The mansion was unusually quiet for a Sunday.

Clarice and Jennie had taken off early in the morning, buzzing with the kind of excitement that only rumors of a "hidden mall" in a nearby village could spark. I hadn't felt like going. Not because I didn't like shopping—I just wasn't in the mood to search for something I didn't really need.

Instead, I threw on an old hoodie, tied my hair back in a lazy bun, and wandered out into the grounds with no direction in mind. There was something healing about the countryside when it was still. The kind of silence that didn't ask for anything.

And that's when I saw her.

Under one of the massive oak trees near the west slope of the garden, sitting cross-legged with a hardcover book nearly pressed to her face—Amelia.

She didn't look like a princess right then. She looked like a girl who was trying really hard to escape into words.

I walked over.

"Hey," I said softly, not wanting to startle her.

She looked up, then lit up. "Amy! Oh my God, what are you doing here?"

"Technically, this is also my house. Sort of. A weird half-guest situation."

She laughed. "Fair enough. Sit, sit!"

I dropped down onto the grass beside her, stretching my legs out. "What are you reading?"

She lifted the cover. The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir.

"Oh," I said, eyebrows raised. "We're not pulling any punches today."

Amelia grinned. "It's homework for being a girl."

I snorted. "I thought we were born with that homework."

"Exactly why I need cheat codes," she said. Then her expression turned mischievous. "Okay. You're officially here. We're officially hanging out. So, two things. First—you have to call me Millie. Only the royals call me Amelia, and it makes me feel like I'm in trouble."

"Deal. Millie."

"Second—let's do something fun. Like... talk about boys. Or crushes. Or our futures. Who do you want to marry? What do you want to be?"

I laughed. "Okay, well... I'm twenty, so I've already kind of started doing the whole 'what do I want to be' thing."

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was warm. "Ugh, fine. Be all grown-up. In that case, I'll go."

She cleared her throat theatrically and tossed the book into her lap.

"I have absolutely no idea what I want to do," she said flatly.

I blinked, surprised. She was always so composed, always ready with a smart remark or a clever retort.

"No idea at all?"

"I mean... people say I should marry well. That I should be pretty. That I should behave. That I should be a symbol. But that's not a job. That's just... existing for other people."

I didn't say anything. She wasn't finished.

"Edmund and Maxwell—they're under pressure too. But they're allowed to be brave and quiet and stern and powerful. They can go to war and come back with scars and be admired for it. But me?" She paused, a bitter edge sneaking into her voice. "I'm supposed to look like I never had a real thought in my life. I'm supposed to smile through parades and not complain even when I get those cramps that feel like something inside me is trying to break out with a pickaxe."

"Jesus," I whispered.

She nodded. "And I still have to wear heels and sit with my knees at the perfect angle and smile like I'm not seconds from fainting. Because princesses don't get sick. Or angry. Or ugly. Or loud."

She stared down at the book again.

"I don't want to be a porcelain doll, Amy."

My throat tightened. I reached over and gently nudged her shoulder. "You're not."

She looked at me, eyes wide.

"I know what it's like," I said, voice lower now. "To try to fit into something that was never designed for you. To be told you're too much, or not enough, or wrong for simply being. I'm not a princess. But I am a woman. And being a woman in this world? It's already a full-time job."

Millie stayed quiet, soaking in every word.

"And here's the thing," I continued. "You can try to follow the rules, walk the line, wear the right thing, say the right thing... and they'll still find something to hate. Too loud, too quiet. Too soft, too strong. You can't win. So, screw it."

Millie blinked. "Screw it?"

I smiled. "Yeah. Screw it. You be you. Because no one else is gonna do it for you. And if someone has a problem with it? That's their problem. Not yours."

She looked stunned for a second. And then she smiled—really smiled, like it cracked something heavy on her chest.

"You should be my royal advisor," she said.

"Not a chance."

We both laughed, and for a second, we weren't princess and commoner, mentor and mentee, royal and guest.

Just two girls under a tree, trying to figure out the world that expected too much from them.

And maybe, just maybe, we weren't alone in that anymore.

Millie plucked a small blade of grass and twirled it between her fingers. "You know what else sucks?"

I gave her a sideways glance. "We talking philosophical sucks or superficial sucks?"

"Makeup," she said, groaning like she'd been waiting to say it for years. "Like, real makeup. You ever seen the kind those influencers wear? The glossy lids, the contouring, the fake lashes that make their eyes look like actual doll eyes?"

I laughed. "The Kardashian Effect?"

"Exactly!" she threw her arms up. "I see it everywhere. And then I look in the mirror and I'm like—'Cool. Barely-there royal blush and mascara. Very chic. Very boring.'"

"Why don't you wear more?"

She looked at me like I'd asked her why she didn't have a third arm. "Because I'm not allowed to. Not officially. I am only 16. Too much makeup makes a princess look 'inappropriate.' 'Too old.' 'Trying too hard.' I mean—I literally have a person who tells me how pink is too pink."

"Oh."

"Also," she added, fiddling with the edge of her book, "I wouldn't even know how. I tried eyeliner once and looked like I was getting ready for war."

I snorted. "Honestly? That is the vibe."

She glanced at me with a hopeful kind of smirk. "You ever done real makeup? Like, fun makeup?"

"Millie," I said with a grin. "I used to be the girl in high school who showed up at 7 a.m. with a full glam face."

"No way."

"Way," I nodded. "Liquid eyeliner, baked highlight, overlined lips. I could give you a smokey eye in my sleep. I stopped doing it a couple years ago, but I still got the hands."

Millie's eyes went wide like I'd just offered her a passport out of princess jail. "Wait—so if I asked you to do my makeup one day—like, full Instagram-level—"

"Then I'd absolutely do it," I said. "Pick a day."

"Can I ask for anything?"

"You can ask for anything. Glitter, wings, contour so sharp it cuts your enemies. I got you."

She clapped her hands together. "This is the best day of my life."

I grinned. "Low bar."

Millie flopped back against the grass dramatically. "I mean it. Everyone wants me to act older, to be composed, refined, poised. But for once—I want to be loud and messy and too much. Just... once."

"You're allowed to want that."

"I don't feel like I am," she whispered. "But I want to."

We sat in silence for a moment, the sun shifting above us, the tree casting shade like a curtain around our little bubble.

"So," I asked after a moment, "besides rebellious makeup dreams and gender politics—what are you reading these days? Got a favorite?"

She sat back up. "Honestly? I love fantasy. And poetry. I keep hiding a copy of The Cruel Prince under my bed. That one? Chef's kiss."

I laughed. "Of course you'd love a book about dark royal court politics."

"I feel seen."

We both giggled, and I leaned back on my hands. "I'm a sucker for messy contemporary stuff. Heartbreak, healing, the whole emotional rollercoaster. Bonus points if someone owns a cat."

"Wait. So you're, like, an actual romantic?"

"I'm, like, a closeted romantic," I admitted. "Don't tell anyone. I'll deny everything."

"Your secret's safe with me." Millie smiled, and it was softer now—genuine in a way that made my heart warm a little.

And then—

"Amelia!"

We both froze.

That voice was sharp, deep, commanding. The kind of voice that pulled you to attention whether you liked it or not.

Millie looked up, already rolling her eyes. "Great. General Buzzkill is here."

I turned and spotted him near the edge of the tree line—Maxwell, in his usual storm-colored jacket, one hand shoved in his pocket like he owned the lawn. His brow was furrowed, but the moment he saw me, something flickered in his expression. He didn't hide it fast enough.

Millie leaned close to me and whispered, "You should see how many girls pretend to faint when he walks into a ballroom."

I grinned. "What, you don't?"

"I'm immune. Blood relation and all." She sat up straighter and called back, "Yes, Maxwell?"

"You've been gone for over an hour. You didn't tell anyone where you were."

"I'm sitting under a tree, not eloping with a duke."

His jaw tightened. "You're not supposed to wander off alone."

Millie huffed and muttered, "I'm literally never alone when Amy's here."

Maxwell's gaze shifted to me again. This time, he didn't look away. And I didn't either.

Maybe it was the sun. Maybe it was the fact that I wasn't wearing anything but old jeans and a hoodie. But his eyes... lingered.

"Well," Millie whispered beside me, "this just got interesting."

I fought a smirk. Because she wasn't wrong.

Not wrong at all.

We stood near the garden gate, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the manicured lawns. Maxwell's eyes locked onto me with that familiar mix of suspicion and irritation.

"So..." he began, voice low but sharp, "what exactly is it with you and my sister? Is this some kind of new hobby or something? Because I swear, you're everywhere she is."

I cocked my head, smirking. "Everywhere? That sounds like a complaint. Should I be offended?"

He took a slow step forward, crossing his arms. "Maybe I should be. You pop up like some kind of bad penny. It's like you've got a GPS tracker on Amelia's ankle or something."

Before I could fire back, Millie threw her head back and laughed, the sound light and genuine. "Oh my god, this has to be my favorite show right now. You two getting all worked up — it's like watching a soap opera. Seriously, you're so funny when you're like this."

Maxwell rolled his eyes, but the hint of a smile betrayed him. "Glad my torment is entertaining."

I crossed my arms, leaning slightly on the gatepost. "Well, I am pretty good entertainment. But hey, I don't mind being 'everywhere' if it means spending time with someone as fun as your sister."

Maxwell rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, yeah. It's getting late. Dinner will be served in about an hour, so you need to change."

I blinked. "Change? Why? For dinner?"

Millie gave a dramatic sigh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "We have to change for the start of every meal. It's a rule."

I burst out laughing. "That's so stupid."

Maxwell's tone turned mock serious. "It's the rules. Millie needs to understand them—and you can't be the one to lead her down the wrong path."

My smile faltered. "Wait, what does that even mean? 'Lead her down the wrong path'?"

He gave me a pointed look. "I know you would. That's just how you are."

My temper flared. "How do you know that? You don't even know me"

He shrugged, amused. "You don't need to be a genius to see it."

I took a step forward, crossing my arms. "You talk like you know me from somewhere. What, did we grow up together in some alternate universe?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Maybe I just know."

Millie laughed again, shaking her head. "Okay, enough fighting. You two could bicker all day."

And that's quite true, I believe