The moment Emii stepped into the dining hall, her soul hummed the national anthem of foodies.
The table was an architectural marvel, draped in white silk and glittering under a chandelier that likely cost more than her entire apartment building. Dozens of silver-covered dishes waited like treasure chests.
"Oh yes," she whispered, her palms itching. "Finally, a perk to this royal prison. Come to Mama, my beautiful biryani. Come to me, my spicy butter paneer. Let me cry happy tears into a curry."
She sat with a practiced grace she didn't know she possessed and lifted the first lid.
She froze.
Inside sat... boiled carrots. Just carrots. Pale, limp, and lonely.
She lifted the next. Broccoli. Steamed into submission.
The next revealed a horrifying parade of "wellness": raw spinach, bland broth, and juices with names that sounded like they belonged in a yoga retreat. Detox Green Delight. Organic Sunrise.
Emii's soul left her body.
"What... what kind of funeral is this?" she whispered. "Where is the spice? Where is the joy? I would settle for a single samosa crumb!"
She glared at the table. This wasn't a meal; it was a crime scene.
"Sister?" Her brother's voice broke through her internal meltdown. He was sitting at the far end, his eyes cautious. "I hope you don't mind. I made sure they prepared all your favorites. You've always been so... dedicated to your light meals for your health."
Emii's lips twitched into a mechanical smile. "My... what? Oh. Yes. Light meals. My absolute favorite. I just love eating tasteless plants. Truly. Yummy."
[ Host, remember—stay in character. ]
"Shut up," she hissed through her teeth, stabbing a cucumber slice as if it owed her money. If this was the royal life, she wanted her middle-class parathas back. This wasn't dinner; it was punishment served in fancy porcelain.
She caught the whispers of the maids in the corner.
"Why is she being so civil today?" one hissed.
"She's probably going to drain his accounts again. Can't she see how thin he's gotten? How cruel can one sister be?"
Emii ignored them, her mind racing. If she had to survive this novel, she couldn't do it on boiled hope and green juice.
"Brother?"
The young man looked up, startled. Is she going to ask for that patent for the white-haired boy again? he wondered. No matter. Whatever she wants, I will give.
"Umm... Brother? Can I cook dinner for us tonight?"
The table went silent. A maid actually dropped a spoon.
"Cooking? You?"
"Yes. I promise I won't poison it. It will be edible—mostly."
"I—I didn't mean that!" he stammered, his face flushing. "It's just... you haven't touched a stove since we were children. What if you burn yourself? No, let the cooks handle it."
Emii leaned forward, her eyes locking onto his. "Brother... don't you trust me?"
"I... I trust you."
"Then it's settled. Oh—and Brother? On your way back from the office, bring Dravin too."
"Dravin? You want him... here? In our home?"
"Yes. Stop being so dramatic and go to work, or you'll be late."
As she watched him leave, the maids' whispers reached a fever pitch.
"From where did the sun rise today?"
"The Lady has changed... something is very wrong."
Emii didn't care. She looked down at the green juice and smirked. She had a mission to complete, two hundred million to earn, and a fiancé to meet. But first?
She was going to show this kingdom what actual spices tasted like.