I came up with this while rereading The Selection and going through a wave of Disney. I was early in the book and listening to the Belle reprise which works so well with America. I even listened to the 1991 and 2017 versions while typing this fic in the middle of the night.

I knew I'd post this when my other Selection fic became my most read story to date ... but I changed it to when my long-running one-shot compilation came to an end.

Disclaimer - I don't own any of those.

I hope you enjoy :)


America's Reprise:

America lost track of time ever since her name was chosen. It's likely only been a few days, a week at most, but her mind and body didn't process it. It felt like she was on autopilot, being told what to do and where to go. Every action she did was because someone told her. You have to sit here. You have to wave. You have to wear this, eat this, smile. Smile! It didn't help that she was now considered as property of the royal family. Even if she's chosen to be the next queen, she'll still be someone's item. Prince Maxon's wife, Illéa's queen, future mother of the next heir.

Now that she was alone with nobody, not even her maids around, she finally feels like she has time to think.

Can she imagine?

America didn't think she'd be here. She signed up after being pressured and convinced, thinking it was a long shot and wanting some extra work money, but here she is now: standing in a room where the mere square foot she's standing in is more valuable than her family's property back in Carolina.

Was this the right choice? If she doesn't belong now, will she ever? Even if she made it all the way, would she feel at home?

A part of her wanted a life out of Carolina, but was Angeles the place she wanted? Would she be willing to live a life she never wanted? Would her family have to change? She knows they already have to - they had to ever since her name was called. Forget all eyes and ears on her, they were her life as well. The life before The Selection. But her family wanted her here more than she wanted to be here so maybe they want the new drastic life change. Money aside, they want something new and something better … almost as much as she does.

Was the rest of The Selection going to be like this?

America needed to sit down or else she would pass out from mental suffocation.

She takes a seat at her vanity, readjusting herself to the chair's cushion. It was softer and comfier than she expected. America looks at her reflection in the gold-trimmed mirror. She sees herself but doesn't at the same time. It's her: pale skin, blue eyes, red hair. It's not: bright and exfoliated skin, glowing eyes, layered hair. It's like The Selection changed her but ever so slightly.

They kept the Carolina girl but are slowly transforming her into a potential queen.

Can she imagine?

"America Singer," America states, looking at herself dead in the eyes. Sounded right. That's who she is.

"Lady America." Acceptable. Polite. Formal.

"Princess America," she says, raising a brow as if she's looking for a difference. It didn't sound so odd. People in the airports would chant that when she met them. "Princess America."

"Princess Schreave." This one wasn't so bad. It didn't have to be her. Any of the ladies today could one day be, "Princess Schreave."

"Princess America Schreave." Her name sounded strange in this one. Can she imagine being a princess and a Schreave? If anything, her name was the off variable in that sentence. "Princess America Schreave."

"Queen America." Similar to the Princess one. It sounds nice and people have been calling her that. She still finds it weird yet exhilarating that people who didn't even know her or were aware of her existence before The Selection were in love with her. Must make for good practice as their possible future monarch. "Queen America."

"Queen Schreave." Again, didn't have to be her. It could any of the other ladies in the neighbouring rooms. "Queen Schreave."

"Queen America Schreave…" Those words had more difficulty leaving her mouth, sending chills down her spine on their way out. Admittedly, she did need a moment after saying that.

America stares into her blue eyes. That was the big title, the end of the road, the final step at the altar. That was the light at the end of the tunnel called The Selection. That's why she was here, eating their food and wearing their clothes. It's an impactful, powerful, heavy weight on her shoulder for three words, one of which was her name.

"Queen. America. Schreave."

Her name, America, sandwiched between a title and a name she would take if she makes it to the top. Advisors who came to prep her for The Selection told her that she would now be royal property and now she gets it. At the end of the day, if she's chosen, she'll be the queen of the country and Prince Maxon's wife, now belonging to the two of them. More than just herself.

Can she imagine?

"Queen America Schreave…"

Out of context, she sounds like an admirer. A clueless eavesdropper could mistake her for a young maiden longing for Prince Maxon Schreave from afar, scribbling her name - those names and titles - in page upon page of paper with swirling cursive, dotting all the i's with hearts. She's heard the fairytales that Queen Amberly did the same when she was a young woman before a Selected and then Chosen.

"Queen…"

America's voice drifts, feeling her lungs constrict within her chest. She gets up, needing air. Forget opening a window, she opens the balcony doors and runs out, gusts of wind blowing against her, supplying her body with the oxygen it needs. She stops at the edge, resting her hands on the stone fencing, looking below towards the gardens. From here, she can see parts of the country she never thought she'd see. Queen America Schreave's view. Even if she leaves the palace as an unwed woman, she could never remove that picture from her mind.

How did she let this happen? Would she ever get back any of her old life? Even a single piece? She could never be just America Singer again. Can she imagine? It's all she'd be able to do since it can't be her reality.

Can she imagine? Can she imagine him asking her to marry him? Her? The wife of that snobbish, materialistic man… Future Queen America Schreave, Future King's Maxon Schreave's little wife. No sir, not her. She guarantees it.

America straightens her back, putting her hands on her hips. She heads back inside her room, closing the door behind her. America walks past the vanity and stops, turning to face her reflection. She doesn't take a seat but stands behind the chair.

Instead of talking to herself, saying the names of people she is or could be, she smiles.

America smiles because they make her. Smiles are pretty. Women who smile are happy, kind, approachable. The people and maybe even Prince Maxon want a queen who smiles. Queen America Schreave would definitely smile! But America smiles because it's a symbol of her strength. It's not up to Prince Maxon or the fancy ballgowns to make her happy. She can do that all on her own.

All the women she was in the past are happy for the woman she is now.

All the women she was, is, and could be would smile.


Best near-two hours of my life typing this.

If anyone is coming from Photos on the Wall, I love and appreciate it.

Thank you to everyone who read this story! Please let me know what you thought! If you have a story idea that you want me to write or a story that you want me to beta, don't be scared to ask me!

~ MysteryGal5