Once upon a time, in a kingdom plagued by Tripadvisor reviews and passive-aggressive comment cards, there lived a prince whose parents insisted he marry someone truly exceptional. Not kind, not wise, not even pretty. But, a princess. A real one, like in the fairytales. And everyone knows that the three things princesses excel at are: tantrums, gossip and complaining.

One stormy evening, a woman arrived at the castle gates. Her hair was perfectly highlighted, her sunglasses perched atop her head despite the rain. She demanded shelter, a new dress, a gluten-free meal, and a manager. She claimed to be a Princess Karen, from the neighboring Kingdom of Eonia. And she had a plastic tiara to prove it.

The queen was intrigued and devised a test. She stacked 20 memory foam mattresses, each with a different firmness rating, and slipped a single organic, non-GMO pea beneath the bottom one.

The next morning, Karen emerged from the guest chamber with a list longer than the royal tax code: "The matress was lumpy. I suspect sabotage. I could feel something poking me all night. Probably a lawsuit waiting to happen. The room smelled like peasant. The lavender pillow mist? Gave me a migraine. The complimentary slippers were not suede. The staff smiled too much, creepy. And who designed the wallpaper? A blind raccoon?”

The queen, your mother, clapped her hands in delight.

“She’s perfect! Only a true princess could be this insufferable. She even threatened to have the royal chef fired because the soup wasn’t photogenic! I love her already!”

In all honesty, she just Googled "symptoms of mattress discomfort" and improvised. But neither you nor your mother knows that... Yet.

You tried to protest. But it was no use. The royal wedding was scheduled for next Tuesday, with a live-stream and a sponsored hashtag.

That afternoon, while sulking in the royal garden and dodging Karen’s Instagram selfies, you spotted her.

HER.

A girl from the nearby village, sweeping the steps of a bakery. Her dress was patched and her blond hair was tied back. She seemed clever, and kind. You’d seen her before, always trailed by two shrieking stepsisters and a stepmother who treated her like a mop with legs.

She didn’t complain. She didn’t gossip. She didn’t even flinch when a pigeon pooped on her shoulder.

You were smitten.

But how could you escape Karen, the queen’s approval, and the royal wedding registry?

Being a prince is wildly overrated. Sure, there’s the crown, the castle, the endless supply of velvet capes. But no one tells you about the arranged marriages, the ceremonial ribbon-cuttings, or the fact that your mother thinks emotional intelligence is a sign of weakness.

The fairytale is unfolding but only you know how it will end.