I used to think my morning coffee being cold was a tragedy. I was wrong.
A real tragedy is waking up on a cold stone floor that smells like damp laundry and failed dreams, only to realize my expensive manicured nails are gone. In their place are the rough, red, calloused hands of a servant.
"Elara! Get up, you lazy girl! The Prince's chambers won't clean themselves!"
I blinked, staring at the middle-aged woman screaming at me. She wore a stiff gray dress and a face that looked like she'd spent the last decade sucking on lemons. In my past life as a top-tier corporate "fixer," I would have had her HR file on my desk in five minutes.
Here? I was the one about to get fired... or executed.
"The Prince?" I croaked, my throat feeling like I'd swallowed sandpaper.
"Prince Bastian! The one currently drowning in wine and throwing glass bottles at anyone who breathes too loudly!" She shoved a wooden bucket into my hands. The water sloshed, soaking my thin, scratchy apron. "Go. If he kills you, at least it's one less mouth to feed."
I looked at the bucket. Then I looked at the heavy oak doors leading to the royal wing.
In my previous life, I died at my desk at 3 AM after closing a multi-million dollar merger. I had a penthouse, a Porsche, and zero hobbies. Now, apparently, I had a mop and a death wish.
Fine, I thought, my corporate instincts kicking in. If this Prince is 'trash,' then it's time for a professional cleanup. I've handled toxic boardrooms and ego-maniacal CEOs; I can handle one spoiled royal.
I stood up, ignored the ache in my back, and marched toward the Prince's wing.
The hallway to the Prince's room was a disaster. Broken vases, expensive tapestries stained with what looked like expensive red wine, and the lingering scent of a brewery. It was clear the staff had given up on this part of the palace.
I didn't knock. I pushed the double doors open.
Crash!
A silver goblet flew past my head, missing my ear by an inch, and dented the wall behind me.
"I told you to get out!" a voice roared.
The room was dark, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight. In the center of the mess, sprawled across a massive gold-leafed bed, was Prince Bastian. He was undeniably handsome—jawline sharp enough to cut glass, messy dark hair, and a physique that didn't look like it belonged to a lazy drunk. But his eyes were bloodshot, and his silk shirt was half-unbuttoned.
"Your Highness," I said, my voice as cold as a boardroom presentation. "You missed."
The Prince froze. He tilted his head, squinting at me through the gloom. "Who the hell are you? Where is the old woman who usually comes to cry and beg for her life?"
"She was busy. I'm Elara," I said, setting the bucket down with a heavy thud. I walked over to the windows and, with one violent tug, ripped the curtains open.
"Arrgh! My eyes!" Bastian hissed, shielding his face from the morning sun. "Close them! I'll have your head for this!"
"You can have my head after I finish the floor," I snapped, picking up a discarded wine bottle and sniffing it. "Chateau de Valois, 422 vintage? A bit too sweet for a morning bender, don't you think?"
Bastian sat up, his lazy expression flickering for a split second. His eyes weren't just bloodshot; they were calculating. He was watching me with a sharpness that didn't match his 'Trash Prince' reputation.
"You have a lot of mouth for a maid," he muttered, reaching for another bottle.
I stepped forward and kicked the bottle out of his reach. "And you have a lot of acting talent for a Prince. If you're going to pretend to be a useless drunk to keep your siblings from assassinating you, you should at least hide the fact that your hand isn't shaking."
The room went deathly silent. The Prince's lazy posture vanished. In an instant, he was off the bed, his hand gripping my throat, pinning me against the bedpost. He wasn't staggering. He was fast. Lethal.
"Who sent you?" he whispered, his voice like velvet over a blade. "Are you a spy for my brother? Or did my stepmother hire a maid who's too smart for her own good?"
I looked him dead in the eye, even as my lungs burned for air. I gave him the same smirk I used to give CEOs before I bankrupted them.
"I'm just a girl who hates cleaning the same mess twice," I wheezed. "But if you want to win this throne, you're going to need a Fixer. And luckily for you, Your Highness... I'm the best there is."
Bastian stared at me, his grip loosening just a fraction. For the first time in either of my lives, I saw a man who looked truly terrified—not of death, but of being seen.
"Tell me, Elara," he said, his voice low. "Why shouldn't I kill you right now?"
"Because," I coughed, smoothing out my apron. "If you kill me, you'll have to clean this floor yourself. And we both know you don't know which end of the mop to hold."