Author's POV
Somewhere between a crown and a clothesline, destiny tripped over its own feet.
In the grand kingdom of Raventhorn, where carriages rolled smoother than apologies and nobles practiced smiling like it was an Olympic sport, two girls lived vastly different lives.
One wore silk.
The other wore stains.
One curtsied because she had to.
The other because she'd dropped something.
They were strangers. Until they weren't.
No one could explain how two girls — born in different worlds with the same face — came to cross paths. Some would call it fate. Others would call it madness. One of them called it a terrible idea wrapped in velvet.
But when the pressure of a royal engagement met the thirst for freedom… when a crown weighed too heavy and a commoner's life felt too small… something impossible became inevitable.
A switch.
A ball.
A prince.
And a plan that was never meant to go smoothly.
This isn't a fairytale.
It's the mess behind the magic.
And it begins… with a royal girl who wanted out.
And a laundry girl who never saw it coming.
***
Evelina's POV
The chandelier overhead shimmered like a constellation, casting flecks of gold onto the long mahogany dining table. Silver clinked gently against fine china, servants gliding along the walls like shadows, silent and trained. The roasted pheasant before me glistened, untouched.
I wasn't hungry. I was suffocating.
The corset I wore was stitched with pearls and guilt — too tight, too perfect. My gown, a deep velvet burgundy, matched the wine in my untouched goblet. My crown had been replaced with combs and braids, but the weight was still there, digging invisibly into my skull.
Across from me, my brother Leo dug into his meal like a soldier after battle. Always relaxed, always oblivious.
My father, King Alaric, cut his meat with ruthless precision, not a stain on his snow-white cuffs. His eyes — sharp, unreadable — flicked occasionally toward me.
And then there was my mother.
Queen Miralda, regal as ever, sat at the head of the table in that way she always did — like she was the table, the room, the crown, the decision.
She waited for the servant to pour her tea.
She took a dainty sip.
And then, calmly, as if commenting on the weather, she said—
> "The Prince arrives next week. You will be ready."
I didn't flinch. I had trained myself not to.
"Which one?" I asked, feigning innocence. "There are always so many floating around. Like bees in heat."
Leo choked on his drink.
Father didn't look amused. "Evelina."
I tilted my head and smiled. "Apologies. Of course you mean Prince Thorne. The one with the brooding stares and iron hands."
"Do not mock this arrangement," my mother said quietly, placing her teacup down with a soft clink. "It is a powerful alliance. You will do your duty."
Ah, there it was. Duty.
My lifelong leash.
"Mother," I said slowly, slicing my pheasant with the grace of a butcher, "how delightful it must be to be a Queen — to have choice, power, influence…"
"You'll have all of those," she replied without missing a beat. "As Thorne's wife. As a future queen yourself."
I forced a smile. "And what a charming man he is. Possessive. Cold. Fond of staring at people like they're property."
"Some women like that," Leo muttered under his breath.
I stabbed my pheasant harder than necessary.
"Your complaints are childish," Father said. "You are not marrying for affection. You are marrying for the kingdom."
The kingdom. The kingdom. Always the bloody kingdom.
I set my knife and fork down and folded my hands in my lap. Inside, my thoughts were wild horses. Outside, I was a doll.
"You want me to spend my life shackled to a man who sees me as a crown and a womb," I said softly. "That is not marriage. That is glorified imprisonment."
My mother's eyes narrowed. "Then make him see otherwise. Charm him. Control him. Use your mind. Or are you saying you're not clever enough for that?"
I bit the inside of my cheek.
"You will marry him," Father said. "And you will behave. Is that clear?"
I nodded. I had no choice.
But in my heart, I was already planning.
Planning my escape.
Planning my switch.
***
Liana's POV
If I had a copper coin for every time someone called me "Cinderella," I'd still be broke — because no one gives coppers to a laundry girl with blistered fingers and a mouth too big for her own good.
But they're not wrong.
Dead father? Check.
Step-mother from the underworld? Check.
Two step-sisters who wear corsets so tight, you can hear their lungs screaming? Double check.
The only thing missing is a fairy godmother, and trust me — if one ever shows up, she better bring more than glass shoes. I want rent money, a new pair of hands, and a one-way ticket out of this dump.
"Liaaanaaa!" screeched the devil in a feathered bonnet — also known as Lady Tressa, my darling stepmother. "You folded Lady Miriam's bloomers like dish rags! AGAIN!"
"I thought that's what they were," I muttered, wringing out another pair of royal-sized underpants. "They're big enough to host tea parties in."
"What did you say?"
"I said, I'll redo them right away, Lady Tressa," I replied sweetly, plastering on the fake smile I'd perfected over the years. The same smile I use when I want to avoid getting slapped with a wooden spoon.
Again.
Behind her, my stepsisters stood in the doorway like two ornamental poodles.
Clara, the older one, was stuffing herself into a corset three sizes too small, making her walk like a penguin with anger issues.
And Mavis, the younger, was swatting at imaginary flies while trying to put lipstick on her teeth.
"We have a royal audition in three days," Clara announced, striking a dramatic pose like anyone cared. "Prince Thorne will be choosing his future wife soon."
"As if he's not already betrothed to the princess," I said, folding sheets and dreams at the same time.
"That's the rumor," Mavis added, twirling like a confused flamingo. "But what if she's ugly? Or smells like soup? Or — oh! — dies mysteriously?"
I blinked. "Remind me never to sleep in the same room as you."
Lady Tressa clapped her hands. "Enough chattering, you three eggshells. Liana, fetch water. Scrub the floor. Clean the attic. Re-dye the curtains. And — oh yes — polish the chamber pots."
"Do you want me to paint the sky while I'm at it?" I asked.
She glared at me like I was a broken teacup.
I sighed and grabbed the bucket. The laundry house behind the cottage smelled like damp dreams and boiled regrets. But it was mine. Sort of. When no one was watching, I'd sneak in there and read moldy books. Or practice pretending I was someone else. Someone royal. Someone free.
I stepped outside, the early morning sun already making me sweat. No burning ball gowns. No fairy dust. Just sweat, soap, and sarcasm.
But something felt... odd today. Like the wind was holding its breath.
And then—
I saw her.
Or rather... me.
Same face. Same dark eyes. Same nose I always said looked like a royal insult. But she stood taller, dressed in silks that whispered when she walked, and wore jewelry I wouldn't touch even in my daydreams.
She blinked at me. I blinked back.
My bucket clattered to the floor.
She tilted her head.
I dropped into a curtsy so fast my knees cracked. "I swear I'm not stealing your face, Your Highness."
She laughed.
And in that one laugh — clear, curious, and maybe a little desperate — I knew:
My life was about to become very, very weird.