Morning arrived without mercy.
I sat in the lesson chamber with a book open in front of me, its pages filled with laws, dates, and margins my tutors adored. I saw none of it. The words blurred into one long noise while my mind kept circling the same impossible problem.
How do I tell her?
Not just tell her. Tell her without hurting her. Without making her feel foolish for loving a lie that had a face and a name and a laugh. Without making her think every shared moment had been a trick.
I tried again in my head.
Anastasia, I am the prince.
No. Too cold. Too abrupt.
Anastasia, I lied to you.
Worse.
Anastasia, Kit was never real.
That one made my chest ache. Kit was real. He was the truest version of me.
I rubbed my temple and stared at the same line for the tenth time.
"Your Highness."
I didn't respond.
"Your Highness," the tutor repeated, sharper now.
I looked up. "Yes?"
"What is the third clause of the eastern trade charter?" he asked.
My mind supplied a completely useless answer.
"Honesty," I said.
The room went silent.
The tutor blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"I mean—" I glanced down at the book, words still refusing to arrange themselves. "I don't know."
A collective gasp followed. Princes were not supposed to say that.
The tutor's lips thinned. "You have been distracted all morning."
I nodded. Guilty.
"Again," he said firmly. "Focus."
I tried. Truly. I read the sentence slowly. My eyes followed the ink. And still, Anastasia's face appeared between the lines. Her smile. Her voice. The way she had said she liked me like it was a risk she had already accepted.
What if she feels betrayed?
What if she laughs, not kindly, but sharply?
What if she steps back and calls me Your Highness the way she did yesterday?
The thought made my hands curl into fists under the desk.
"Prince Adrien."
This time it was my history tutor. "Perhaps you would like to share what occupies your thoughts so completely?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it again.
"I am thinking," I said slowly, "about consequences."
The tutor nodded, misunderstanding me entirely. "Good. Then you understand the lesson."
I almost laughed.
Consequences were all I could think about. Not the kind written in books. The kind that lived in someone's eyes when you told them the truth too late.
The bell finally rang, releasing me from the chamber. I stood too quickly, chair scraping the floor.
"Your Highness," one tutor called after me, displeased. "Tomorrow we will repeat today's lesson."
Tomorrow.
My heart stumbled. Tomorrow was when everything would change.
I walked the corridor slowly, rehearsing again.
I could start with the night in the garden. With how I never meant to deceive her. With how being Kit felt like breathing after holding my breath my entire life.
Or I could simply say her name and let the truth fall where it may.
I pressed my palm against the cool stone wall and closed my eyes.
I am afraid, I admitted to myself.
But I am more afraid of losing her to silence.
When I opened my eyes, the palace looked the same as always. Grand. Certain. Unyielding.
But inside me, something fragile and brave was preparing to step forward.
And I prayed she would stay.
* * *
Anastasia woke up with a strange lightness in her chest, the kind that made even the ceiling look brighter than usual. The letter was the first thing she checked. Still there. The rose too, its petals opening just a little more, as if it knew today mattered.
A surprise.
The word echoed through her thoughts while she dressed, while she braided her hair, while she stepped into the corridor.
Every sound made her turn her head. Every footstep behind her made her heart jump.
Kit. Is it him?
She caught herself smiling at nothing and pressed her lips together, failing miserably.
"Why do you look like that?"
Drizella's voice cut in, amused. "Like you swallowed sunshine and forgot how to put it back."
Cinderella glanced up from folding cloth and smiled knowingly. "You've been humming since morning."
Anastasia flushed. "I'm not."
"You are," both sisters said at once.
She opened her mouth to defend herself, then closed it again. It was useless. The happiness was too big to hide, spilling out in small ways. The way she walked faster. The way she paused whenever someone said her name, even if it wasn't the voice she was waiting for.
She kept looking.
In the corridors. In the courtyards. Near the guard posts.
Nothing.
"Waiting for someone?" a maid teased gently as Anastasia nearly bumped into her while turning too quickly.
"No," Anastasia replied too fast, then laughed awkwardly. "I mean… just distracted."
The palace buzzed louder with every hour. Servants whispered excitedly. Flowers, ribbons, decorations arrived with trunks and expectations.
Everywhere we went, the same topic followed us like a song we couldn't escape.
"The trial will decide everything. Our prince's would be wife and our future queen."
"The queen is serious this time."
"They say the prince himself will be watching closely."
Anastasia slowed near a column, listening despite herself.
A group of ladies spoke in hushed but eager voices. "The future queen must be perfect. Grace, lineage, obedience."
"Imagine the honor."
Anastasia's smile dimmed for just a moment.
The prince.
The trial.
Cinderella.
A thought slipped in, unwanted but persistent. What if the story changes too much? What if Cinderella doesn't marry the prince at all? What happens then?
She found Cinderella later in the garden, kneeling beside a patch of flowers, dirt on her fingers, face peaceful. Cinderella looked up and smiled when she noticed Anastasia.
"These roses are growing well," she said happily. "I think they like it here."
Anastasia watched her sister for a long moment. Cinderella looked lighter than she ever had. Calmer. No longing in her eyes, no quiet sadness waiting to be noticed.
She's happy now, Anastasia realized.
Not waiting. Not wishing.
Just living.
The worry eased, dissolving like mist under sunlight. Whatever the story decided, Cinderella was not fragile glass waiting to be placed on a pedestal. She was blooming right where she stood.
Anastasia exhaled and smiled back. "They suit you."
As the day stretched on, her impatience returned full force. Every call of her name made her spin around. Every shadow made her hope.
She didn't care that people whispered. She didn't care that Drizella laughed or that Cinderella raised amused brows.
Something was coming.
And her heart was already running toward it.
By the time evening neared, she stood near a window, fingers curled against the sill, eyes fixed on the path below.
Hurry, she thought, not knowing who she was begging.
Just… hurry.
The prince stood before the mirror, fingers tightening around the edges of the guard's jacket. The fabric felt heavier tonight, as if it knew this was the last time he would wear it for her. Kit. Just Kit. No crowns. No distance. Only the truth waiting at the end of the corridor.
He adjusted the wig, took a steady breath, and stepped out.
Every turn of the hallway felt familiar now, memorized through longing. He imagined Anastasia's face when he would finally say it. Not all at once, he decided. Gently. Carefully. Like setting fragile glass on a table and hoping it wouldn't shatter.
He had just quickened his pace when a voice stopped him cold.
"Running somewhere?"
Rowan emerged from the side passage, arms crossed, expression already apologetic.
"Not now," the prince said sharply. "I'm late."
"The queen wants to see you. Immediately."
The words landed like a locked door.
The prince clenched his jaw.
"If I go now, everything will fall apart. You know that."
Rowan sighed. "I do. But knowing and changing it are two different things."
"What about our plan?" the prince demanded in a low voice. "You said I should tell her. Today."
"And I meant it," Rowan replied. "But truth does not outrun a queen's order. Change. Come quickly." He paused, softer now. "I'll handle what I can."
Then Rowan turned and walked away, footsteps already carrying the weight of inevitability.
The prince stood frozen for a heartbeat, anger burning sharp and sudden. With a frustrated growl, he reached up and pulled the wig from his head, fingers threading through his real hair as if that might steady him.

At that exact moment, footsteps approached from the adjoining corridor.
Anastasia rounded the corner, her smile already forming, eyes bright with expectation.
Then she stopped.
The guard was there.
But the guard was not a guard.
Her breath caught as she saw the face she knew too well, uncovered and unmistakable. The crownless prince stood before her, anger still flickering in his eyes, the discarded wig clenched in his hand.
Time seemed to tilt.
Anastasia stared.
And the truth, no longer waiting, stood exposed between them.
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SIDE NOTE: Don't kill me if the next chapter will be too much. Just saying. 😅
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