Amy's PoV:

Still weirdly walking or floating through the garden, we decided to head back. I was feeling better. After the river we met a maze which we had to trespass.

The maze was taller than I expected.

Green walls loomed high above us, thick with perfectly trimmed leaves and the occasional rogue branch reaching like a hand that might whisper secrets if you got too close. The moonlight slipped between the gaps, casting soft silver streaks on the cobblestone path. Every few steps echoed like we weren't supposed to be here-like this place belonged to ghosts and long-forgotten royal scandals.

But Maxwell kept walking, one hand in his pocket, the other brushing the hedge lightly like he knew the way. And for some reason, I followed.

After a while, I broke the silence.

"Well, I spilled my guts like I was writing an emotional Tumblr post from 2011. Your turn."

He gave me a small smile, the kind that doesn't reach the eyes. "Is that a dare?"

"It's a moral contract," I said, hands clasped dramatically. "Signed in joint smoke and questionable champagne."

He laughed under his breath but slowed his steps. "Alright. Fine."

We turned a corner into a little circular clearing, with a single marble bench at its center. Ivy crept over the stone like it had secrets too.

Maxwell didn't sit. He looked up instead, hands behind his back, like he was addressing the moon.

"My first regret," he started, "is not being able to be myself. Not fully."

His voice had dropped, lower than I'd ever heard it.

"I was raised with the idea that every move I make is a representation of a thousand-year legacy. That I'm not a person, I'm a title. A crown that walks and talks and waves on command."

I didn't speak. The wind rustled the leaves like it was holding its breath for him.

"I regret that I never carried it with the ease that Frederick does. That I never found joy in it. For me, it's heavy. It's always been heavy."

I sat down slowly on the bench, watching him. "You're allowed to feel that, Max."

He smiled faintly, then turned toward me.

"My second regret..." he hesitated, a beat too long. "Is what I said to the first girl I loved."

"Oh ho HO," I gasped, clutching my imaginary pearls. "There was a girl? And you loved her? Oh my god, was she, like, a duchess? A rebellious princess? Did she escape on a ship to become a pirate queen?"

He didn't laugh.

He looked right at me.

"She broke my heart," he said simply. "But I broke more than hers. I broke the version of myself that existed before I ever met her. I let bitterness build like armor, and then blamed her for the weight of it."

I swallowed. That hit different.

"I regret not saying goodbye. I regret not fighting for her. But mostly..." He paused, exhaled. "I regret not believing in her. I always knew she was more than what people saw. But I never told her. Not once. I thought she'd outgrow whatever version I imagined of her. Instead, she outgrew me."

My throat suddenly had a very annoying lump in it.

"Jesus," I said quietly. "Are you still talking about this girl?"

He chuckled then, finally. "You're judging my romantic history?"

"No, I'm judging the fact that you apparently lived in a Nicholas Sparks novel and didn't even tell anyone."

He looked at the ivy-covered wall. "If only you knew."

"Tell me she was barefoot in a field of tulips or something."

"Shut up," he said, smiling now.

I gave him a teasing nudge. "What's your third regret, Your Highness? That you didn't write her letters in cursive?"

He sat beside me, slowly. His shoulder barely brushed mine.

"My third regret... is becoming someone cold. Someone sharp. Someone who pushes people away and calls it self-preservation."

That silenced me.

"I became a worse version of myself," he added, softly. "And I told myself it was strength. But it was just fear. Fear of getting hurt again."

I didn't have a smart comment this time. Just a chest full of something heavy and sad and oddly familiar.

"Wow," I whispered. "You win the trauma Olympics."

"Don't be like that."

"I mean it," I said. "That was honest. And it... it makes a lot of sense."

He looked at me. "So does yours."

We sat like that for a moment, both of us twisted up in things we never said to anyone else. In all the regrets that shaped us. The people we could've been if we had just done one thing differently.

Maxwell was quiet again, eyes tracing the ivy shadows like they might spell out answers. I almost asked if he was okay, but then he turned toward me and said, low and rough:

"Talking of regrets... I regret being mean to you."

I blinked. "Okay, whoa. Plot twist."

"I mean it." He met my eyes. "I treated you like you were just noise. And you weren't. You aren't."

I laughed, mostly out of reflex. "Well, thank you for this revelation during what I can only assume is still a high-level fever dream."

He chuckled too, but the sincerity didn't waver. "You'll forget this tomorrow."

"I probably will," I agreed. "But maybe I shouldn't. Maybe this is one of those important moments people write about in journals."

We sat in silence again, the kind that didn't ache. The kind that let you breathe a little deeper.

Maxwell looked away for a second, toward the hedge walls, then back at me. "You're really good with Amelia, you know."

That caught me off guard. "What?"

"She's been different lately. Lighter. Like she's actually... herself. I don't know how you did that, but she talks to you. She's found her voice." He paused. "Something Edmund and I haven't even managed to do."

My chest swelled at that-unexpectedly.

"She's amazing," I said. "And talking about her... there's something I wanted to bring up."

He raised a brow. "Go on."

I sat up a bit straighter, planting my elbows on my knees. "She told me she hates her birthday."

Maxwell sighed like it wasn't even news. "Yeah. That's... kind of always been the case. She doesn't get to do anything she likes on it."

"Well, then we need to change that."

He gave me a skeptical look. "Amy-"

"She's sixteen, Maxwell. Sixteen!" I cut in. "She's right at the edge of all that glittery, chaotic, messy teenage magic-and she's missing all of it."

His expression flickered. Hesitant. Like he wanted to agree, but the royal rules had their claws in him still.

"I'm serious," I pushed. "She's never had a proper pajama party. Or stayed up way too late watching musicals or bingeing reality TV or debating who the hottest fictional vampire is. She doesn't even have anyone to gossip with about crushes. No one to talk to about drag queens. No hideously botched DIY hair dye jobs. Nothing."

He softened. I could see it. Something in him cracked open at the edges.

"Even with everything I hate about myself and who I was," I went on, my voice quieter now, "those nights-dancing like idiots in someone's bedroom, doing glittery eyeshadow with bad lighting, singing Legally Blonde the Musical at the top of our lungs... that stuff? That was good. That part I want to keep. That part still lives in me."

Maxwell let out a breath. "You really care about her."

"Yeah," I said. "I really do."

He was quiet for a second, nodding to himself, then finally said, "Alright. What do we do?"

My eyes lit up. "Okay, first-her birthday has to be her birthday. No stiff lunches with nobility or forced waltzes with strangers named something like Lord Balthazar of Blah Blah Blah."

He snorted. "I think you're referring to Lord Bertrand."

"Exactly. We scrap the royal program for the day and build something she'll actually love."

Maxwell raked a hand through his hair, visibly overwhelmed. "Okay... I have absolutely no idea how to do this. But I'll try."

"Good." I grinned. "So, let's list what we do know about what Amelia loves."

"Burgers," he said immediately. "Or anything that screams fast food and rebellion."

"Trixie Mattel," I added, snapping my fingers.

"Flower patterns," he continued, nodding thoughtfully.

"Musicals," I said, flashing him a proud smile. "Thanks to me."

"Vintage aesthetics," he said next.

"Old Hollywood glam," I corrected gently. "Also-she once told me she dreamed of marrying Timothée Chalamet in a retro diner filled with daisies."

Maxwell blinked. "That's... oddly specific."

"She's a woman of exquisite taste," I said, shrugging like it was obvious.

We both smiled, sitting in a quiet beat of shared understanding. Then he leaned back, draping his arm along the back of the bench behind me, his expression slowly shifting into something more resolved.

"Alright," he said. "Let's plan the most unroyal royal birthday this palace has ever seen."

My eyes widened. "Maxwell. Are we about to throw a secret party inside the most heavily guarded palace in Europe?"

"Looks like it."

"With drag queens?"

He laughed. "You really think I can sneak a drag queen past the palace guards?"

I leaned in, grinning. "If anyone can, it's you, Your Royal Highness of Chaos."

He held my gaze, then gave a sharp, solemn nod. "Then it's settled."

"Operation: Crown and Confetti," I declared.

"Amelia's Rebellion."

We both laughed-loud, real, slightly ridiculous. And for the first time since setting foot on royal soil, I didn't just feel like a guest in someone else's world. I felt like I belonged. Like I was doing something that mattered.

And honestly? It felt damn good.

We were nearly out of the maze. The palace lights shimmered in the distance, a soft golden blur that looked suspiciously like a storybook ending if you squinted hard enough - which I did, because I was, quite frankly, very much not sober.

Maxwell slowed his pace and glanced back at me.

"You good?"

"Define good," I replied, then snorted. "I'm walking like I'm wearing flip-flops on a trampoline, so... no."

He chuckled under his breath and came closer, the gravel crunching under his shoes. "So... real question. Will you remember any of this tomorrow?"

I blinked up at him, brain fuzzed like the static of a forgotten TV channel.

"There's a 90% probability I will absolutely forget everything," I said with total conviction. "That's what always happens when I'm stoned."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Not that I'm stoned all the time," I added quickly. "I'm not that person. But... the few times I've been like this? I've forgotten, like, entire days. Once, I thought I dreamt my cousin's engagement party. I gave a toast. Apparently, it was great. No memory of it."

"And now you added champagne."

"Exactly." I gave him a lazy, uneven shrug. "My brain's basically soup right now. I can barely spell my own name. I might forget yours. Don't take it personally."

He laughed quietly, then looked at me - really looked. And something in his face changed. Softer, but also... heavier.

"Well," he said, "if you're going to forget this anyway... I might as well say something."

My stomach did a slow, high-pitched pirouette.

"Okay?" I replied, though it came out more like a question I wasn't ready for.

Maxwell took half a step closer. The space between us hummed.

"I regret not kissing you in the kitchen that day," he said quietly.

My breath snagged. I blinked once. Twice.

"Oh."

"And honestly?" His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "I regret not kissing you right now."

Heat bloomed beneath my skin like someone had lit a match and held it too close.

The air between us thickened, heavier now, like it had weight. Like it was pressing gently against my chest. My heart pounded - fast, loud, reckless - like it had somewhere to be.

He was close. So close I could see the tiny scar just beneath his cheekbone, and the curl of his lashes where they caught the moonlight.

His fingers brushed mine.

Then slowly, his hand moved with the kind of familiarity that made my breath catch - reaching up, his palm settling at the side of my neck, his thumb tilting my chin toward him. Everything in me went quiet.

Our lips met - just barely.

A tentative brush. Soft, hesitant. Like the start of something fragile and electric. The kind of kiss that lingers more in memory than in feeling. His mouth was warm, and the world tilted slightly beneath us.

And then-

"DO NOT JUMP IN THAT FOUNTAIN!" Octavia's voice cracked across the garden like a whip.

We jolted apart like two kids caught with stolen candy, eyes wide and dazed.

"Oh my God," I whispered, staggering slightly. "Should we- I mean, we should go, right? To the ball? They're probably... wondering..."

Maxwell rubbed the back of his neck, blinking like he was trying to snap out of a dream. "Yeah. Yeah, good idea."

Another shout echoed from the other side of the maze. "You, in the red cape! Get out of that marble birdbath this instant!"

I doubled over, laughter bursting out of me without warning - loud and messy and real. The kind that felt like it came from somewhere deep inside my ribs.

Maxwell tried to stifle his grin, but failed miserably. "Well," he said, "we're clearly not the only ones making bad decisions tonight."

"Oh, come on," I said, wiping at my eyes. "We're doing great compared to whoever thought that cape was a swimsuit."

We lingered there for a second longer, both still half-leaning toward each other, as if our bodies hadn't quite gotten the memo that the moment had passed. My chest still buzzed with adrenaline and something that felt suspiciously like longing.

I was still high, still buzzed, still not entirely sure which way was up - but in that moment, I felt everything.

I could barely breathe.

Then Maxwell blinked slowly, like someone waking up, and gave me a crooked, apologetic smile. A little dazed. A little shy.

"We should go," he said gently.

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and followed him out of the maze - trying not to think about how badly I wanted to turn around and kiss him properly.