The door swung open, and Maxwell stood there, looking like he'd walked into a crime scene. His eyes darted between us and the TV.

"What the hell is going on here?" he barked, his voice sharp and tense. His jaw clenched, and I could see the storm brewing behind his eyes. He looked like he was about to flip.

Amelia quickly stepped in front of him and shoved him gently but firmly back toward the door. "Maxwell, calm down," she said, closing the door behind him and locking it with a soft click.

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Calm down? How the hell am I supposed to calm down? Emilia, what's going on? Why is Amy in this part of the wing? She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be in the royal quarters!"

Amelia shrugged nonchalantly, leaning against the door. "Nobody's here. It's just us."

Maxwell scoffed. "Well, I'm here. Doesn't that count?"

I bit my lip, deciding to speak up. "Shouldn't you be at the party? Aren't the royals supposed to be there tonight?"

Maxwell's face darkened. "No, I can't go because of those damn rumors." He spat the word "rumors" like it was poison. "The tabloids have been painting me as some reckless party animal. I'm banned from attending."

Amelia nodded. "Everything's fine. Amy's just staying over in my room tonight. It's safer that way."

Maxwell's eyes narrowed. "No way."

I folded my arms, raising an eyebrow. "Why? What's the problem?"

Then Maxwell's gaze shifted to Amelia's face — and stopped dead.

He blinked, stunned for a moment, then his eyes narrowed sharply. "Why the hell are you wearing full glam makeup?" His voice had turned low and fierce.

Amelia grinned mischievously, clearly loving the reaction.

Maxwell whipped his glare toward me. "And you! How are you letting her do this? This isn't some joke."

I lifted my chin defiantly. "She wanted to try it and I'm good at makeup.You don't get to dictate what Amelia does just because she's a royal."

Maxwell's face twisted with frustration, his voice rising. "Makeup? Really, Amelia? And Amy, you're just leading her down the wrong path! I don't want my sister turning into some... some showpiece! Not like those girls. Not like you."

The words hit me like a slap. I clenched my fists, feeling the heat rise in my chest. "Do you even know what you're talking about? You act like you know me, like you know what I'm about to do or who I am."

He stepped closer, his eyes fierce. "I do know you."

Before I could respond, Amelia's voice cut through sharply, "You don't get what it's like to be a princess, much less a woman. Amy isn't leading me anywhere bad — she's the first person who's actually respected my choices, helped me figure out who I want to be, supported me instead of trying to control me."

Maxwell's jaw tightened, but Amelia wasn't done. "You don't see the pressure we're under — poise, perfection, pretending to be porcelain dolls just so people can parade us around and judge us. Amy's doing something kind. Something real. And you can't even appreciate that."

I nodded firmly. "She's right. You don't know what it's like — not really. But I know how damn difficult it is to be a woman, everywhere. And if I can give Amelia even a little space to be herself, to explore, then maybe that's exactly what she needs."

Maxwell's eyes softened for a moment, but the tension still lingered. He looked at Amelia and then back at me, as if weighing something invisible between us.

Then, finally, he exhaled sharply, the fight draining out of him. "Fine. But don't expect me to stop watching out for you."

Amelia grinned. "Wouldn't have it any other way, big brother."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and smiled.

Amelia plopped back onto the bed with a dramatic groan, flinging a pillow at the door Maxwell had just stormed out of. "Ugh, ignore him," she muttered, grabbing another piece of chocolate and tossing it into her mouth. "He's been like that ever since he came back from boarding school. All angry and broody and impossible. He wasn't always this way, you know."

I raised an eyebrow, still fuming a little. "Seriously? Because the guy acts like he was born annoyed."

Amelia nodded, reaching for the popcorn between us. "He used to be chill. Fun, even. But then something happened while he was away — none of us know what — and now he walks around like the world owes him answers. He just gets so... overprotective. Especially with me."

I sighed, crossing my legs on the bed and leaning against the plush headboard. "Still doesn't give him the right to talk to me like that. He acts like he knows me — like he has me all figured out. It's exhausting."

Amelia nudged me gently with her elbow. "Forget him. Seriously. Tonight is not about my angsty brother. It's PJ party time, and I demand full escapism."

I smiled, letting the frustration melt a little as Amelia flicked the remote and pulled up a show she'd apparently never seen but had heard everyone talk about: The Summer I Turned Pretty.

Within ten minutes, she was sitting up, eyes glued to the screen, gripping a pillow to her chest. "Oh my god. Jeremiah is so cute! Wait — wait — why is Belly even looking at Conrad? Jeremiah is RIGHT THERE!"

I laughed, stuffing a handful of popcorn into my mouth. "I mean, I used to be Team Conrad. He had the whole mysterious thing going on."

Amelia stared at me like I just told her I supported tax fraud. "Amy. Seriously."

"But now?" I said with a grin, "Now I'm just Team STAYLOR. Unproblematic, adorable, supportive... perfect."

"Staylor?" she blinked. "Wait — as in Stacy and Taylor? The background couple?"

I nodded. "Exactly. They mind their business, are always smiling, and probably go to bed at a reasonable hour without drama. It's the dream."

Amelia laughed so hard she choked on a gummy bear. "God, I love you. Team Staylor. That's genius." Then she squinted. "So... if you're into the sweet and stable type now, what does that say about Frederick?"

I immediately gave her a look. "Nope. We are not bringing Frederick into this."

"But he is the complete opposite of unproblematic and stable—"

"Amelia," I warned, tossing a popcorn kernel at her.

She ducked and laughed. "Okay, okay! Moving on."

She scrolled through the streaming list again. "Okay, we need something legendary now. Something with singing, dancing, ABBA—oh! Mamma Mia! Alyssa and Nate would be so happy to know I am presenting you to this movie"

"Who are they?"

"My crazy friends"

"They seem cool!"

"That's one word for it"

"I want to meet them"

My heart warmed at the mention of my best friends. "Maybe one day."

So, we curled up again, the glow of the TV lighting the room, faces masked with highlighter and glitter, snacks scattered across Amelia's ridiculously princess-like bed. She sang along to every chorus, very off-key, and we laughed until our stomachs hurt.

Maxwell's anger, Frederick's teasing, the gossip in the halls... it all faded into the background. Just for tonight, we were girls at a sleepover, not caught between crowns and expectations. Just Amy and Millie, besties for the night, belting out Dancing Queen at the top of our lungs.

When the movie ended our bellies were growling so we thought about PIZZA.

The marble floors of the royal kitchen were already dusted with a fine layer of flour by the time Millie and I descended from her room in our ridiculous matching pajamas — mine said "Sleep Over Squad" in glitter letters, hers had cartoon crowns all over them.

The kitchen was empty, miraculously. No guards, no stiff butlers, not even a nosy maid. Just stainless-steel counters, endless cupboards, and enough shiny equipment to make Gordon Ramsay weep tears of joy.

"Okay," I said, tying my hair up with a scrunchie Millie tossed me. "You get the ingredients, I'll tackle the dough."

Millie twirled dramatically. "Let the royal pizza games begin."

Within five minutes, we had flour everywhere. It was on the counters, on my cheeks, in Millie's hair. I was pretty sure I had some in my nose that I tried to take off but the sensation was still there. The dough was sticky, lumpy, and extremely suspicious in shape, but we laughed through every failed attempt to roll it into a circle.

"I don't think pizza is supposed to look like Australia," Amelia said, squinting at hers.

"Geography pizza is trending," I said, flipping my own onto a pan. "Look — mine's a squashed heart. Symbolic of the emotional damage your brother caused earlier."

"Too real," Millie giggled, then reached into the fridge. "We have pepperoni, mushrooms, olives, and like... five different cheeses. What is royal life?"

"Rich people problems," I muttered, but I was grinning. She handed me slices and I started layering my lumpy creation, already proud.

That was when the door swung open.

"What the—"

Maxwell.

His voice hit like a thunderclap, echoing through the kitchen. He took one look at the chaos — the flour-coated counter, Amelia dancing with a whisk, me proudly holding a doughy monstrosity with marinara dripping off the side — and just snapped.

"Amelia, what is this?" he barked. "This kitchen looks like a bakery exploded! You're not even supposed to be here!"

"Technically, I live here," she chirped back with zero remorse.

"You!" He turned to me, narrowing his eyes. "You're just—" His words caught. Probably thinking of the last time he yelled at me. "Freaking IMPOSSIBLE"

And honestly? I had had it.

Without a word, I calmly stepped forward, reached into the bowl of flour beside me, and gently smudged a handful right across the front of his stupidly perfect, annoyed face.

He froze.

Amelia gasped. "Amy!"

I looked him dead in the eye. "You had something on your face. It was called a bad attitude."

A beat of stunned silence. His eyes were closed, and flour clung to his eyelashes and nose like fresh snow. Then—

Amelia lost it. She laughed so hard she doubled over, wheezing, flour flying from her shirt in clouds.

Maxwell finally opened his eyes, blinking slowly.

I expected fire. Rage. Another lecture.

But... he just stared at me.

And then something shifted in his face. His lips twitched. His eyes flicked to Amelia, still cackling like a maniac, and then back to me. And then — the tiniest, rarest, most ridiculous and annoying smile spread across his face.

Flour settled into the air like snow in slow motion.

I had just turned triumphantly back to my pizza, smiling to myself, while he walked behind full of flour, — when I felt an arm snake around my waist.

"What—" I squeaked, but before the words even left my mouth—

PFFFT.

The world went white.

"MAXWELL!" I shrieked.

The entire half-a-bag of flour exploded over my head, raining down onto my scalp, face, shirt, into my bra — everywhere.

"Oh my god—" Amelia gasped.

Maxwell stepped back, looking completely unbothered. "I guess you also had something on your face" he said, totally deadpan, as I stood there blinking through the fog of flour like a powdered donut.

I wiped my face, squinting at him through the chaos. "You... absolute menace."

Maxwell smirked. "You started it."

Amelia's jaw dropped. "He did not just say that."

"Oh, that's it," I muttered. "You're done."

In one swift motion, I grabbed a fistful of shredded mozzarella from the counter and launched it at his chest.

It bounced off his sweater in tiny white puffs, and before anyone could react, Amelia screamed, "FOOD FIGHT!"

And that was the exact moment all hell broke loose.

Maxwell ducked behind the island just as I hurled a spoonful of tomato sauce in his direction. It splattered across the fridge instead.

"YOU'RE PAYING FOR THAT," he called, and flung a rogue olive at my shoulder.

Amelia was cackling, half-hidden behind a cabinet door while she lobbed pepperoni slices like tiny frisbees. One landed perfectly on Maxwell's forehead.

"Nice shot!" I cheered.

"Oh, it's not over!" she yelled back, scooping a handful of grated Parmesan and dumping it over my head like a cheesy blessing. "For good luck!"

"Millie!" I shrieked, laughing so hard my stomach hurt.

Maxwell popped up from behind the counter with a wild look in his eyes, like he'd just discovered war was fun. "I hope you two have a cleaning staff on speed dial."

"Nope," I said, grabbing a rolling pin like a sword. "We clean with honor."

We were slipping on flour, laughing so hard we were barely aiming anymore. Someone — Amelia, probably — turned on the speaker and Abba's "Take a Chance On Me" came blasting out like this was the world's weirdest and best kitchen rave.

"Okay, okay, truce!" Amelia yelled at one point, arms in the air, breathless from laughing.