You never cared much about being beautiful. Sure, people told you you were, often. But to you, it was just a thing—like having two hands or being able to laugh at the dumbest jokes. You were nineteen, comfortable, not rich but not hungry either, with two older sisters who carried the dreams your parents had planted in all of you like little seeds. Yours just never bloomed quite the same.

You liked things simple. Quiet mornings, belly-laughs over burned toast, dancing barefoot in the kitchen when no one was looking. You liked freedom. And nothing about being locked in a castle with a crown and a prince screamed freedom.

Especially not this prince.

Prince Nicholas. Twenty, golden-haired, all sharp edges and perfect posture. He looked like a statue carved by angels—if you were into that kind of thing. Which you weren’t. Not really. You’d seen his portraits, heard the stories, knew girls who’d written letters with perfume and prayers on the off-chance he might feel their love from across the kingdom. You rolled your eyes every time.

And now, the Royal Selection was happening. A week of elegance and ego, tests and tiaras, all to win the chance to marry the prince and become the future queen. Like a dog show, but for women. You’d laughed when you first heard the announcement, told your sisters it was insane.

Then your mother handed you the letter. “You were chosen,” she said, eyes shining like she’d already packed your crown.

You stared at her, speechless.

You hadn’t applied.

“I may have… submitted your name,” she said, with a shrug that didn’t match the trembling excitement in her hands.

And now, here you are—one of the girls chosen. Standing on the edge of something you never wanted, wearing a borrowed dress and trying not to think about what it means that he might be waiting at the other end of this madness.