America lives in the beautiful country of Illea, where everyone is born into castes, numbers defining your wealth and job. America is a five, and all she wants to do is marry Aspen, a six. But when she enters the selection, a competition for Prince Maxon's hand in marriage, suddenly she finds herself in a position that she never expected. The stakes are high, and despite America's beliefs, Prince Maxon may just be someone worth fighting for.

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America lives in the Country of Illea, the former United States. Everyone is born and seperated into castes, defining your job, living condition, and money. America is a five who is deeply in love with Aspen, a six. But when he breaks it off with her because of the caste difference, she is devastated. So when she is chosen for the selection, a competition against 34 other girls to be the wife of the gorgeous Prince Maxon, she thinks of it as a fresh start. America never expected to get far, but Prince Maxon turns out to be something more than the pig she thought he was. And soon America discovers that something more is at stake than the heart of the Prince. Something dangerous. Something deadly.

"To the back of the room, ladies!” King Clarkson yelled, and ran over to a window.
Girls, confused but not wanting to disobey, slowly moved toward the head table. The king was pulling down a shade, but it wasn’t the typical light-filtering kind. It was metal and squealed into place. Beside him Maxon came and drew down another. And beside Maxon the lovely and delicate queen was racing to pull down the next.
That was when the wave of guards made it into the dining hall. I saw a number of them lining up outside the room just before the monstrous doors were closed, bolted, and secured with bars.
“They’re inside the walls, Majesty, but we’re holding them back. The ladies should leave, but we’re so close to the door—”
“Understood, Markson,” the king replied, cutting off the sentence.
It didn’t take more than that for me to comprehend. There were rebels inside the grounds.
I’d figured it would come. This many guests in the palace, so many preparations going on. Surely someone would miss something somewhere and let our safety slip. And even if there were no easy way in, this would be an excellent time to mount a protest. At its barest of bones, the Selection was kind of disturbing. I was sure the rebels hated it along with everything else about Illéa.
But whatever their opinion, I wasn’t going down quietly.

34 down to six. The stakes are higher than ever for America. With two persuers set on winning her over, she must step carefully, because one wrong move could result in consequences. And America can't afford to lose this competition.

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America has made it into the top six, and she is now an Elite. America struggles with her relationship with Prince Maxon when an old flare, Aspen, becomes a guard at the palace. Suddenly castes are no longer an issue, him now being a two. But what about Prince Maxon? Despite her intentions she developed feelings for him. His affections for her are well known as well. And that's not the only thing. The rebels are looking for something..something that may just change America's outlook on Illea..

"And to inflict upon you the shame and pain you have brought on His Majesty, you will be publicly caned with fifteen strikes. May your scars remind you of your many sins!”
Caned? What did that even mean?
My answer came a second later. The two masked men who had bound Alex and Chloe pulled long rods out of a bucket of water. They swiped them in the air a few times, testing them out, and I could hear the sticks whistling as they cut at the air. The crowd applauded this warm-up with the same frenzy and adoration they had just given the Selected.
In a few seconds, Alex’s backside would be humiliatingly struck, and Chloe’s precious hands …
“No!” I cried. “No!”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Natalia whispered as Emily made a weak moan into her guard’s shoulder. But nothing stopped.
I stood up and lunged toward Maxon’s seat, falling over my father’s lap.
“Maxon! Maxon, stop this!”
“You have to sit down, miss,” my guard said, trying to wrangle me back into my chair.
“Maxon, I beg you, please!”
“It’s not safe, miss!”
“Get off me!” I yelled at my guard, kicking him as hard as I could. Try as I may, he held on tight.
“America, please sit down!” my mother urged.
“One!” cried the man on the stage, and I saw the cane fall on Chloe’s hands.
She let out the most pathetic whimper, like a dog that had been kicked. Alex made no sound.
“Maxon! Maxon!” I yelled. “Stop it! Stop it, please!”
He heard me; I knew he did. I saw him slowly close his eyes and swallow one time, as if he could push the sound out of his head.
“Two!”
Chloe’s cry was pure anguish. I couldn’t imagine her pain—and there were still thirteen more strikes to go.
“America, sit!” Mom insisted. May was between her and Dad, her face averted, her cries almost as pained as Chloe's.
“Three!”
I looked at Chloe’s parents. Her mother buried her head in her hands, her father’s arms wrapped around her, as if he could protect her from everything they were losing in that moment.
“Let me go!” I yelled at my guard to no avail. “MAXON!” I screamed. My tears were blurring my vision, but I could see him enough to know he’d heard me.
I looked at the other girls. Shouldn’t we do something? Some appeared to be crying, too. Emily was bent over, a palm pressed to her forehead, looking as if she might pass out. No one seemed angry though. Shouldn’t they be?
“Five!”
The sound of Chloe’s shrieks would haunt me for the rest of my life. I’d never heard anything like it. Or the sickening echo of the crowd cheering it on, as if this was merely entertainment. Or Maxon’s silence, allowing this to happen. Or the crying of the girls around me, accepting it.
“Six!”
I couldn’t handle this. I tried to claw at my guard, but his thick sleeves protected him. I shrieked as he gripped me tighter.
“Get your hands off my daughter!” Dad yelled, pulling the guard’s arms. With that space, I wiggled myself until I was facing him and thrust my knee up as hard as I could.
He let out a muffled cry and fell back, my dad catching him on the way down.
I hopped over the railing, clumsy in my dress and heeled shoes. “Chloe! Chloe!” I screamed, running as quickly as I could. I almost got to the steps; but two guards caught up with me, and that was a fight I couldn’t win.
From the angle behind the stage, I saw that they’d exposed Alex’s backside, and his skin was already torn, pieces hanging sickeningly. Blood was trickling down, ruining what used to be his dress pants. I couldn’t imagine the state of Chloe’s hands.
The thought sent me into an even deeper hysteria. I screamed and kicked at the guards, but all that accomplished was the loss of one of my shoes.
I was dragged inside as the man cried out for the next strike, and I didn’t know whether to be grateful or ashamed. On the one hand, I didn’t have to see it all; on the other, I felt like I’d abandoned Chloe in the worst possible moment of her life.
If I had been a true friend, wouldn’t I have done better than that?
“Chloe!” I screamed. “Chloe, I’m sorry!” But the crowd was so frenzied, and she was crying so much, I didn’t think she heard me.