I'm so sorry, you guys. I honestly would've gotten more of this done over the Thanksgiving holidays if I hadn't been feverishly trying to finish my short story for English (which rules by the way. We were supposed to have doppelgangers in it. So mine's about a middle-aged man named Gordon Bombay--bank teller by day, harlequin romance novelist by night. Things are all boring yet dandy until one evening when Morgana, a princess from one of his stories, shows up and starts wreaking havoc with his peace of mind.)

An excerpt (cuz I'm super-self-indulgent like that):

He looked uneasily at the doorknob, his hand pausing midway in its journey. Tomorrow's headline flashed before his eyes: "DIMWITTED BANK TELLER MERRILY GREETS SERIAL KILLER—HILARITY DOES NOT ENSUE."

Did he really want his death by the hand of his own pure idiocy be the one event in his life that caused a stir? Picturing the reactions of his friends and family was almost painful. Sure, there would be the ten-minute period where his loved ones would at least pretend to be inconsolable. After that, though, what would stop them from giggling—behind closed doors, if they had a modicum of decency—at his misfortune? Excitement was so rare in the community that the hubbub might keep up for weeks. He would much rather be fondly remembered as the strapping fellow who saved his town from sure peril by soundly defeating a rabid lion using only three toothpicks and an astonishing amount of courage. That man would have no difficulty opening his door to some scoundrel, for one false move, and he would have the bum pinned to the gleaming mahogany floors of his front hall, growling, "I've got your number, punk." Predictably, the coward's bowels would loosen in fear, but such messes were ineffective in daunting heroes.

And now...the story you actually want to read (I think):

Shortly before lunchtime the next day, the limousine pulled up outside Miragnac.

"Wow," Olivia said. "This is a nice house. It's nicer than your palace, Mia. That place is old and dirty."

I hear ya, girl. I've been petitioning for the castle to be torn down and rebuilt with more 21st Century things since I first moved in. But Grandmere says it's 'historical' and that things like the damp, cold feel are just things you get used to with time. But six years later and I still hate it. Plus it's ugly. Miragnac, while still ancient, really is a beautiful mansion since they're not afraid to keep up with the times.

"Yeah," I agreed, helping her out of the car so she could get a better look. "Come on, we'll go see if Grandmere's here."

The door opened and Grandmere stood there beaming at us. I've only ever seen her 'beam' once before, and that was when I turned up at the Palace after having left Michael and Olivia over six years ago. I guess now I know what it really takes to please her.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully, not noticing the fact that as soon as she opened the door Olivia scooted behind my legs. "I must tell you, Amelia, I was a little bit worried you wouldn't turn up. I remember you always used to joke about joining the circus or something ridiculous like that."

I forced a smile, but cringed inside at the fact that I'd had that very thought only twelve hours ago.

"Of course I came. You know how important the crown is to me."

"I'm so proud of you, Amelia," she gushed. Literally. "I never thought the day would come where I could say that without..."

She stopped abruptly and I knew what had caused it. My heart skipped a beat as I spun around to see what it was she was gawking at.

"I got the bags, Mia," Michael called, walking up the stairs laden with all our suitcases.

"Thanks," I told him, turning back around to Grandmere.

After a second of uncouth gawking, she composed herself and addressed him. "Michael. Thank you for bringing their suitcases. You may leave them right there, I'll have someone collect them. I'm sure you don't want to miss your flight."

"What flight?" Olivia piped up, sticking her little head around the corner of my legs. "Where are you going, daddy?"

"Daddy's not going anywhere," I said strongly, trying to maintain eye contact with Grandmere. "He's staying here with us."

If looks could kill, I'd be dead by now.

- - -

Always the perfect princess, Grandmere showed us all to our rooms, though her iron-clad grip on my elbow didn't exactly scream "charming!"

I could feel her eyes on me whenever Michael held my hand. When he would lean over to brush his lips against my cheek. The comfortable way I leaned into him as we walked down the halls.

"Well," she said through gritted teeth. "Though this has all been quite…quite lovely, we must part ways so I may settle your friend in his room."

"Michael's good here, Grandmere," I said, flopping onto the window seat in my usual suite. "Thanks anyway."

It looked as though that single comment was the straw that broke…well, you know. "Amelia, join me out in the hall, would you?"

Michael knew to play it cool. He was assured that I could keep control this time—it was always easier with his hand in mine. Metaphorically and literally. "I'll just unpack our things, babe."

The smile I flashed him didn't stick for very long once Grandmere started in on me. "What," she practically spat in my face, "are you up to, young lady? I was quite clear in my instructions. You and Olivia were to join me here…alone."

"Michael," I glanced up at the closed door cautiously then lowered my voice. "Michael is a part of our family. There's no way we could leave him."

She threw her arms up in frustration. "I don't see why! Really, Amelia, what is all the fuss about this young man? He hasn't got an ounce of royal blood. His table manners are absolutely atrocious. And his equestrian skills? My God! They're downright amusing!"

"My decision is sticking," I told her, my voice hardly shaking at all. "He stays, or Olivia and I don't."

She glanced at her ornate watch and did the Grandmere-equivalent of an eye roll. "Dinner is at seven. We'll talk afterwards. If he must come, seat him far away from me."

Michael made damn sure that I was occupied for the rest of the afternoon. It's funny, ya know. I'm used to having things given to me pretty easily—hideously expensive ball gowns and a well-stocked cabinet of Cap'n Crunch in the palace pantry—but it had been so long since I'd had Michael to dote on me and kiss my neck and whisper sweet things in my ear. This was one thing I didn't deserve because of my parentage. In fact, it made it all the harder.

The same goes for Olivia. I almost lost the both of them because of my title. Ironic, dontcha think? Kind of dispels the old fairytales.

"I feel kinda stupid," murmured Michael in my ear. Understandably. All this fuss he puts up about the privileged life and then he goes and enjoys himself quite nicely between my silk sheets.

I giggled like the silly little schoolgirl I morph into when he's around. "I thought you were the genius."

"I am," he laughed softly. "But I just wish I hadn't spent all those years back in New York, hating you passionately."

Normally, I'm a fan of Michael's passion for me—but this was a bit different. "But it's okay," he continued, grinning at me. "I should've known you wouldn't have walked out. You'd have never just left like that."

Although his expression showed no signs of joking, I couldn't see how he could possibly be serious. Or in a stable state of mind. I walked out! Neither one of us can deny this. It's a fact of life…one I thought we had gotten over!

"You should just tell me the next time your grandmother is making you do things," said Michael, planting a tiny kiss on the tip of my nose. "I'll climb up your hair and save you or something gallant like that."

"I'll bet you could," I replied with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Grandmere is guilty of many things, yes, but she never exactly ORDERED me to leave. It was just about everything surrounding the throne that despoiled our little family union.

He continued on with his little fairy-tale fantasy, oblivious of my squeamish expression. As much as Michael rags on me for being a princess, he seems to find parts of it rather hot. "Poor Mia, all locked up in her tower, reading her fair suitor's letters and wishing he'd rescue her on his white steed."

I rested a hand on his arm, though the warm, fuzzy feeling it gave me did nothing for my dwindling courage. "Michael…I…there's something you should know."

The letters. The stupid letters! Except I'm the idiot. Not according to Michael, though. No, I'm this martyr who's spent years waiting for our blessed reunion.

"I know everything," he laughed. "I know that I love you. I know that your grandmother is easily dominated. And I know that we have the cutest kid on the planet."

I definitely don't feel like a princess right now. I just feel like a slimy brat.

"Now what'd you want to tell me?"

When I opened my mouth though, this weird little croak came out instead of my confession. Is it even possible to lay here sans clothing with the cutest guy you've ever known and completely break his heart?

I guess it must be if I could leave the same guy and our baby to boot.

I'm not a mother. I'll never be one. Not that I don't want to be! God knows I've tried everything possible. Just…I'm too late.

But I won't be too cowardly. "Michael, I read the letters a few weeks ago."

A strange expression crossed his face. But no anger. No outrage. No disgust. Not yet. "You really look over them that often? I must sound like such a dolt."

"No, Michael," I said, taking his hand. Just keep saying his name. Just assure yourself that after this he'll still want to hear his name from your lips. That he'll still want to be like this with you. "I, um, well, whenever you'd send the letters…I'd kind of put them away for safekeeping. I didn't really read them."

For a genius, he sure took long enough to process that. "You mean, like, you skimmed them?"

He didn't seem so eager to hold onto me any more. "Well, no, see…see…I couldn't handle being reminded of you. I was trying to be, like, independent, ya know? My own person…"

Michael didn't say anything for a good five minutes. "I see," he sighed at last, rolling onto his back.

As uncomfortable as I'd been with his showering me with affection—I definitely preferred it to our present predicament. "But that doesn't change how I feel now. I mean, you know that I never stopped…ya know. I just couldn't bring myself to get back into that."

"Until you had to."

He was already slipping on his boxers, not looking loving in the least. "Michael!" I wailed. "It wasn't like that. It was…I didn't think I'd ever see you guys again. And then you came back. And I realized how…how I felt. That I still, well, that I still loved you."

It didn't seem to matter to him how I felt now, though. Because the main problem with Michael's and my relationship is that we'll never be able to get over the idiotic things we did in the past. Oh, and we'll never grow up and stop doing idiotic things.