Chapter 3Amelia
Chapter 3
Amelia
“Is that everything?” the vendor asks, wrapping the sandwich in paper.
“Yes. Just the ham and cheese, please,” I reply, trying to sound like I buy my own food from bakeries every day of my life.
He nods, holding out his hand. “That’ll be eight euros.”
I hand over the crumpled bill. No gloves. No bowing. No Will that be all, Your Royal Highness? Just a simple transaction between two ordinary people.
It’s nothing short of thrilling.
When you've lived your entire life in the spotlight from the very moment you entered the world, with enough stupid rules to make even the strictest teacher rub their hands together in glee, strutting down this beautiful Tleurbonne street in my favorite scuffed high tops— gasp! —while eating a sandwich purchased from a bakery? Well it feels like I'm starring in my own personal revolution.
A princess revolution.
I take my first bite, the still-warm bread crunching perfectly against the melted cheese and savory ham. Oh, my goodness. This might be the best sandwich I've ever eaten, and I’ve had many meals prepared by a Michelin chef. The palace chef would faint if he knew I was eating food prepared by someone without a team of health inspectors monitoring every move.
Rule number 257: A princess never eats food while walking down the street.
Well, there goes another rule broken, and I've barely even started my adventure.
As I wander down the busy street, people actually bump into me. And some don’t even say sorry! Nobody curtsies. Nobody has called me “ma’am” or insisted I replace my jeans and sneakers with a conservative nun-like dress and sensible heels.
My security detail would be having a collective heart attack watching me wade through this river of humanity.
But I'm too busy grinning like a tween who's just discovered their parents’ Wi-Fi password.
And yes, I’ve broken Rule number 443: Never travel without security detail . But this feeling is nothing short of exhilarating! And besides, how can I truly be myself while being watched constantly by men in dark suits and sunglasses with grim looks on their faces?
Today, I’m just another young woman, casually strolling through the city streets of Tleurbonne, enjoying the warmth of the day and the beauty of the city, spending a few pleasant hours before my train is due to leave to whisk me away to meet the man I hope will prove to be my grand love.
The thought of finally, finally meeting Greg tonight has my belly positively swooping.
His last message keeps playing in my head. I can't wait to see those beautiful eyes of yours in person.
He doesn't even know I'm royal. In fact, he thinks I'm a lady's maid at the palace. But he's still interested in me, the real me. Not my title, not my family connections. Just Amelia.
Or “Mia,” as he calls me online.
Two months of late-night messages sharing our dreams—his vineyard expansion and my carefully generic aspirations so as not to give away my true identity. Two months of him sending me photos of sunsets from his terrace with captions like How I wish you were here.
No one’s ever wanted just me before. They’re always looking for an angle, a way to use me to get what they want.
I remember making a new friend in my first few days at boarding school when I was 13 years old, only to overhear her mother telling her to use “the princess connection” in whatever way she could.
That’s what makes Greg so special. He’s interested in me . Not my royal blood. Not my family’s money or position.
Just me.
And I’m going to meet him at a bar overlooking the sea at sunset tonight! Will he be nervous? Will his voice sound the same as it does in the voice messages he sends, that delicious deep rumble with his Malveauxian accent?
I've imagined our first meeting a hundred different ways: him standing as I approach, his eyes lighting up with recognition, perhaps taking my hand or even pulling me against him into a hug. Not because I'm Princess Amelia of Ledonia, but because I'm the woman he's been connecting with all these months. The woman who laughs at his terrible jokes and sends him song recommendations and who finally worked up the courage to escape the confines of her life just to meet him.
It was easy enough to give Stefania the slip at the airport last night. I pretended I’d forgotten my passport, sending her ahead to the meditation center while I “arranged” for the royal jet to come back and get me later. By the time she realized I wasn’t coming, she’d be committed to twenty-eight days of silence.
Just to be safe, I messaged her that I’d been unexpectedly called back to Ledonia, and that I’d see her next month on her return when I begged her to tell me all about the retreat.
She’ll be none the wiser, and I’ll be free.
I’ve switched my phone off and bought a new one, complete with a new number no one knows. Well, no one other than Max, that is. I sent him a quick message, telling him that if he absolutely had to, he could reach me on this number but only if it was a life-or-death emergency.
He responded in his typical Max way, telling me not to get myself murdered or taken hostage because he was unlikely to pay the ransom.
Brothers.
After leaving my suitcase at a storage space at the main train station, just as the travel sites recommended I do, I meander down a narrow cobblestone street, pausing to smell the flowers outside a florist. I’ve sat in the sun and munched on a delicious pastry and drunk a rather horrible cup of Malveauxian tea—to which I promptly added several teaspoons of sugar to make it palatable. I’ve marveled at the city’s grand Gothic cathedral, trailed my fingers through the water in the famous Fontaine de Lumière, and meandered through a pretty city park, its majestic trees towering above me, making me feel small and insignificant.
I’m enjoying the sun on my face, dreaming about Greg, when I spot several members of what look like paparazzi charging toward me at a rapid rate of knots.
No! They can’t have spotted me! I’ve only been gone for twelve hours. How could they know I’m here when I’m meant to be on my way to some remote mountainous spot in India to not talk for a month?
Desperate, I take flight, bumping into an elegant middle-aged woman, weighed down with shopping. “I’m so sorry!” I call over my shoulder in my best Malveauxian as I dart around the corner. I spot a door of a nearby shop and fly inside, closing the door firmly behind me, my heart beating double time.
I peer through the glass to see them charging down the street, passing me by.
I let out a relieved breath. My adventure could have been over before it had even begun!
Amelia: one. Paparazzi: zero.
I turn to look at what sort of shop I’ve come into, and spot rows and rows of unusual clothes. Mannequins are dressed as pirates, another as Marilyn Monroe in her famous subway dress, and another as what could only be described as a question mark.
It’s a costume shop.
Serendipitous? I think so.
What runaway royal doesn’t need a good disguise when the paparazzi are hot on her tail?
Gambling on the public not recognizing me in jeans and a T-shirt was clearly amateur. I need to step up my game, and I’ve accidentally landed in the perfect spot.
“Can I help you, miss?” an older man with a balding head and thick salt and pepper sideburns asks me in a doubtful tone.
Miss not Your Royal Highness . It’s a good start.
“Yes, I’d like a costume, please,” I say in Malveauxian as I step further into the shop, the anxiety from only moments ago disappearing into the ether.
“Well, I’d say you’re in the right place then,” he replies with a kind smile, and I like him instantly. “What did you have in mind?”
Before I have the chance to reply, there’s a crashing sound as someone bursts through the door, toppling over the mannequin in Marilyn Monroe’s famous dress.
Oh no! The paparazzi are here!
I’m seized by panic. I grab the closest thing to hand, a blur of orange and black, and reply hurriedly, “This one. I’ll take it to the changing rooms right now.” I make a beeline for the back of the shop, collecting the first wig I can find before I pull back the curtain and leap inside, my heart pounding like an electronic drum machine at a dance party.
Once safely inside, I catch my breath.
It’ll be okay , I tell myself. They didn’t get a good look at me. They think I’m halfway across the globe. And they’ve never seen me in jeans. I’m fine. Totally fine.
Carefully, I peel back the curtain, just enough so I can see who’s out there, but they can’t see me. I’m shocked to spot a tall man rushing toward me with a determined look on his face, his jaw locked.
The shop proprietor calls after him. “Sir? Can I help you, sir?”
The guy ignores him. He's getting closer and closer to me. I glance around in wild desperation, heart thudding, mind racing, panic rising and rising… until he darts into the neighboring stall and pulls the curtain over with a dramatic woosh!
What the…?
I blow out a breath, my frantic heartbeat beginning to return to normal.
This escaping the palace thing is so much more nerve-wracking than I ever anticipated.
He wasn’t looking for me. He's not paparazzi. He's just some guy in a hurry who needs a costume. A grim, anxious looking guy who needs a costume at that.
I wonder what his story is.
But I've got my own fish to fry, as my lady’s maid, Theresa, puts it. Not that I’ve ever fried a fish. Princess, remember? We’re too busy holding our pinkie fingers out as we sip tea from fine china cups.
Gingerly, I pull the curtain open a crack and check the rest of the shop. Other than the now somewhat confused proprietor, thanks to not one but two of his customers making a hasty beeline for his changing rooms, the place is empty. I let out a relieved breath. They weren't following me. No one knows I'm here.
I'm safe.
I close the curtain over again and inspect the items I hastily grabbed as I flew in here. I've got a bright orange costume with big black dots that looks something like Fred Flintstone from the movie would wear, and a long blonde wig.
How incognito would I be if I stepped out of this shop dressed as a character from a Flintstone movie? It would be like wearing a huge target on my back with the words “runaway royal right here” in bold letters.
I collect the items and pull back the curtain.
“How were those, miss?” the proprietor asks, and I notice he has a name tag which reads René.
“Not right, thank you, René,” I say, handing him the costume.
“Did you want other Flintstone costumes to try?” he asks and then adds tentatively, “Perhaps one for a woman? Betty or Wilma? Or Pebbles, perhaps?”
“Actually, I've decided against going to this party as a Flintstone,” I reply, looking around.
It would need to be a much more realistic costume than something from the time when humans and dinosaurs supposedly cohabitated in a town called Bedrock. Something an everyday person would wear.
My eyes land on a pink cowgirl costume, complete with a matching pink hat. No. Margot Robbie already did that one in the Barbie movie.
“What do you have for women my size, René?” I ask.
“That depends on what you're looking for. Something like this, perhaps?” He pulls a costume from a nearby rack that looks something akin to a swimsuit, only skimpier. “Might I suggest Wonder Woman?”
Yes, great idea.
I shake my head.
“A Playboy Bunny?” He holds up an equally skimpy costume, this one with a bunny’s tail and ears.
Seriously?
A firm shake of my head.
“Sexy nurse?” This time René shows me a costume with a little more material, but low enough cut that the world could see right down to my navel.
Another shake of my head.
“What about a sexy angel?” He pulls out another white costume, this time with a split that could quite well reach my navel from the other direction.
Before he has the chance to offer me another sexy costume—a sexy embalmer, perhaps?—I say, “I'm looking for a costume with a little more… material. Something I could wear to a children's party, for example.”
Aka, something that leaves a little more to the imagination than these tiny pieces of fabric posing as costumes.
“Oh. I understand. I've taken you to entirely the wrong section. Come this way, miss.”
I follow René, reminding myself that in a few short hours I’ll be safely on a train to meet Greg. The right disguise could be the difference between freedom and being dragged back to the palace in disgrace, a laughingstock, as I’m sure that woman Fabiana Fontaine will refer to me. Or worse.
As we move toward the back of the shop, I catch a glimpse of the determined man in the adjacent changing room. His expression is still tense.
For a moment, our eyes meet in the mirror, and I offer him a smile, saying, “Hello.”
He doesn’t smile back.
Rude.
I push him from my mind, focusing on the task at hand. Princess Amelia might be recognizable out there, but whoever emerges from this shop won't be. And that new person is that much closer to the coast, to that bar by the sea, and to Greg.
That much closer to the possibility of love.