The Privilege

“Are you being racist right now? You see a gypsy, and your first instinct is to make a spectacle of me?”

Fifty folded his arms. His expression wasn’t amused—it was stone.

“This isn’t funny. Who is this guy, Victor?”

“Well…” Victor scratched the back of his neck, “he’s… sort of my boss.”

“Mr. Mirga,” Marshall interjected, leaning forward with the forced politeness of a man stepping on a minefield, “I assure you—I’m not a racist. This project is designed to showcase your culture to the world, to celebrate your people. We want to subvert stereotypes and show that we’re all human in the end.”

“And yet the first thing you say to me is that I should chase the title of Gypsy King. Like it’s common knowledge. What even is a Gypsy King?”

Marshall turned sharply to Victor, his glare a thousand corporate memos deep.

“You told me every Roma dreams of becoming Gypsy King! That it’s a thing! A legend! A... generational aspiration!”

“I mean… it is for some people,” Victor mumbled. “But Fifty’s kind of... different.”

“I didn’t grow up around other Romani kids,” Fifty added flatly. “I was the only one in my class from kindergarten to graduation. If there was a secret society for future gypsy kings, I missed the mailing list.”

Marshall let out a long, deflating sigh. He looked like a man watching a horse he bet his life savings on suddenly remember it’s a goat.

Meanwhile, Stella kept glancing nervously out the cabin window, scanning the fairground below.

“Yeah, okay, this is touching and all,” she said, “but I still need help. Like, now.”

“I saw two guys in suits chasing you,” Fifty said. “Are you… someone important? Or, uh… a criminal?”

“Well, technically,” she smiled forcibly, “you’re not wrong. I’m about seventy percent somebody important, and—according to my dad—thirty percent a criminal.”

Everyone in the cabin blinked.

“Those black suits? They’re my family’s bodyguards. Daddy hired them after I started rebelling in high school. Still thinks he can micromanage my life even in my twenties like it's a group project.”

“What’s your name?” Marshall asked, adjusting his collar like he was suddenly in an audition.

“Stella. Stella Kralova. But don’t get excited—I’m way out of your age range, grandpa.”

“Kralova?!” Marshall shot up, forgetting the ceiling of the Ferris wheel was right there.

Thud.

He hit it hard and sat back down, dazed, holding his forehead.

“Great,” Stella muttered. “Another one who’s obsessed with my dad’s name.”

“Kralova!” Marshall wheezed, barely hiding his excitement. “It’s a sign from heavens!”

Fifty groaned. “First fortune-tellers, now celestial energy?”

“Kralova,” Marshall said reverently, “means ‘of the king’ in the ancient tongue! It’s fate. Destiny. Cosmic alignment.”

He snapped his fingers with the energy of a man who just discovered fire.

“You, young lady, are going to be the prize for our Gypsy King!”

The cabin went completely silent.

“Hey!” Victor sputtered. “You can’t just—decide people’s lives like—!”

“No, no. Let the grandpa cook,” Stella cut in, her eyes gleaming.

Marshall straightened his blazer like a man preparing to win an award.

“The concept is simple: the contestant who earns the title of Gypsy King will be promised your hand in marriage! A union of cultures! Romance! Representation! The media will eat it up!”

“Bit extreme…” Stella mused, tapping her chin. Then her mouth twisted into a wicked grin. “But honestly? I can’t think of anything that would piss off my father more.”

“You won’t regret this!” Marshall beamed.

“Hold on,” she said, raising a finger. “What’s in it for me?”

“Well…”

“Let me be clear,” Stella interrupted. “I don’t need fame, I need freedom. Some kind of adventure—far away from my prison of a home and the shackles that call themselves ‘dad.’ I don’t plan on being homeless, so…”

“Say no more,” Marshall clapped his hands. “You’ll have a place. I’ll make sure you never have to go back!”

“Deal, grandpa.”

Marshall sparkled like he’d just won an Emmy.

“And how about you, Fifty?” Victor asked, turning hopefully.

“I’m sorry,” Fifty replied, standing up like he was about to deliver a monologue, “but you’ll have to find some other sheep.”

He promptly hit his head on the low ceiling of the Ferris wheel cabin.

“…Ow.”

The ride wasn’t over yet, so he stood there awkwardly—too tall to sit again, too proud to crouch, and far too ashamed to make eye contact with anyone.

A couple of minutes later, the cabin finally landed. He stepped out wordlessly and started walking back toward the booth.

Evening was settling over the fair like a warm scarf. But in the distance, a familiar pulse of music rose through the noise—bold, lively, undeniably Romani.

Fifty slowed down.

The voice that carried through the crowd hooked into his ribs like a smell from childhood—something primal and spiced.

The crowd was too dense to see the stage clearly. But that voice? He knew it.

“It’s Fredi Jackson,” a soft voice said to his left.

He turned. Stella stood beside him, masked again, eyes closed as if listening was a sacred act.

“She’s right,” came another voice—this time from his right. Victor. “That voice is beyond this world. You can’t mistake it.”

“What are you two doing here?” Fifty asked flatly, already bracing for more nonsense.

“Just enjoying the atmosphere of the Shintawa Fair,” Stella replied, swaying gently to the music. “Romani music really is the best.”

“I lied,” Victor blurted. “To the producer. About everything.”

Fifty raised a brow.

“There’s no real Gypsy King title. No tradition. No national legend. I made it all up just to save my job. I said every Romani kid dreams of the crown, that Stella was Romani, that—” He sighed. “I was just desperate. That’s the whole truth.”

“My legs are killing me…” Fifty groaned. “I should’ve gone back to the booth ten minutes ago. Could’ve avoided this therapy circle.”

“You’ve always been like this,” Victor said, eyes still on the stage. “But I liked that about you. Honest to a fault. Most of our classmates couldn’t stand it, but not me.”

“Since I was always locked up and monitored,” Stella added quietly, “I had nothing but time. My father would say awful things—how he wished he lived in a country without so many gypsies.” She looked at Fifty. “So I rebelled. I started reading about Romani culture to piss him off. Then I fell in love with it.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

“The Gypsy King…” Victor said slowly. “It’s just a thing people talk about. There’s no coronation, no official title. And yet…”

“And yet everyone in Velgravia knows Fredi Jackson is the true Gypsy King,” Stella finished. “No one knows how it started, or why it’s him. But every Romani alive respects him.”

Fifty said nothing. He stared at the crowd, shoulders slouched, face unreadable.

All he could think about… was how badly he needed to sit down.

Stella gently took Fifty’s left hand, her eyes locking onto his with unshakable sincerity.

“Please. Let me taste real freedom—for once in my life. Let this stupid reality show take off.”

Victor, not to be outdone, awkwardly grabbed Fifty’s right hand. Now it looked like some tragic friendship-themed Renaissance painting.

“Please,” he said. “Let me keep my job. If this flops, I’m finished.”

Fifty looked from one hand to the other.

“Seriously, what do you two even want from me?”

His gaze turned to Stella.

“I’ve known you for, what—thirty minutes? I don’t care about your family drama or your rich-girl prison.”

Then to Victor.

“And you? I haven’t seen you in years. Why do you think you can emotionally blackmail me like we’re still ten? We were best friends. Past tense. We’re adults now. I’m not obligated to help either of you.”

As harsh as it sounded, Fifty was just telling the truth.

Stella’s eyes lowered. Victor stepped back, hands in his pockets.

“Right… I get it,” he said quietly. “I won’t force you.”

“Well… technically, you’re right,” Stella added, a weak smile curling at her lips. “But this feels like one of those rom-com fate moments, so I’m still intrigued.”

“Sorry,” Fifty said. “Still not doing it.”

He crossed his arms.

“As long as Fredi Jackson’s alive, no one else should be calling themselves the Gypsy King. I might not care much about my blood, but I respect the guy. That voice brings people joy. That title belongs to him. This show should just get canceled.”

That was that.

Stella and Victor both stood in silence. They understood he meant it.

But then—after a pause—Fifty’s eyes narrowed toward the stage. He tilted his head.

“But… look at that chair he’s sitting on.”

“Chair?” Stella blinked.

“What?” Victor echoed.

“That throne,” Fifty clarified, pointing at the stage. “Fredi’s just chilling on that thing. Singing like a god. Sitting like a king. During his own concert. It’s so unfair. I’ve been standing all day. My legs feel like someone cursed them in a folk tale.”

Stella and Victor exchanged glances. A flicker of hope danced between them.

He was close.

They said nothing. They waited.

Just one sentence. That’s all they needed.

Fifty inhaled.

“If the Gypsy King gets to sit down whenever he wants... then I want that title. I need it! I have the right to sit, damn it!”

Victor practically levitated.

“So—so you’ll do the show?” he asked, trying not to sound like a man clinging to a burning career.

Fifty sighed, shaking his head with theatrical exhaustion.

“I hate being this on the nose... but if I have to do something this ridiculous... then it better be epic!”

Chapter 2: END