We are in hiding.

Sort of.

Okay, fine, we're just avoiding having to speak to our father. You know? The king. No big deal.

Gemma's dressing table is strewn with make up, jewellery, and hair products, an embossed cream envelope sitting among them. Unopened.

I'm dying to know what it looks like but trying really hard not to pry.

"The invitations went out today, yes?" I might not be the best at not prying. I really should have insisted on my own invitation.

"Yes," she sighs, hand shaking as she clicks open her Instagram feed.

I get up to look over her shoulder, so sue me. Her notifications are a flood of photographs. All slightly different, but each with a prominent invitation in clear view.

She pauses on the third picture down, an invitation sitting amongst a variety of desserts with a glass of wine barely visible in the corner.

"His Royal Highness Prince Antonio Gabriele Emiliano Salvatore of Manarola is cordially invited to a grand ball in celebration of the thirtieth birthday of Her Royal Highness The Princess Anabella Francesca Noemi Gemma of Tilcara." My elder sister reads the invitation off the prince's instagram with a groan. "And it's blue. Of course they made the invitation fucking blue."

"Well, they added a lovely little rose, like you asked," I point out, fastening my favourite necklace and sitting down at my own dressing table now that my curiosity is sated.

"In a slightly darker blue, almost too small to even see. Why do they make me sit through these design meetings when they are not going to take my advice?" Gemma groans.

"So they can see what kind of shenanigans they're going to have to prevent when you become queen," I suggest. "You know, how soon are they going to start looking for a new job. That kind of thing."

"Awe, look, that friend of yours was selected from the pool this time," Gemma turns her phone around to show me the smiling brown-haired Enzo, holding up his invitation and a huge confetti sticker underneath. The image is captioned, 'This is the best invitation I've had all year. Finally made it out of the pool and into the ball.'

There are literally hundreds of comments telling him he deserves it and asking for pictures of his outfit. Because of course there are. I wouldn't expect any different.

There's also a couple asking about the routine he uses to keep his hair so healthy-looking and at least three asking him to check his DMs.

"That's nice," I reply. Because it's no big deal.

Except it is a big deal. "Of course it would be your ball and not mine." I sag into my chair dramatically.

"You want to take it over?" She jokes. "I'll gladly give it up."

"Not in a million years, Gemma."

"You know you could just invite him to your ball, right? There's no law that says he has to wait in the pool." She turns her phone back and hums a little tune. "I'm liking his post. Oh! There's another picture." She turns the phone even further away from me.

On purpose.

Like she's hiding something.

"Well, what is it?" I race back across the room and try to peek over her shoulder, but she clasps the phone to her chest.

"It's nothing," she snaps. "I was wrong."

"Why are you hiding it, then?" I raise my eyebrow and she crumbles beneath my stare.

"Fine," she sighs. "I'm not showing you because I don't want you falling back in love with him or whatever."

"I was never in love with him," I correct her, a little more forcefully than I probably should have. "And even if I was, I will have you know I am perfectly capable of not falling in love with people just because I see a picture of them."

Her lips pull together in a little smirk. "I warned you," she says, turning her phone around to reveal a glistening picture of Enzo pulling himself up out of a beautiful outdoor pool, muscles rippling in the sun. All the girls are going to comment on that. Maybe I should too, but I'm looking at his face, carefree and relaxed. Warm.

"Oh, God." I need to look away.

I cannot look away.

Why can't I stop staring at him?

"I told you not to look," Gemma protests, still not turning her phone away from me, leaving Enzo's beautiful face staring back at me.

"Which basically guarantees I have to look," I shout, pushing the phone back into her hands. "You've been my sister for twenty-seven years; surely you must know that."

"I do," she smirks and returns to her scrolling.

Just like that she's acting like nothing even happened. She's back to her carefree perusal of the country's reaction to her invitations, waiting patiently for our hair stylist to show up and complete her look.

I pull my own chair as far away as possible, scraping it along the stone floor, and then plop down and cross my arms in a huff. "You are truly evil, sister."

"I have always wanted to be an evil queen," she muses, peering out the window that overlooks the lake. "Do you think I could pull it off?"

"Would you like the truth or the answer I would give my queen?" I tease.

"I'd hope by now they are both the same thing."

I sit up a little straighter and dip my head in a little bow. "One is far more dignified."

"The truth, then," she says, throwing her comb down onto the table. "No queen shit yet."

"You asked for it. Remember that."

She doesn't say anything, so I continue. "No, I don't think you could pull off 'evil queen', Gemma. You're about as terrifying as a puppy fresh from the groomer."

"Thanks." If she had a tomato, she'd probably be throwing it at me right now. "I appreciate everything you do for the realm, Erica. You better hope Daddy knights you or whatever before he croaks because I am not going to do it."

"You'd better hope Daddy croaks long before knighting me or whatever or else his plan to marry you off might actually work. The things you can get away with when you're the King are atrocious."

"I could just abdicate," she points out. "I do have a way out of his control."

"You can't do that! It'll just throw me into his control. Plus, you know how I feel about you abdicating just because you don't want kids. You'll be a way better queen than me and I expect you to follow through with that plan. You do the queen shit and I'll raise the kids. Remember?"

"I remember. The trouble is I'm not sure our father remembers."

"And by that you mean he definitely remembers because we bring it up every third day."

"Exactly. And he always says, 'That is quite out of the question,' as though that answers anything.

"Then he sips his red wine and then his water. It's a process."

"Precisely. And this ball." She picks up the still unopened invitation sitting on her dressing table and waves it around her head, embossed envelope catching the light from the chandelier. "This is to find me a king. Which will be so fun."

This conversation is really making me feel like I should have paid more attention in class. "Surely he can't actually make you marry someone."

"Law says he can set up an engagement and I must provide 'serious consideration' but there's no way for him to actually force me down the aisle besides good old fashioned familial guilt."

"Good thing that doesn't work on us," I laugh, sitting down beside her and pulling my robe on. "You ready to get prettied up and meet the people?"

"I'm always ready to have my hair done and meet our people."

"And that is why you are going to make a much better queen than me. I much prefer Hot Pockets in my pyjamas."

"You don't mind the hair, though." She hands me a comb with beautiful blue gems.

"I definitely do not. Mm. Or the Royal Chef. Can I keep him when I move out?"

"Why do you need to move out? There's like sixty apartments here and I'm having trouble filling them as it is."

"Because a girl needs to get away from her controlling father now and again."

"The goal is to get away from our father? Are you planning to move to a non-extradition country, then? Are we at war with anyone at the moment?"

"You think that would work?"

"No." She admits. "But it's probably your best shot."

"Hmm. Guess I'll live at home for now, then. Maybe I can entice new tenants with Chef's baked goods."

"If anything will work, it's that."

Three quick raps on the door are all the warning we have before our butler, Santino, pushes the door open without a word. Usually he waits for us to answer.

"Oh good. Our hairdresser has finally arrived," Gemma says, sliding her phone into the pocket of her robe.

But it isn't our hair stylist. It's our father.

He pushes into the room with a punishing pace and shouts, "Get dressed, girls. We are all needed urgently." I haven't seen him move this fast since...

"Holy shit, Gemma, did I just manifest a war?"

I look at Gemma, but it's my father who answers. "Do not joke, Erica. Get dressed and meet me downstairs. If you haven't arrived in fifteen minutes, I'm sending Santino back up here to drag you down. And if that doesn't work, I'll fire him."

Blast my sometimes occasional ethics. I actually like Santino. "Fine. We'll be down once we're appropriately attired," I answer. "Quick as we can, I promise."

"What is appropriately attired?" Gemma asks once she thinks our father is out of earshot. "I don't know what we're supposed to be preparing for."

"Put on your dress and I'll send your stylist up to manage that mess of hair." His voice booms from the hallway. "Be quick about it. Our guest does not like to be kept waiting."

And then, with a slam of the door, he's gone for real.

"At least it's not a war, then." I laugh, turning to Gemma.

"I'm pretty sure it's worse." Her face is pale as a ghost. "I think I know who's downstairs." 

~ * ~ Author's Note ~ * ~ 

Well, there it is! Chapter One of my beautiful, hilarious princesses! I'm so excited to tell this story and I hope you love them as much as I do! Any guesses who's downstairs? 

~ * ~ Check out my other ONC Novellas on my profile now! ~ * ~

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