, and applied to college.

(Three years and a bit later, when Emma had finished her degree in social work and started the licensing to work with foster kids, after Killian had proposed on a trip to Prague, as he was taking her to all the places she had always wanted to see, Debrett's was not invited to plan the wedding.)