Prologue

The grand hall of the palace had never been more crowded. Nobles, duchesses, and princesses from all across the neighboring kingdoms stood in elegant clusters, their finest silks shimmering beneath the golden chandeliers. Jewels glistened at their throats, their hair styled to perfection, their perfume-laced presence thick in the air.

They had all come for one reason.

To be chosen as Queen.

Servants flitted between them, offering wine and delicacies, though most of the women ignored them, too preoccupied with their own reflections in the tall silver mirrors that lined the hall.

The queen mother, Maghret, stood near the grand throne, her expression composed, though there was an unmistakable glint of frustration in her eyes. She had spent months selecting the finest noblewomen, ensuring that her son had the most worthy options.

And yet—

He had barely even glanced at them.

Michael, the newly returned King, sat in his throne, expression impassive. His fingers drummed lightly against the armrest, his gaze sweeping over the candidates with all the enthusiasm of a man being forced to watch paint dry.

Maghret exhaled, regaining her composure.

“Michael, my son,” she said gently, “these ladies have waited three days to meet you. Surely, you could—”

“Pick one?” he finished, his tone unreadable.

Maghret hesitated. “…Yes.”

Michael sighed, his gaze briefly flickering to the line of eager, hopeful women before him.

He could already tell what they wanted.

A crown. Power. Prestige.

Not him.

Not really.

He had seen it too many times before. How they flattered and smiled, speaking in carefully measured tones, rehearsed responses dancing from their lips. Women who knew exactly what to say and when to say it. Women who bowed and obeyed, just as they were raised to.

He was not impressed.

A woman with honey-colored hair stepped forward, her emerald gown trailing behind her. She lowered into a graceful curtsy.

“Your Majesty,” she said, her voice as smooth as silk. “It is an honor to stand before you. My father, Duke Harrington, sends his regards.”

Michael gave her a single, disinterested nod.

Another woman stepped forward, this one with raven-black hair and ice-blue eyes. “Your Majesty,” she began, offering him a dazzling smile. “I have spent years studying the royal customs of your kingdom. I believe I would make a fine queen by your side.”

Michael said nothing.

A third woman, blonde and delicate, gave a soft giggle. “Your Majesty, I hear you are quite the warrior. Perhaps you would like a sparring partner?”

A few noblemen chuckled at her audacity.

Michael merely raised a brow. “Do you know how to wield a sword?”

The woman blinked, startled. “…No, but I—”

“Then you are not my sparring partner,” he said flatly.

Her face flushed with embarrassment.

The queen mother winced, stepping forward with a placating smile. “Michael, these ladies have traveled far to—”

“To sit in this hall, preening like birds, waiting to be chosen,” he interrupted, his voice smooth but sharp. His gaze flickered to the line of candidates. “Tell me. Is there even one of you who desires a husband more than a crown?”

Silence.

A few of the women looked at each other, uncertain how to respond. Others remained carefully composed, unwilling to betray even the slightest sign of weakness.

The answer was obvious.

Michael leaned back in his throne, unimpressed.

The queen mother sighed, rubbing her temple. “Michael, please.”

His jaw tightened. He had little interest in playing this game, but he knew his mother would not let it go. If he refused, she would only bring more candidates, more noblewomen trained to be his wife.

He exhaled.

Fine.

If they wanted him to choose, then he would.

But not the way they expected.

His gaze swept over the room once more.

Then—

He spotted a girl near the far end of the hall.

She wasn’t standing in line with the others. In fact, she was busy scrubbing a stain off the marble floor, her sleeves rolled up, her brown hair messily tied back. She seemed completely unaware of the spectacle happening around her.

A servant.

A talkative one, if he recalled correctly.

Michael tilted his head slightly.

Then, to his mother’s absolute horror, he lifted a hand and pointed.

“Her,” he said.

Silence.

Every noblewoman in the room stiffened, eyes widening in shock.

Maghret’s mouth fell open. “Michael—”

The girl—Lylie, if he remembered correctly—froze mid-scrub, slowly turning her head to see where everyone was staring.

She blinked.

Then pointed to herself. “Uh… me?”

Michael nodded once.

Lylie glanced around, then back at him. “You mean the floor, right? Because I agree, Your Majesty, it is quite stunning. Beautiful choice, excellent taste—”

“The girl,” he said, voice firm.

Lylie stared. “Me?” she repeated, this time with more incredulity.

The queen mother stepped forward, her voice urgent. “Michael, she is a maid—”

“And I am the king,” he said smoothly, “which means I choose whoever I want.”

******************

How It All Began

Lylie had always known she was different. Not in a way that made people whisper in admiration, but in a way that made them roll their eyes, shake their heads, and sigh in exasperation.

She talked too much.

About everything and anything. It was both her shield and her downfall.

But even her endless chatter couldn’t drown out the screams inside her head—the echoes of nights stolen from her, the weight of hands she never wanted, the helplessness of knowing that no one would believe her. Her father certainly didn’t. Her stepmother turned away. And her step-uncle? He enjoyed watching her break.

She had no dreams of love or fairytales. She had only one goal—to escape.

The palace job was her only reprieve. As Princess Ayanna’s maid, she had an excuse to leave her miserable home each day. What little she earned, her father wasted on alcohol and trinkets for his wife. But Lylie had her own secret savings, hidden away for the day she could finally give her mother a proper burial.

It was the only thing keeping her going.

But fate had other plans.

Before the Palace

Lylie’s voice filled the cramped kitchen, words spilling out as she scrubbed the floor. She wasn’t talking to anyone in particular—she never was—but silence suffocated her, and speaking was the only way to breathe.

Her stepmother, Marissa, leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Must you always run your mouth, girl?”

Lylie grinned up at her. “Wouldn’t want you to think I was dead, now, would I?”

A rag smacked her in the face.

“Shut up and clean,” Marissa snapped.

Across the room, her stepsisters, Ivy and Celeste, sat at the dining table, lazily picking at their food.

“You know, Mother,” Ivy said, smirking, “I heard if a girl talks too much, no man will ever want her.”

Celeste giggled. “Good thing Lylie won’t have to worry about that. No man in his right mind would take her.”

Lylie rolled her eyes. “Thank the gods for that. Imagine me with a husband who talks less than a brick. I’d die of boredom.”

The girls laughed, but there was venom in their amusement. Lylie had long since built walls to keep their words from cutting too deep.

Her father sat in his chair, as always, ignoring her. She had become a ghost in his house, only acknowledged when necessary.

And then there was Malvin.

Her stepmother’s brother.

The air shifted as he entered, his presence like a shadow creeping in. His eyes raked over her, slow and deliberate, making her skin crawl.

“Good evening, beautiful,” he murmured.

Lylie’s hands clenched into fists.

She hated him.

She hated the way he watched her. The way his fingers always found a way to brush against her arm, her waist, her back when no one was watching. The way her stepmother saw it all and did nothing.

One day, she would escape.

She just never imagined that her ticket out would come wrapped in silk and royalty.

**********

The Day Everything Changed

It happened on an ordinary afternoon.

Lylie was on her way to the market, rambling to herself about how onions cost more than happiness, when she accidentally bumped into someone.

She looked up—and immediately froze.

The woman before her wore deep emerald robes, her posture elegant, her gaze sharp with amusement.

“You certainly have a lot to say,” the woman observed.

Lylie blinked. “It’s a gift.”

The woman chuckled. “Or a curse, depending on who you ask.”

Lylie frowned. “Who are you, anyway?”

The woman arched a brow. “You don’t know who I am?”

Lylie squinted. “Should I?”

A slow smile curled the woman’s lips. “I am the princess of this kingdom.”

Silence.

And then—

“Oh.”

Lylie took a step back, suddenly hyperaware of how she must have looked—dust-covered, apron stained with flour. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to—”

The princess waved a hand dismissively. “Nonsense. I find you refreshing.”

Lylie bit her lip. “Most people find me annoying.”

“Most people are fools.”

Lylie’s mouth opened, then closed. No one had ever called her refreshing before.

“What’s your name, young lady?” the princess asked.

“I’m Lylie. Lylie Foster, Your Majesty.”

The princess studied her for a long moment.

“You have it all,” she mused. “Beauty. Wit. A sharp tongue.”

Lylie snorted. “Most would call that a problem.”

“I call it potential.”

Lylie frowned. “Potential for what?”

A smile played at the princess’s lips.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Lylie tilted her head. “A proposition?”

The princess’s smile widened. “How would you like to become my personal maid?”

Lylie laughed. “Oh, that’s funny.”

The princess didn’t laugh.

Lylie’s smile faltered. “Wait… you’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

And just like that, Lylie’s world changed.