Chapter 19Amelia
Chapter 19
Amelia
Of all the pubs in all the towns in all of Malveaux, we had to walk into one hosting a quiz about my family. What are the odds?
Low, I’m sure. Infinitesimal, even.
But you know what? I’m glad it happened, because it means I get to finally open up to Maverick about who I am. I need to be fully honest. Vulnerable.
I blow out a breath.
Will he hate me?
Will he think I've been playing some elaborate prank?
Will he think less of me for lying?
Not that it matters what he thinks. Except, of course it matters. It matters tremendously. What Maverick thinks of me is… well, right now, it’s everything.
Mummy always says honesty is the best policy. Though I doubt she meant “confess your fake identity to a man you have feelings for while on an unauthorized holiday from your real life.”
The fact of the matter is, as exciting as it’s been to pretend to be someone else, the closer I’ve got to Maverick, the more I’ve felt like a fraud.
I’ve not been my authentic self.
I’ve not fully been me .
I suppose I’ve wanted the best of both worlds: working at the café, sharing a house with Maverick, enjoying the anonymity of being a regular person, but at the same time being Amelia.
Not the princess. The woman.
Right now, as I look at the expectant and concerned look on his face, I’m like a shaken bottle of champagne, ready to pop.
"Do you want to go back to the house and talk?" he asks, and I shake my head.
“No. I need to tell you now, before my resolve melts faster than ice cream at a summer garden party.”
He gives me an inquisitive look.
“That happened at a garden party I was at one summer. It made a terrible mess,” I explain, wondering why I’m babbling on when I should just get to the point.
He reaches out and I slip my hand in his, marveling at how small it feels, wrapped protectively in his big, strong hand. “You can tell me anything, Amy. Anything at all.”
I nod, pressing my lips together as my nerves jangle.
Maverick waits quietly for me to speak. He's giving me space. I would appreciate the gesture more if it didn't make what I'm about to do even harder.
There’s no use dragging this out like a particularly dreary state dinner.
Do it, Amelia!
I take a breath and say, “I'm not quite sure how to tell you this, so I think I'm just going to come straight out with it.”
“Sure. Whatever you want.” His eyes are kind, which is both lovely and utterly devastating.
Am I about to hurt him, this man I’ve got feelings for, feelings that are growing day by day?
I look him squarely in the eye. “The reason I can't do all the things regular people do every day isn't because I have some strange affliction caused by my mother. Well, not exactly. It's because I'm ... I'm a princess. An actual, literal, tiara-wearing princess. And I've never had to cook or clean or serve people or any of the things I do every day now because there are people who do that for us. Which sounds absolutely ridiculous and elitist now that I'm saying it because I work in a café, but there it is. The truth.”
I hold my breath. He looks at me with that adorable half-smile, waiting for the punchline. When I say nothing more, he asks, “A princess of what?”
Ugh . He thinks I'm joking. Well, to be fair, it does sound like the opening line to a particularly unimaginative fairy tale.
“What I'm trying to tell you is that I'm a princess. As in a member of a royal family.” I speak in slow, measured tones to ensure he gets every word.
"How does that work exactly?" he asks, his brows drawing together.
"How does it work?” Odd question, but I’ll run with it. “Well, I suppose it works because I was born into the royal family, and that automatically made me a princess.”
I'm not being deliberately obtuse, but really, how else does one become a princess?
“Back up the bus here. Is this a joke or what?”
"I'm trying to tell you the truth, Maverick." I meet his gaze directly. "My name isn't Amy. It's Amelia. Amelia Astrid Kristiana Eugenie Canossa, Princess of Ledonia."
He gawks at me, and I can practically see the cogs turning behind those beautiful blue eyes. I can't blame him. Why would a grown woman make up a story about being a princess?
"Are you serious?" he finally asks. "I mean, to be fair, it would explain a lot."
"What would it explain exactly?" I ask, feeling oddly affronted. Does he think princesses are all bumbling idiots who can't operate coffee machines? Because if so, he might actually be right, at least in my case.
"It's just that you have this whole wide-eyed thing going on, like everything is new and exciting to you, even the most boring things."
I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment. Is that how he sees me? As some sort of royal fish out of water, gawking at peasant life like it's a zoo exhibit?
"I thought you were just a super enthusiastic person," he continues. “But now? Now maybe it makes sense."
I take another deep breath. In for a penny, in for a crown.
"I am the third-born daughter of King Frederic and Queen Astrid of Ledonia. My older brother, Alexander, is married to Madeline, the Queen of Malveaux. My older sister, Sofia, is also married, and she is my father's heir, so she will be Queen of Ledonia when Father retires at sixty-five.”
“Me? I'm just plain old Princess Amelia. I won't be queen of anything, and I'm unlikely to marry any heir to a throne because there simply aren't any more left." I attempt a laugh that comes out more like a nervous hiccup.
Maverick leans back on his heels, crossing his arms. "Prove it."
I bite my lip until my mind lands on an idea. “You noticed the sticker on my luggage. Remember? That's covering up my family crest, the Royal Ledonian Crest. It features a pheasant, the national bird. I can show it to you when we get home."
He doesn't look convinced. I can't blame him. Expensive luggage with crests doesn't make one royal—though in my family's case, it certainly helps.
"Even better, I'll show you on my phone." I pull my phone from my purse and tap through to the royal family's Instagram account. I turn the screen toward him, displaying a photo from last month's charity gala. It’s of me with my hair in an elaborate updo, wearing a simple but unmistakably expensive dress, with appropriate princess-approved makeup.
My facial features, however, are unmistakably the same.
Maverick takes my phone and stares at it for a long moment. Then he looks up at me, his jaw dropped. “You're … you’re telling the truth.”
“I told you,” I reply, but there's no satisfaction in being right.
I've spent my entire life following the rules, pleasing others, being what everyone needs me to be. The one time I tried to break free—to just be plain Amy, and most certainly not Princess Amelia—I've ended up hurting someone I've come to care about deeply.
The irony isn't lost on me. I ran away to find something genuine, and now, when I’ve finally found it, it’s been built entirely on a lie.
He knows my biggest and worst secret. The thing I’ve been holding close to my heart, protecting my privacy like a lioness protects her cub.
Maverick is still staring at me with those impossibly blue eyes of his, waiting for me to say something more. But all I can think is that I've finally found someone who sees me—the real me. The person beneath the title and the privilege and the royal protocol. Me, plain Amelia.
And I might have just ruined it forever.