Nobody Wants A Dirty Princess

Princess Lyxie’s bedroom looked like it had been carved from a dream.

Soft candlelight glowed from delicate crystal sconces, dancing across gold-leafed paneling and mirrored walls that reflected every shimmer. The ceiling was high and domed, a sweeping oval of soft clouds painted into the plaster, surrounded by ornate gold trim. Above her bed, a chandelier dripped with crystals—like frozen starlight—casting tiny rainbows onto the stone floor below.

Her bed was massive, wide enough to drown in, layered with satin sheets and dozens of hand-stitched pillows in shades of ivory and pale champagne. The headboard curled in soft baroque arches, upholstered with tufted velvet and carved gold detailing that framed her like a portrait whenever she lay against it. A large satin bench rested at the foot of the bed, often covered in gowns, cloaks, or Lyxie herself when she was too tired to finish undressing.

Around the room, elegant drapes—soft as breath—cascaded from gilded rods, framing tall windows that looked out over the garden. The windows themselves were etched with soft floral designs, and at night, when the moonlight poured in, the whole room shimmered silver.

There were flowers everywhere—soft cream roses, pale blush peonies, clusters of preserved hydrangeas in crystal vases. The air always smelled faintly of honeysuckle.

A velvet chaise sat beneath one window, nestled beside a stack of her favorite books, and her dressing table was scattered with jeweled combs, perfume bottles, and enchanted trinkets—half of them gifts, the other half things she couldn’t bear to throw away.

Everything about the room was soft. Feminine. Warm.

Lyxie was eighteen years old, a princess by blood, a romantic by nature.

She had been engaged since before she could walk—her future laid out for her in treaties and signatures, names she barely understood. But Lyxie? Lyxie lived in the in-betweens.

She was the kind of girl who skipped her last few lessons to dance barefoot by the river, her skirts hitched up, paintbrush in hand and color smeared on her fingers like spells. The kind of girl that had hidden books stolen from the library, romances, spicy, erotic, forbidden. The kind of girl who slipped away after midnight to swim alone in the castle’s lake, the water lapping at her skin like silver magic under the moon. She’d float on her back, eyes to the stars, heart full of wishes.

She loved gowns more than crowns, spent hours twirling in her mirror, trying on dress after dress, wondering which one she’d wear the day she finally met her prince. Would he recognize her right away? Would she glow? Would her heart know before her mind did?

She hoped so.

Because beneath all the dreaming, the silk, and the soft rebellion, Lyxie still believed in love. Real love. The kind that feels like lightning and honey all at once. The kind that finds you when you’re barefoot and laughing and not expecting it at all.