It had been a week.

Seven full days since the kitchen. Since the almost. Since the "I'm not falling for it again."
Since Maxwell stopped speaking to me altogether.

He walked past me in the gardens like I was some air-borne virus he needed to avoid catching. Not even a glance. Not even a fake, royal-nicety smile. Just a shift of his shoulders, a turn of the face, like I didn't exist. Like I hadn't been standing in that kitchen, breathless, with his hand on my neck, and my heart stupid enough to skip for him.

And the worst part?

I blamed myself.
Which was infuriating.
I should know better.

After everything. After my last relationship, after all the carefully stitched-up trauma I pretended wasn't still pulsing underneath — I should've seen this coming. Should've seen the signs. The sudden closeness. The tension. The teasing turned loaded. The eyes that lingered. All of it.

Maxwell wasn't some exception to the rule. He was the rule — just dressed better and with more flour in his hair.

I stared at my notebook, the page half-scribbled with fragmented thoughts and a poor excuse for journaling. Mostly it looked like an emotional tornado hit it. Words like idiot and again? were scratched in the margins like warnings.

He called me confusing.
But he was the one who touched me like I mattered — and then pulled away like I burned.

He's the hypocrite, I thought, pressing the pen harder.

But the truth? I was the one who got pulled in.

Slowly, steadily — like I didn't even notice how far in I'd wandered. I was starting to forget... things. Not the details. The hurt.

I was starting to forget what it felt like to be broken. And that was dangerous. Because I still was. I still couldn't look in the mirror for too long without something twisting, something whispering under my skin. Some version of me that still didn't trust what she saw.

I was slipping into a fantasy of control, of fun, of normal — when really I was dancing around the same mistakes again, just wearing a different dress and lipstick.

I was trying to rewrite myself.
And I could feel the old pages screaming.

The spiral was loud. My thoughts looped like sirens. Shame. Confusion. Fury. Hurt.

And then—

My phone buzzed.

A FaceTime request.

Alyssa.

I blinked at the screen.

And then I picked up, fast.

"Lys—?"

Her bright, grinning face filled the screen like a window cracking open in a storm.

"AMYYYYY!" she squealed, flopping back onto a very messy, very Alyssa-looking bed. "Girl. Tell me you're not writing a sad poem about a prince again."

"I—" I blinked. "Wait. How did you know it was a prince?"

"Oh please," she waved a hand, "You give off 'conflicted royal romance arc' energy like it's your job."

Despite myself, I snorted. "It's not funny."

"It's a little funny," she said, then squinted closer at me. "Oof. You look like you've been stuck in your head for at least three days. On a scale from one to 'staring out windows with sad music,' how dramatic are we?"

"Somewhere between rewriting my entire personality and throwing my phone into the lake."

"Classic you."

I laughed, weakly. "Shut up."

"Can't. Because I have news."

She sat up straighter, grinning like she had just won a prize.

"I'm coming to see you."

My brain short-circuited. "Wait, what? You—what?"

"I know." she sang, practically vibrating. "Mason got his first big project just twenty minutes from your school. Something like an house and farm? But the best part? I pulled strings, cried a little, and I'm coming with him."

"You're—like here? In person?"

"Yup! Next Friday! Weekend visit! Prepare the prince drama I want to know it all!"

I blinked at her.

The whiplash. The sheer turn from existential doom to sunshine in the shape of Alyssa was overwhelming.

"Oh my god," I whispered. "I could actually cry."

"Please don't. I haven't emotionally recovered from the last time you cried over that Nicholas Sparks movie."

"I did not cry over that movie."

"You wept like an orphan in the rain."

"I—shut up," I muttered, but I was smiling.

Actually smiling.

It didn't fix everything. The ache, the self-blame, the silence from Maxwell — it was all still there. But for the first time all week, I felt grounded. Like maybe someone was anchoring me before I drifted too far off into the whirlpool again.

She saw me.
She always had.

And soon, she'd be here.

I looked at myself on the FaceTime window. The girl staring back was tired, but not lost.

Not yet.

"Oh I have someone to introduce you to"

"Sounds interesting"

"I swear you have to meet her," I said into the phone, lying back on my bed as Alyssa flipped through her travel calendar on the other side of the screen. "If we don't do a soul-swap parent trap situation within five minutes of you two meeting, I'll be shocked."

"Oh no," Alyssa grinned. "You've found a clone of me in the wild? A secret twin?"

"She's more unhinged than you. Her name's Amelia, she's a royal, and I'm 93% sure she's legally not supposed to have caffeine."

Alyssa's eyes sparkled. "Say less. I love her already. Sleepover plans confirmed."

"I'll sneak you into the west wing. We'll do makeup and dance to ABBA and pretend no one has real responsibilities."

"As God intended," Alyssa declared with a mock salute.

We said our goodbyes with dramatic promises of snacks, pajamas, and zero emotional entanglements—which we both knew was a lie—and the screen went black.

And I was smiling.

Really smiling.

Right until I glanced at the clock on my desk and let out a full-bodied scream.

"TENNIS. PRACTICE. OH MY GOD—!"

I launched off the bed in full chaos-mode, yanked on the maroon school-issued tennis uniform like it was on fire, tied my shoes while hopping on one foot, and sprinted down the long hall toward the courts, my racket bouncing wildly from my shoulder bag.

By the time I got there, panting and windblown like I'd barely survived a tornado, Professor Leonard was already lining everyone up.

"Miss Thompson ," he said, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow. "How lovely of you to join us with... passion."

"I was early," I wheezed. "Just... conceptually."

He didn't smile. "Line up."

I slotted myself between two other students, adjusting my ponytail and pretending I hadn't already lost 30% of my dignity for the day.

A sharp voice rang out behind us.

"You'll be paired up today against the royal students."

It was Octavia, of course. Immaculately dressed even for a tennis court, wearing a visor like she was about to either coach us or assassinate a minor politician.

"Today's match isn't about athleticism," she added. "It's about understanding how tennis functions."

Cue the confused faces.

"In high society," she said, folding her arms, "a tennis match is rarely just a tennis match. It's a battlefield. A stage. A date. A political negotiation. It is a game of flirtation, humiliation, and sometimes, tactical charm. You'll learn the rules of tennis and the rules of maneuvering in dangerous waters."

Great. So we were playing The Hunger Games: Wimbledon Edition. She called out a student name and then the royal rival.

"Next," she called out, "Amy Thompson..."

I stepped forward, already dreading who I'd be paired with.

"...will face off against Frederick Montgomery ."

Of course.

Of. Freaking. Course.

He strutted onto the court like he was modeling for a sports drink ad—racket slung over one shoulder, smirk loaded and weaponized, sunglasses he didn't need pushed up into his too-perfect hair.

"Oh look," he said smoothly. "The girl who steals into royal wings, starts food fights, and breaks hearts now plays tennis too. A woman of many talents."

I groaned, gripping my racket. "Why are you always around when I'm trying to have peace?"

"Because fate is deeply obsessed with us."

I turned to Leonard. "Can I be reassigned? Or sedated?"

"No," he replied dryly. "Play ball."

Frederick stepped onto his side of the court, twirling the racket like it was an extension of his royal ego. I took my place across from him, bouncing the ball once. He leaned forward on his racket, eyes glinting.

"Ready to lose?"

"Are we talking tennis or dignity?"

He grinned. "Both."

And then he winked.

Oh, this was war.

I served with as much force as I could without violating any Geneva Conventions.

The match began.

And it was utter chaos.

Frederick didn't just hit the ball back—he flirted with it.

"Nice form," he purred after I landed a clean serve.

"Nice hair," I shot back. "Did your mirror survive this morning?"

"Oh, claws."

"You like 'em," I said sweetly, sending a lob to his left.

He actually dove for it. Dove. Like we were in the Olympics.

And when he missed? He winked again.

The other students were watching now, whispering like this was a soap opera in real time.

Meanwhile, Octavia muttered something to Leonard about "chemistry being dangerous" and "crown scandals."

"Frederick," I called, after the next point, "Are you gonna play, or just model the entire match?"

He grinned lazily, adjusting his sunglasses. "I can multitask."

God help me, I almost smiled.

Almost.

But then he added, "Also, I'm very good at doubles. Should we practice later?"

I nearly threw my racket at him.

The ball flew across the net again—low, fast, and just barely inside the line.

"Point," Professor Leonard called.

I gritted my teeth. "You're keeping count, right?"

"Oh, absolutely," Frederick said, bouncing the ball lazily in his palm, spinning it like he was about to casually dismantle me again. "But don't worry, I won't brag too hard when I win."

"You'll have to actually win first," I muttered, squinting at the sun.

Frederick served.

I hit it back hard.

He volleyed.

I twisted, returned it.

And then—he purred, "You're very flexible."

I missed the ball.

"You absolute—!" I shouted, spinning around as the ball bounced past me and Frederick smiled like the devil on vacation. "You distracted me!"

"I complimented you," he said innocently, catching the ball again. "It's not my fault if you're easily flustered."

"I'm going to shove that racket so far—"

"Children," Octavia snapped from her corner. "Less courtship, more court."

I turned to serve again, cheeks burning. Not because of the compliment. Not just. More like the infuriating fact that he was charming, in a walking-red-flag kind of way.

I served again, this time aiming for his ego.

He returned it with a dramatic flourish, practically pirouetting as he hit the ball. "Tell me, Amy," he called across the court, "do you always look this good when you're trying to crush someone?"

"I only try this hard when someone needs to be humbled," I snapped, lunging to return the hit.

"Delicious," he said, lips quirking.

"I was talking about your serve," I lied.

"Oh, I like you."

"That's your problem."

The ball smacked into the net.

"You two want to just kiss and call it a draw?" someone called from the bleachers.

I turned to glare at them and caught a very distinct figure leaning near one of the fences.

Maxwell.

Leaning. Watching.

Arms crossed, brow furrowed. His jaw was set so tight it looked carved. He wasn't even pretending not to watch. He was just there, in his black jacket, eyes locked onto the game like he'd rather be in it.

Or rather, drag me off the court.

Our eyes met.

I held his gaze for half a second too long—and then turned sharply, trying not to overthink it.

Why was he here?

Why was he watching?

Why was he acting like I'd personally sold his dog to pirates when he was the one who snapped at me last week and ghosted me for seven days straight?

Frederick whistled low under his breath. "Oh-ho. Now this is interesting."

I blinked. "What?"

He pointed his racket subtly toward Maxwell. "He looks like he's either going to set me on fire or challenge me to a duel."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Too late."

"You're ridiculous."

He leaned in, just slightly, and said under his breath, "But he's watching you. Not me."

My pulse stuttered.

"Is that why you're flirting so hard? To get under his skin?" I said tightly.

He smiled, smug and gleaming. "No. I'm flirting with you to get under your skin. Him watching? That's just a bonus."

"Oh my God," I hissed. "You're evil."

"Only on weekends."

"It's Saturday!"

"Exactly."

I nearly hit him with the racket.

But instead, I served again.

And this time, I hit it with everything I had.

I took a deep breath and focused as Frederick served one last time. The ball came fast and low, and I barely managed to get my racket to it, sending it back with everything I had.

Frederick lunged, but the ball slipped past his reach and hit the court with a satisfying bounce. Game, set, match.

I couldn't help but grin triumphantly.

Frederick wiped sweat from his brow, flashing me a cheeky smile. "You got me today, Amy. Guess I'll have to step up my game next time."

I smirked back, feeling the rush of victory.

That's when I caught sight of Maxwell watching from the sidelines, his gaze intense but unreadable. For a moment, our eyes met, and I felt my heart skip.

Frederick noticed too. "Looks like you've got a fan," he teased.

I rolled my eyes but couldn't deny the warmth spreading inside me, I just didn't know if it was hate, reage or something else.

As the next game begun, I grabbed my things, trying to shake off the mix of excitement and confusion.

The match was over, but whatever was happening between Maxwell and me was just getting started.