A Fairy Tale with Fine Print

A Note from Sylvie

Thank you for taking a peek inside A Fairy Tale with Fine Print. These first three chapters are yours to read free, and I hope you enjoy meeting Maddie and Connor.

Happy reading!

Sylvie

Dedication

To my family, who never doubted me for a moment, even when I doubted myself daily: thank you. You listened to plot problems over dinner, you asked how the writing was going and then actually waited for the answer, and you believed this book existed long before it did.

Thank you for the patience, the encouragement and the quiet, steady faith that carried me through every draft—and for keeping me going on the days when I was ready to give up on the whole thing. Maddie found her people. So did I.

And to you, for reading: thank you for giving Maddie and Connor a place to land.

BOOK 1

Chapter One

“Something something fiiiiire, something something hiiiiigher, I’m flying through the skyyyy,” I sang at the top of my lungs, drumming my hands on the steering wheel in time with the song blasting through the radio. I didn’t know most of the words, but I made up for it with volume and reckless confidence.

My singing skills were pretty lousy, and I probably sounded like a dying hyena, but I didn’t let that small detail stop me. I was in a happy mood, and even the overcast weather couldn’t dampen my spirits.

Then, just as I hit the chorus, the car started sputtering. Coughing like it was choking on its last breath. Glancing down, I saw the little orange light glaring accusingly back at me—a reminder that I’d been running on fumes for the past couple of days.

“What? No, no, no.”

Two days from payday, and my petrol tank was as empty as my wallet.

“Come on, Betsy. You can make it, girl. Please don’t do this to me.”

I pleaded with the car like it was a stubborn toddler refusing to move. But no amount of begging was going to save me from the utter humiliation of running out of fuel on Thomas Road in peak morning traffic.

My faded blue Fiat gave a final jolt before dying completely. Momentum carried me forward a few more metres before even that ran out, and I came to a complete stop in the middle of the road.

On cue, a car horn blasted behind me.

Wonderful.

I closed my eyes, silently wishing for a massive black hole to appear and swallow me whole.

When the universe rudely failed to cooperate, I shoved the gear into neutral and turned the steering wheel.

Keeping my head down, I got out of the car and tried my best to block out the honking and yelling escalating behind me.

All I needed to do was figure out how to push, steer and brake from the outside of the car without falling on my face or running someone over. I’d seen this done a hundred times in movies. How hard could it be?

“Get this piece of crap out of the way!” a guy shouted, halfway hanging out of the driver’s side window of his white pickup truck, arms waving in frustration.

This was going to get ugly fast.

Being a relatively small part of town, I recognised him as one of the regulars from the coffee shop where I worked. He always seemed charming enough when he’d jokingly refer to his black coffee as “bean juice”. But clearly, morning traffic, overcast skies, and a tiny hiccup—namely, me blocking his lane—had transformed this usually pleasant guy into a complete douchebag.

I gave an apologetic wave as I walked around to the back of my car. Positioning my hands on the cold metal trunk, I pushed as hard as I could.

Nothing.

Leaning into it, I used my body weight to try and move the car off the road.

One, two, three big shoves—the car wheels finally began to roll, painfully slow.

Just as I exhaled in relief, the car started veering into the opposite lane.

“Seriously?” I panted, annoyed.

I rushed to the driver’s side, yanked the door open and quickly slid into the seat. Grunting, I wrestled the steering wheel in the right direction before giving it another go.

This time, I left the window open so I could try to steer while pushing on the car frame. Heaving with all my strength, I eased the car forward again. I managed to move it out of the way bit by bit. It wasn’t an easy task, but luckily the road sloped slightly to the side by then.

I had all the grace of a baby giraffe on roller skates. Thankfully, I’d worn my Converse instead of the strappy wedge sandals Rebecca had given me, which were excellent for looking cute and absolutely useless for pushing a dying Fiat out of traffic.

BEEP! BEEEEP!

Mr Bean-Juice was leaning on his horn, wasting oxygen by yelling at me to get moving, as if I wasn’t already trying. I could feel every eye on me, and it made me feel sick to my stomach. Just what the doctor ordered—a little public humiliation to start the day.

“Go around me,” I mumbled under my breath, barely discernible, avoiding eye contact.

It was one of those moments where you wanted to stick it to someone by saying exactly what you felt but were too much of a coward for them to actually hear you.

I was knackered and seriously out of breath. Sweat was now running down my back, and my face was flushed from the exertion as I inched the car out of the way. Well, mostly out of the way.

I rubbed my aching back and hoped that my black shirt hadn’t ridden up too far while I was pushing the car. Butt crack was not something anyone needed to see early in the morning on their way to work.

With his middle finger in the air and a string of not-so-creative expletives, Mr Bean-Juice screeched past, his face red and twisted in a snarl that clashed horribly with his usual cheerful persona. Behind him, the slow-moving procession of cars that were held up followed, each driver glaring at me as if I reeked of rotten potatoes.

I mentally flipped them the bird.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks for all your help,” I muttered sarcastically a moment before I felt something hit me on the forehead.

Karma had a funny way of making her point.

“Ow! For crying out loud…” I shouted, just as the first drops of rain began to fall.

Jumping back into my car, I grabbed my bag in search of my phone, only to see the battery at one percent.

I gripped it in both hands and sent up a desperate prayer for the battery to last just one more minute. Come on, iPhone, don’t fail me now.

I quickly unlocked it and started dialling Rebecca’s number, but before the call could connect, the screen went black.

Dead.

I gave in to the overwhelming urge to scream.

“NOOO! Stupid, stupid thing.”

After a minute of sulking, I gave myself a little pep talk.

“Okay, Madeleine, it’s only a little rain. You’re not a sugar cube. You won’t melt into a sad puddle,” I reassured myself, reaching over to the back seat to grab my jacket.

Which wasn’t there.

Awesome.

It was probably still hanging over the kitchen chair.

Taking a couple of deep, calming breaths, I grabbed the old umbrella I kept stashed in the side compartment, popped it open, and started speedwalking to the nearest bus stop, which, if I remembered correctly, was a few blocks away.

My sense of direction was terrible, so I hoped I was heading down the right street.

As the rain intensified, I gripped the umbrella tighter to keep it from flipping inside out. The downpour was relentless, and the flimsy canopy offered little protection. I picked up my pace, my leg muscles burning with each step. Cold crept through my damp clothes, spreading across my skin, and goosebumps blossomed all over my arms.

I stomped along, muttering to myself like a lunatic, when Lady Luck decided to kick me in the teeth one more time.

Because who else but Connor O’Neill would drive past at the exact moment I was having a tiny roadside tantrum?

Connor O’Neill was seriously one of the most handsome men I had ever seen.

His sharp jawline, perfectly tousled hair, and piercing eyes gave him the kind of model-like quality that turned heads everywhere he went. On top of that, he was smart, successful, charismatic and his family was stinking rich.

Just hand him a bunch of puppies and call it a day. There was no use resisting him.

As the future heir to his family’s very successful business, Connor was kind of a local celebrity. I didn’t know him personally, but I knew enough about him to be completely infatuated the second I laid eyes on him. He had this effortless charm, like a gravitational pull, and I wasn’t the only one caught in his orbit.

Did I mention that he was attractive?

Yep. The kind of handsome that made your knees weak, your stomach flutter, and your brain briefly forget its basic responsibilities.

He was the centrepiece of far too many of my imaginary conversations and accidental daydreams.

I was surprised when Connor slowed down, and my hand automatically lifted in a small wave. He turned on the indicator, and his sleek silver sports car pulled over a short distance away from me. I didn’t speak whatsthatcar.com, but I knew it would be ranked top of the line. Although he didn’t get out of his car, I was still grateful that he stopped.

Our eyes met in his rear-view mirror, and I couldn’t stop the fluttering in my stomach.

In my imagination, this would be the moment he’d notice me standing there like a damsel in distress. He would offer me a ride home, and I’d play all modest and coy—Oh, are you sure? I don’t want to trouble you—but that would be a big fat lie. I would gladly trouble the crap out of him because that would mean I could be alone in the car with him. In my fantasy, I would wow him with my intellectual conversation and witty sense of humour. We’d have this instant connection, and he’d be ruined for all other women. It would be the story we told our grandkids as we sat on the porch after fifty years of blissful marriage.

Okay, play it cool.

I flashed Connor my best smile, the one I’d practised a thousand times in front of the mirror, hoping he would return it.

But nothing.

Not even the faintest twitch of his lips.

Instead, his expression changed, and for a split second, I thought I saw disappointment.

No, worse. Annoyance.

Just like that, my fantasy evaporated into thin air.

Poof.

Another Connor dream crashed and burned in spectacular fashion.

Feeling a little discouraged, I tucked my hair behind my ears, trying to smooth out the stubborn frizz. With a small, hopeful wave, I waited for any sign of acknowledgement, but none came.

I sighed and started towards his car, my heart heavy with anticipation.

I was only a few steps away when his car engine suddenly revved.

Seconds later, gravel sprayed in all directions as he peeled out, speeding away without so much as a glance in my direction.

Uh, dude—what the heck just happened?

I stood there frozen, staring after him in disbelief.

He seriously just drove off.

Somewhere in my shock, I must have lowered the umbrella. Water was now dripping down my face as I stood there, drenched. The cold seeped all the way into my bones, and I couldn’t stop shivering as I watched his taillights disappear into the distance.

I blinked, half-expecting it to be a weird hallucination brought on by stress and early-onset hypothermia.

But no.

He had really just driven off.

Feeling embarrassed, I silently wished I could turn grey and fade into the wet concrete of the sidewalk, like some oversized, camouflaging lizard.

Part of me expected someone to jump out with video cameras and a TV crew telling me I’d been pranked. I looked around, praying no one had witnessed my humiliation, but everyone seemed blissfully unaware of the drenched girl standing pathetically on the side of the road.

“Well, that’s reality for you—chivalry is officially dead. What a freaking jerk!” I muttered to myself.

I mean, what kind of person stops to help someone and then drives off like that?

Tears burned behind my eyelids, but I couldn’t tell if they were from rage, shock or the bitter sting of disappointment.

Standing there drenched and humiliated, it was easy to convince myself I wasn’t exactly Connor’s type.

The gossip pages made it clear he was usually surrounded by glamorous, gorgeous women, and when it came to social standing, our lives might as well have existed on different planets.

But seriously, driving away like that was plain rude.

It felt like a slap in the face—being rejected and dismissed so completely by someone I had put on a pedestal.

Anger and embarrassment gave me the strength to turn and make my way back to my apartment.

I tried to salvage what little dignity I had left but failed miserably. I looked like a half-drowned cat, and my shoes squeaked with every pitiful step. Still, I soldiered on like a real champ. I shoved the humiliation aside, saving it for later when I could wallow in it properly in the privacy of my bedroom.

The walk home felt endless.

My feet hurt, and I used the burn in my leg muscles to distract from the burn of rejection still simmering in my heart. When I finally dragged myself into my apartment, I peeled off my soaked clothes and dumped them in a soggy heap next to my already overflowing laundry basket. I rummaged through my closet, desperate for something dry and relatively clean.

Rebecca had accidentally spilt her latest health-craze juice on the only other clean shirt I owned—the one I’d left carefully draped over the chair. Ironically, her juice was called Purple Cleanse. The only semi-clean option left was the shirt I’d slept in the night before.

It would have to do.

I collapsed onto my bed with a frustrated groan, pulling the blanket over my head like it could somehow block out the disaster of the day.

Loud knocking echoed from the other side of my bedroom door.

I sat up with a jolt when I heard Rebecca’s voice.

“Maddie, are you there? Are you okay?”

Groaning, I struggled to untangle my legs from the blanket, finally managing to get up.

The moment I opened the door, Rebecca barged in, her eyes scanning me for injuries. “We’ve been so worried! Where have you been all day?”

She took in the state of my room with raised eyebrows. I’d had a late-night study session, and my tiny room looked like a paper bomb had exploded, with Post-it notes and books scattered everywhere.

I shot her a don’t-ask glare, which she ignored.

“Lara’s been trying to call you since this morning,” Rebecca continued, undeterred. “She thought you were covering her shift at work. She was in a flat spin after getting a call from Angela, who was furious, by the way. Then she called Kim, who made a big deal about how much she already owes her for covering her shifts. Lara was quite upset, and when none of us could reach you, we got worried. Where have you been?”

Rebecca finally ran out of breath, her eyes searching mine for an answer.

Ignoring her rant, I went to check the time.

Rebecca was still talking a hundred miles a minute, but her voice faded into the background as I dug my phone out of my bag.

Of course, it was still dead.

I plugged it into the charger, and within seconds, notifications began popping up on the screen. Seven messages—three from Lara, two from Rebecca, one from work and one from a number I didn’t recognise.

“I’m sorry for making you worry. I’ll call Lara later to apologise,” I finally responded.

Noticing my dejected mood, as well as the wrinkled shirt I was wearing, Rebecca put her hand on my shoulder, turning me towards her. I stared into her blue eyes, which were full of concern.

“What’s going on? You look like you’ve been dragged legs first through a thorn bush,” she said.

Only best friends could get away with saying things like that. Anyone else would have earned a swift kick to the shin.

I swallowed hard and shrugged. “I am fine, Becs. I just had the craziest morning.” I forced a half-smile. “You know that saying, ‘If life gives you lemons, make lemonade’? After today, I hate that phrase with every fibre of my body. Seriously, who even came up with that crappy expression?”

Rebecca raised an eyebrow, pulled out a stool from under the kitchen counter, and sat down. “Lay it on me.”

Grabbing the leftover ice cream from the freezer, I handed Rebecca a spoon, knowing I’d need reinforcement to get through this.

As we dug into the half-melted chocolate peanut butter swirl, I started from the beginning, laying out my disastrous morning one mortifying moment at a time.

Rebecca couldn’t contain her laughter when I confessed that I genuinely believed the red zone on the fuel gauge was more of a polite warning—that there was still a sneaky little reserve tank desperate people could tap into.

Clearly, I was mistaken.

Meanwhile, Rebecca was the kind of person who refuelled the moment the fuel needle touched the halfway mark.

When I got to the part where Connor left me stranded in the rain, we both agreed that all the other girls could have him because he was nothing but an empty, heartless shell. Sure, he was handsome, but it seemed like he had the personality of an old shoe.

“Maybe we can just stuff his head and mount it on the wall?” Rebecca suggested. “You know, something to look at and admire, like artwork in a museum. That way, you could have your daily Connor fix without having to deal with the superior attitude.”

The embarrassment of the incident still stung, and I felt foolish for thinking Connor was different. No doubt, I’d feel differently tomorrow, but for now, with my bruised ego, I was happy to go along with the Connor-bashing instead of jumping to his defence as I usually did.

“Bet he would’ve noticed me if I looked like Carissa,” I muttered. “She probably runs through the rain like she’s in a perfume ad.”

Strange how badmouthing other people can sometimes make you feel better about your own miserable situation.

“Maddie, girls like that don’t run,” Rebecca said seriously. “They have people who run for them.”

We burst out laughing, and I felt a bit of the tension ease.

Down the rabbit hole we went, concocting scenarios that would force Carissa to run for her life. We tossed in a few zombies, ogres, vampires and aliens to make sure the bases were covered.

“I reckon we should stop now,” I said eventually. “I’m freaked out just thinking about it. Besides, the Twilight series ruined the whole image of scary, ugly vampires. Carissa would actually run towards the beautiful sparkling vampire, not away from him.”

Rebecca’s smile softened. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I am now, thanks,” I replied, leaning over to hug her.

This was one of the things I loved most about my best friend—she always knew how to make me feel better.

We sat together, chatting about silly things for a while longer before Rebecca agreed to take me to get my car.

Just as we stood up, my phone buzzed with a new message.

Unknown Number: Ms Roberts, we’ve been trying to reach you regarding an important matter. Please return our call at your earliest convenience.

The text included a number from a different area code but no name.

I stared at the screen, not knowing who it was from—or what they wanted—but something about it sent a strange chill through me.

Without thinking, I deleted the message and grabbed my bag as we headed out the door.

Chapter Two

A full day later, and I was still sulking. After tidying up the apartment, I decided to make lasagne for dinner. It was too much food for one person, but it would keep my mind occupied. Besides, I was in desperate need of some comfort food. I cranked up the music, with Imagine Dragons playing in the background, as I checked to make sure I had all the ingredients. Cooking was my way of unwinding, and I could put any leftovers in the freezer for an easy dinner during my study sessions.

As the onions sizzled in the pan, I carefully diced the tomatoes, trying to focus on the task at hand, but my thoughts kept drifting to Connor. I clenched my jaw as my eyes started to sting. No, I wasn’t crying—it was a delayed reaction to cutting the onions, and that was the story I was sticking to.

Of course he had driven away.

Why wouldn’t he?

Connor O’Neill wasn’t the sort of man who stopped for girls like me. He wouldn’t waste his time on me. Why would he? He usually hung out with polished, leggy socialites with shiny hair and enviable family trees.

Lucky cows.

I sniffed loudly, rubbing my eye with the back of my hand.

It had been over a year, but I could still remember the first time I saw Connor up close.

He walked into Mugz & Beanz, the café where I worked, like he owned the place. Something about him commanded attention, and for the first time that day, I was glad to be covering Lara’s shift yet again. Connor was talking on his phone, his voice smooth and confident, and as he passed me, he laughed at something the person on the other end of the line must have said. Naturally, he had also been blessed with a set of deep dimples to go along with his perfect smile.

Zoom, focus, click.

It was like the image of his chiselled, laughing face was imprinted onto my cornea. His shiny, deep brown hair was tousled, as if he had been running his fingers through it, and as he entered, he casually removed his sunglasses.

Be still my beating heart.

I was met with the most amazing blue-green eyes I had ever seen.

In my mind, he seemed absolutely perfect. I blinked a few times, just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

But it was real. He was real.

I found myself wishing that the standard Mugz & Beanz uniform—jeans and a black shirt with the M&B logo embroidered on it—was a little more flattering. I nervously rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans, took a deep breath and walked over to where he had taken a seat.

“Hi, I’m Madeleine, and I’ll be your server today,” I said with a smile. “Would you like to order something to drink while you look at the menu?” I added in a practised, cheery voice.

I was relieved that I sounded somewhat normal and not like the anxious, giddy schoolgirl I felt like at that moment.

Connor looked up from his menu with a pleasant smile, and the world seemed to stop.

I was caught in the intensity of his gaze, completely captivated by the vivid green of his eyes, speckled with flecks of dark blue and framed by lashes so thick and dark they made mine look practically invisible.

How unfair was creation, that a guy could be blessed with eyes like that—not to mention the perfect dimples that appeared as his smile widened?

I stood there, mesmerised.

His lips looked impossibly soft, and I wondered what it would feel like to kiss him.

Wait, what?

The thought was there, yelling in my brain before I could stop it.

I shoved it aside, trying to ignore the hint of a blush creeping across my cheeks. Realising I was still staring at his mouth, I quickly dropped my gaze and forced myself to look at his hand resting on the table instead.

Which turned out to be a terrible alternative.

He had strong hands with perfectly manicured nails, and I found myself imagining what it would feel like to have them holding mine.

Crap.

Snap out of it, Madeleine.

My cheeks were burning, and if I were a cartoon, steam would have been shooting out of my ears.

I wished I could fan myself, but I managed to resist the urge.

Barely.

With a deep breath, I reined in my crazy thinking and focused on the floor instead, desperately trying to calm my wayward thoughts.

His friend cleared his throat loudly, snapping me out of my daze.

“I’ll have the club sandwich and a San Pellegrino sparkling mineral water,” he said in a bored tone.

I jumped, startled by the guy who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. I hadn’t even noticed him sitting across from Connor.

When did he even get here?

Trying to hide my confusion and embarrassment, I frantically scribbled down his order on my notepad.

“And I’ll have the grilled salmon and a Pepsi, thank you,” Connor added when he noticed I had stopped writing.

His voice was smooth and refined, sending a warm shiver down my spine. I didn’t dare look up. I simply nodded, hyper-aware of how red and warm my cheeks were, then turned on my heel and hurried away before I melted into a puddle right at his feet.

The lunchtime rush was over, so their food was ready in no time.

With shaky hands, I placed the plate of salmon in front of Connor, feeling like a nervous wreck. As I turned, I accidentally knocked over the glass of sparkling water, spilling it all over the table.

Connor’s quick reflexes saved the glass from shattering on the floor, and I gave him a grateful smile.

“Watch what you’re doing!” the other guy snapped.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll clean that up,” I apologised, quickly grabbing napkins from the nearest table and trying to soak up as much water as possible. “Uh… I’ll just go get you another water,” I stammered, my hands shaking.

I was completely flustered, and my nerves were in overdrive. My pits were sweating so hard they were testing the protection limits of my deodorant. I stood there for a moment, waiting to recover from my apparent paralysis.

Someone, please help me.

“Don’t be an idiot, Trevor. You always order that stuff but never drink it.”

Connor turned from his friend and looked at me with a sincere smile that made my knees go weak.

“Thank you for cleaning this up, but don’t worry about bringing another one. Besides, Trevor here”—he gestured towards his friend—“sees it as a glass-half-full situation, don’t you, Trevor? It’s not every day he has a pretty girl cleaning up his mess.”

Trevor grunted in response and stuffed the club sandwich into his mouth.

I was pleasantly surprised by Connor’s kindness.

And the compliment.

Casual as it may have been, my heart grabbed onto it with both hands and refused to let go.

I wished I had a witty response at the time, but I was speechless. I tucked away his words, saving them so I could dig them out later when I needed a little pick-me-up.

We smiled at each other, and I felt an instant connection with him.

My heart started yelling, I love you! And I could already hear the wedding bells playing.

Dum, dum dah-dum.

From that moment on, I was hooked.

It felt like I couldn’t stop thinking about Connor O’Neill.

I found excuses to be near him whenever he came into the café—a nearby table that needed wiping down, sugar that needed restocking, you name it, and I made sure I was the one to do it. My eyes would zoom in on him whenever he was in my vicinity, but he never seemed to notice me.

Despite this, I couldn’t help myself from becoming even more curious about him, and Google quickly became my toxic best friend. I found myself compulsively reading every piece of information I could find about him, whether it was true, exaggerated, or clearly made up by someone with too much time and a questionable internet connection.

The tabloids painted him as an eternal bachelor, living the high life with no plans to ever settle down.

Perhaps that was part of his allure.

I learned that Connor’s family came from old money, with wealth passed down from generation to generation and a social reputation that seemed practically carved in stone.

The O’Neill family stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the Rockefellers, the Kennedys and the Murdochs. They were rich, powerful and influential. Connor’s grandfather, Alexander Connor O’Neill IV, was the family’s figurehead. His wife, Rose, had passed away after a long battle with cancer. They had one daughter—Connor’s mother, Dianne—who married young and kept a low profile. I found a few pictures of her at charity galas, but very little information about Connor’s father.

It was like he had vanished from the public record.

Whether that was intentional or just coincidence, I couldn’t say.

Another click revealed that Connor had been named one of Forbes’ most eligible billionaire bachelors. All of this made me realise again just how completely out of my league he was. Heck, I wasn’t even playing the same game—let alone in the same league.

Despite knowing my hopes and dreams were completely unrealistic, I couldn’t stop myself. After our first encounter, I became utterly fascinated with him—more than I would ever admit to anyone, including my friends. Connor occupied ninety percent of my brain’s capacity and virtually all my dreams.

It was as if I had an internal GPS tracker on him, and no one else seemed to notice him the way I did. I knew he wore blue more often than any other colour, that he had a habit of running his fingers through his hair when he was tense, and that when he thought no one was watching, he would add a spoonful of sugar to his coffee.

I absorbed every tiny detail like a sponge.

I sounded like a serious stalker, but it wasn’t my fault that the universe kept conspiring to show me different sides of him.

Up until yesterday, I hadn’t found a single off-putting thing about him.

The smell of burnt onion snapped me back to reality, reminding me of the task at hand. Suddenly not hungry anymore, I turned off the stove and put away the lasagne ingredients.

I would bet my entire life savings—which sadly amounted to only $47.11—that he didn’t even know who I was.

Yet, I had been obsessing over him for an entire year.

Three hundred and sixty-five days.

Five hundred and twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes.

Approximately. My maths was emotional, not scientific.

How pitiful was I?

I knew I should really move on and forget him, but the funny thing was, the more I told myself to forget Connor O’Neill, the more my mind seemed determined to build him a permanent residence.

With a huge sigh, I went through my night-time routine and got ready for bed. Once I’d checked that the apartment door was bolted and all the windows were closed, I plugged my phone into the charger and fell asleep moments after my head hit the pillow.

Chapter Three

I rolled around restlessly as the nightmare continued.

Standing beside a busy road in the pouring rain, dressed in pink flannel pyjamas that were far too small, I looked up at the sky. For some strange reason, I was the only person getting wet. Rain soaked through the thin fabric of my pyjamas, cold and clingy like wet paper. My lips were turning blue from the cold, and I started to shiver.

Ms Stringer, my old primary school teacher, walked past and shook her head. She tsked in disapproval, her familiar voice telling me to stop slouching and stand up straight.

I pulled back my shoulders in obedience, feeling like I was seven years old again.

Swallowing the oncoming tears, I saw his silver sports car.

Connor pulled over to the side of the road, and as the car window smoothly rolled down, I saw him and Carissa pointing at me as they laughed. The sound hit like a punch to the gut. Soon, more people stopped and stared, laughing as they pointed out my inadequacies.

The humiliation felt endless, as if the moment were stuck on a loop, replaying over and over.

The next moment, a massive earthquake split the ground between us, leaving Connor and me on opposite sides of a jagged ravine. I stretched out my hand towards him, leaning closer to the edge in a desperate attempt to reach him.

My heart broke with the realisation that we were too far apart.

I would never be able to grab hold of him.

A choked sob escaped from my throat—and I woke up with a cold shiver running down my spine.

My chest was heaving as I sat upright, the despair still lodged somewhere between my ribs.

The nightmare still clung to me as I padded into the kitchen for a glass of water, the floor cool beneath my feet. I gulped it down like a parched camel, hoping it might rinse the ache from my chest, but it was no use.

An hour later, I was still tossing and turning.

Connor’s face refused to leave my mind, making sleep feel impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard their sneering laughter.

I still couldn’t wrap my head around it. Connor had stopped as if he meant to help me, then bailed like he’d suddenly remembered he’d left the stove on.

Not going to lie, it stung.

How could I have been so wrong about him?

Annoyed, I reached over and switched on the lamp on my bedside table. I grabbed my phone to check the time, squinting at the harsh brightness of the screen so close to my face.

The digital clock read 2:11 am.

Great.

To soothe myself, I tapped the music app and scrolled to my favourite playlist. Turning on some soft music, I tossed my phone onto the pillow beside me and reached over to switch off the lamp.

The sounds of Coldplay filled the room, and I hoped to catch a few more hours of sleep. One of my favourite songs about superheroes, fairy tales and love began to play, and I sang along softly.

As the music played, my mind wandered to all the fairy tales and stories I used to read when I was young. My favourites were the ones where the handsome prince fell in love with the beautiful girl, and they lived happily ever after.

Truth be told, it bothered me that in most of those fairy tales, the girl was always beautiful.

Just think of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty and Snow White—would the prince really have fallen in love with them if they’d been plain, ordinary-looking, or even a little unattractive?

I highly doubted it.

I mean, it wasn’t as if the prince fell in love with Sleeping Beauty or Snow White because of their sense of humour or sparkling personalities. They were asleep for most of the time, for crying out loud.

So, the million-dollar question was: where did that leave an ordinary-looking girl like me, pining after a prince who didn’t even know she existed?

“Hmph.” I punched my pillow in frustration and turned onto my side.

Real life wasn’t a fairy tale.

If it were, I’d be the background character sweeping the cottage floor while the actual princess sang with forest animals. I wasn’t beautiful or magical or destined to be a princess. My frizzy, mouse-brown hair, hazel eyes, questionable fashion choices and long list of embarrassing moments that could fill a trilogy were proof enough of that.

Yet, deep down, I still wanted the prince.

And the happy ending.

As I closed my eyes, I breathed deeply and tried to relax, picturing a quiet, peaceful scene—a beautiful green forest and a flowing stream dancing around smooth rocks.

Unfortunately, my relaxation technique backfired when I suddenly needed to pee.

So much for peaceful forest streams.

I tossed the blanket off me and stomped to the bathroom.

Clearly, going back to sleep was going to be impossible.

I switched on the bedside lamp and pulled out my laptop, along with my Orientation in Animal Sciences textbook.

Might as well get started on my next assignment.

Pretty sure princes didn’t come for girls who fell asleep over textbooks at three in the morning.

I opened the book anyway.