"Archer."

The familiar voice pulled me from the stacks of ledgers spread across my desk. I glanced up to find my mother standing in the doorway, her expression as stern as ever.

"Yes, Mother?" I replied, trying to keep the weariness from my voice.

"Mrs. Harrington will be here in an hour."

I blinked, trying to recall the name. "Mrs. Harrington?"

"The seamstress. The tailor. The owner of Cherie."

Recognition dawned. Cherie—the boutique that had recently risen to prominence in the city. Somehow, they had been commissioned for my suit, but no one had passed along my measurements until now.

"Understood. What’s the occasion?" I asked, closing the accounts book with a soft thud.

"Your suit requires fitting. This is your first from Cherie, and we overlooked giving them your dimensions. Mrs. Harrington will ensure the fit is perfect before the final delivery tomorrow morning. Prepare yourself."

"I’m prepared?" I repeated, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes, now go wait outside."

Her tone left no room for argument. I followed her from my study, settling onto the vast velvet couch in the sitting room, while she took the single armchair facing me. Her posture was rigid, her presence commanding.

"While we wait," she began, "let’s discuss your impending wedding."

I sighed, already feeling the familiar weight descend upon my shoulders. This was the conversation I’d been avoiding.

"How’s the search for a bride progressing?" she asked sharply.

"Not well," I admitted. "I haven’t found anyone worthy of the title, nor someone I could see myself marrying."

Her gaze narrowed, a silent reprimand.

"Mother, I can’t just pick a girl because she’s a princess," I said, leaning forward. "I need to know who she is, what she’s like beyond the title and appearances."

"You have the rest of your life to learn that," she said coldly. "Right now, we need a princess in this house."

"You’ve introduced me to every princess in the realm, and none have captured my interest," I said bluntly.

At that moment, my father entered the room, his calm presence softening the tension.

"How about a commoner?" he suggested casually.

Mother’s expression flickered with disdain. "Preposterous."

"Your mother was a commoner," he reminded her quietly.

Suppressing a smirk, I watched the exchange.

"This isn’t just any kingdom," she replied sharply. "This is Zariya."

"It’s my kingdom, Arabella," he said firmly. "And commoners have joined this family before. What matters is the bride’s image—she must be graceful, well-regarded, and beautiful."

"Girls can’t compete with princesses’ beauty," Mother scoffed.

"Because they don’t have access to botox," Father teased, rolling his eyes as he sat beside me. "Find someone nice, Archer: beautiful, graceful, beloved. Time is short; don’t waste it."

I nodded, resigned.

Mother stood abruptly. "Too late for that now. I’ve invited five princesses to stay here. They’ll be arriving soon, and you’ll choose from among them."

The words hung heavily in the room. I couldn’t believe I wouldn’t even meet them first.

Turning to Father, I muttered, "Is this a joke? I don’t even get to choose who I marry?"

"You can choose from the five," he replied, "or find a common girl. The clock’s ticking." He patted my knee before leaving.

Alone again, I muttered under my breath, "Great." I pulled out my phone, mindlessly launching a game to pass the time.

When Mrs. Harrington arrived, I stood to greet her. "Your Majesty," she bowed politely.

"Please, no need for formalities," I said with a small smile, shaking her hand.

"Where would you prefer the fitting?" she asked.

"Right here," Mother replied, entering the room.

With a nod, Mrs. Harrington set down a bag and pulled out the suit. "Would you please change into this, Your Majesty?" she asked, her smile warm but professional.

I retreated to the nearest bathroom, slipping out of my clothes and into the new suit. It hung loosely—obviously tailored for someone larger, perhaps Father.

Returning, I noted the fit was generous. Mrs. Harrington chuckled softly, pulling out chalk and a bundle of pins.

I froze. I hate needles. I hate pins. Absolutely hate being still while someone pokes at me.

"Please stand still," she said gently as she began marking and pinning the fabric at my sleeves.

Turning to Mother, she asked, "Might we have an old pair of Prince Archer’s trousers? It would be much easier to fit the suit if we avoid this process on delicate areas."

Relieved, Mother consented. A butler fetched the trousers promptly.

Mrs. Harrington helped me out of the suit carefully, folding it with respect before preparing to leave.

In the bathroom, I swapped the trousers and handed them over, neatly folded. She asked if someone should collect the suit or if delivery would be preferable.

"Please deliver it," Mother replied.

"Tomorrow morning by nine?" Mrs. Harrington confirmed.

"Perfect, thank you." She left with a cheerful wave, and I returned to my study, sighing as I resumed my preparations for the throne.

Early the next morning, I went for my usual run around the perimeter of the estate, the routine both grounding and frustrating since I never leave the grounds.

As I neared the guarded gate, a bicycle tire rolled into view. I stepped back, curious. A young woman rode casually, earphones in, bobbing her head to music I couldn’t hear.

She passed the gate but suddenly exclaimed, "Shit!" and wheeled back, shoving the earphones away as she dismounted.

Facing the guards, who stood stone-faced, she said awkwardly, "I’m from Cherie. This is Prince Archer’s suit—altered to fit him. The bill is inside, but it hasn’t been paid yet."

The guards inspected the bag before one took it inside.

She stood for a moment, eyes wandering over the palace with a mixture of awe and hesitation.

"Sir?" she ventured.

"What?" the guard responded gruffly.

"Could I have one of those roses?" She pointed to a nearby rosebush.

"They’re not to be picked," the guard replied firmly.

She frowned. "One rose from the bush won’t hurt, right?"

I hid my amusement as the guard hesitated, then finally relented with a sigh, handing her a rose.

She carefully removed thorns before tucking the rose into her basket, then turned back to the gate just as the payment arrived.

Counting the money, she patted her pockets with a chuckle. Her jeans and t-shirt stood in stark contrast to the fancy boutique she represented.

"I don’t have change. Here, a hundred Lunar less for the Prince," she said, slipping the bill back into the envelope.

Stepping forward unnoticed, I took the note from the guard. "Keep it. Here’s fifty for you," I said, offering the guard some coins.

She grinned, hopping onto her bike and pedaling away.

Suddenly, she stopped, wheeled back, and stared at me with wide eyes.

"Uh oh. You’re…"

"Hi," I said, smiling.

She facepalmed, then quickly recovered. "I’m so sorry, Your Majesty. Please forget this ever happened. Have a nice day!" She sped off before I could say more.

Turning to the guard, I said, "About that rose…"

"I apologize, Your Majesty, but she—"

"Next time, just give it to her," I interrupted with a grin.

The guard nodded, slightly surprised by my leniency.

I shook my head with a small laugh and resumed my run, completing my tenth lap around the estate.

She works at Cherie, I thought, a flicker of interest sparking inside me. Maybe the royal path isn’t so straightforward after all.

Back inside, I headed to the shower, steeling myself for tonight’s party. In this life, one event blends into the next, each demanding perfection.

As water washed away the day’s exhaustion, I wondered how long I could keep up the façade—between royal expectations and the pull of something genuine.