Princess Switch; A steamy love story

Evelina's POV

The Grand Hall gleamed with enough gold to feed the lower villages for a decade — not that anyone ever suggested such a thing aloud. The royal banners hung high, guards in pressed uniforms stood like statues, and the air smelled of imported lilac and power.

We stood in perfect formation — Mother, Father, Leo, and me — poised and polished like figures in a living portrait. I could feel the corset ribs digging into my lungs, but I did not flinch.

A princess doesn't flinch.

"His Royal Highness, Prince Thorne of the House of Ironvale," the herald announced, his voice slicing through the hush like a blade dipped in velvet.

And then he walked in.

Thorne. In black and silver, tall as sin, with eyes like frost and a jaw that could sharpen swords. The man looked like a villain in a love story — and to me, he was. My fiancé. My future. My cage with a crown.

He moved with the grace of someone used to being stared at. And the arrogance of someone who didn't care.

First, a formal bow to my father. Deep, respectful. Then to my mother — lower, as tradition required. He nodded to Leo, who gave him a lazy, unreadable smirk in return.

And then… he turned to me.

Our eyes met. And for a split second, his mouth curved — barely — as though amused by something only he could hear.

He stepped closer.

Too close.

He reached for my hand. I offered it like it weighed a thousand stones. He pressed a kiss to my knuckles, then rose and leaned in… too familiar… too certain…

And I—

I turned my head.

His lips landed softly on my cheek.

Right next to my ear.

The silence that followed wasn't scripted.

I could hear the twitch in my mother's jaw.

Thorne's lips hovered for a beat too long before he slowly pulled back. If he was embarrassed, he didn't show it. His eyes remained unreadable. But his fingers curled slightly — the only sign that he'd felt the sting of my small rebellion.

"Your Highness," he murmured.

I offered a tight smile. "Welcome."

My mother's fan snapped open like a weapon.

My father's expression did not shift, but his eyes flicked to me with warning.

Thorne returned to his place with the calm of a man who expected women to swoon — and could not comprehend when one didn't.

The moment passed, but the air had shifted.

I stood taller.

Because sometimes, silence speaks louder than disobedience.

---

Later That Evening…

The palace was quiet.

Too quiet.

I sat at my writing desk, bathed in moonlight, parchment before me. My quill hovered as I thought of her — of Liana, of that defiant fire in her eyes, and the way she'd looked at me like I was the mad one for dreaming of freedom.

I dipped the quill and began to write.

---

To Liana of Wren Hollow,

Laundry girl. Look-alike. Thorn in my slipper.

I am rapidly losing patience, and silk. I have changed gowns four times today in your honor — each more suffocating than the last — and you are still not responding.

This arrangement was meant to be elegant. Swift. Mutually beneficial. Instead, I am dancing with wolves while you… kiss boys under fig trees.

I need you to understand something.

This is not a game.

This is a door. One I am offering you — to riches, power, fine pastries, and beds that don't squeak. I'm offering you more than scrubbing undergarments for step-sisters who can't spell.

All I require is your yes.

Say it.

Say it, and I will send a carriage under moonlight, a dress that fits, and a brush made of actual silver.

Say it, and we change our fates.

Do not test my patience again, Liana.

We are running out of time.

Elegantly, Impatiently,

Princess Evelina of Raventhorn

---

I sealed the letter with wax and a furious flick of my royal wrist.

Let's see her ignore that.

***

Liana's POV

I was elbow-deep in goat-stained linens when it happened.

One second I was scrubbing a mysterious brown patch that smelled like old betrayal, and the next—

BAM.

Something slammed into my window like an overly dramatic ghost. I jumped so hard, the soap bucket nearly baptized me.

"By the armpits of King Edgar!" I yelped.

Outside the glass, a bird glared at me.

No, really. Glared. Beady eyes, wings spread like he was halfway through a solo in an opera.

It was a hawk. A fat, puffed-up one with a royal crest strapped to its ankle and an attitude that screamed, "I don't deliver to peasants, but fine."

I opened the window. He dropped a scroll into my laundry basket like he was insulted to touch it, then pecked my boot for good measure.

"Watch it, feathers," I snapped. "I eat roasted birds on special holidays."

The hawk rolled his eyes — he actually rolled his eyes — then perched on the sill and waited like a moody butler.

I unrolled the scroll.

By the time I reached "Thorn in my slipper," my jaw had unhinged, my eyebrows had climbed into my hairline, and my dignity had left the building.

Princess Evelina of Raventhorn, in all her corseted glory, had written me a royal insult disguised as a royal invitation. She wanted me to say yes to her dramatic palace-swap plan — and apparently expected me to curtsey through the letter.

I snorted so hard a soap bubble flew out of my nose.

The audacity.

Oh, she wanted a response?

She was going to get one.

I grabbed a crumpled page from under the ironing board, dipped my finger in the laundry ink we use to tag underpants (don't ask), and began to write.

To Her Royal Bossiness,

First of all, yes — this is real ink. Made from crushed berries and probably a little goat sweat. Sorry if it doesn't match your rose-scented royal quill set.

Second of all… ma'am. Was that supposed to be a request or a royal slap to the face? Because your letter was ruder than Lady Tressa's toenails — and those things could cut through steel.

Let me get this straight. You insult my laundry career, threaten me with a deadline, and then offer me a silver hairbrush like that's supposed to hypnotize me?

You want me to pretend to be *you*, wear fancy shoes that probably murder toes, eat soup with too many spoons, and survive that terrifying statue-man prince? And your way of convincing me… is by being condescending?

Look, Princess.

I may wash bloomers for a living, but at least I don't treat people like floor mats. You want a yes? Then try being nice. Or at least fake it better.

Until then, consider this a royal maybe. Signed, Liana of Wren Hollow (Proud commoner. Mistress of suds. Future nightmare.)

P.S. Your bird is rude. He pecked me again after I sealed this letter.

I rolled it up, tied it with a string that probably used to be part of a curtain, and handed it to the hawk with a firm glare.

"Take this to your queen. Or your drama queen. Same difference."

He screeched in what I can only assume was offense, then flew off like he had better places to be.

I watched him disappear into the sky, hands on my hips.

"No one out-divas me," I muttered.

But the truth?

My heart was hammering.

Because deep down… part of me was curious.

What would it be like… to wear the crown?