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MidReal Story
His Royal Mistake
Scenario:a story about a young 17 year old prince named daniel. he is being forced to marry a princess of his father and mothers choice. daniel has a younger sister named whiney. whiney is 5 years old. Daniel meets a commoner gir named charlotte, and whineu loves her in a friendly way. daniel and charlotte become friends, and Daniel instantly falls in love with her. daniel and whiney have a bad relationship with their parents, but need to help each other. daniel and charlottes love story/friendship story.
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Prince Daniel
and burdened. Prince Daniel is forced to marry a princess against his will, straining his relationship with his parents. He befriends a girl named Charlotte and falls deeply in love with her, despite the royal obligations. Daniel also takes care of his estranged sister, Whiney, providing for her and trying to bridge the emotional gap created by their parents' neglect.
Charlotte
and captivating. Charlotte meets Prince Daniel and becomes his closest friend and confidante. Despite her initial shyness, she shares a deep connection with him through secret meetings and heartfelt conversations. Their mutual affection grows into romantic feelings, but Prince Daniel's royal duties pose a significant challenge to their relationship.
Whiney
and vulnerable. Whiney is often neglected by their parents and lives a solitary life at the palace. As the only family they seem to care about, Prince Daniel provides for her and tries to fill the emotional void left by their parents. Whiney looks up to Prince Daniel, seeking comfort and security in him during tumultuous times.
I am Prince Daniel, the only son of King Edwin and Queen Helena.
I have a sister who is 5 years old.
Her name is Whiney.
She is very sickly, lonely, and always neglected by our parents.
They don't even care about her.
I don't know why they had her in the first place.
I take good care of her.
I provide for her needs.
I do everything for her since she has been abandoned by my parents.
I have been forced to marry a princess of my parents' choice.
I don't want to get married, so I ran away from the princess and hid in the palace garden.
I don't want to get married!
I don't want to leave my sister alone.
I hate my parents for not taking good care of her.
They only care about me and themselves.
I don't want to get married!
I was sitting on the ground under a big tree, thinking, and I don't know what to do.
Suddenly, I heard a soft voice singing a beautiful song.
It sounded like an angel was singing.
I looked around and saw a girl with a big basket on her head walking slowly as if she was careful not to spill the fruits inside the basket.
I remained motionless, not wanting to scare her.
The leaves of the tree were rustling softly with the wind, and the girl's voice was getting closer.
She was walking slowly as if she was afraid of falling.
The sun shone through the branches of the tree, casting a warm glow on her face.
She was wearing a simple dress that reached her knees, and her long hair was tied in a ponytail.
She had a kind face and gentle eyes.
I watched as she walked closer, balancing the basket on her head with practiced ease.
She didn't seem to notice me hiding under the tree.
As she passed by, I caught a glimpse of her serene expression.
Her eyes were closed, and her lips were moving in time with the song.
A twig snapped under my weight as I shifted to get a better view, and the girl stumbled mid-step.
The basket wobbled precariously on her head as she spun toward the sound.
Her eyes widened when they met mine, and the basket tipped.
Apples rolled out of it and onto the ground.
I lunged forward instinctively, catching three of them before they could escape.
The girl backed away, her face flushing red as she realized who I was.
The remaining fruit threatened to spill out of the basket as she attempted a clumsy curtsy.
I held out the apples I had caught, hoping to appear less princely than I felt.
Her laugh broke the tension, musical and genuine.
I found myself smiling as she took the apples from my hands, her fingers brushing mine for a brief moment.
"Thank you, Your Highness," she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"I'm Charlotte."
She knelt to gather the scattered fruit, and I dropped down to help her, ignoring the dirt that stained my formal attire.
We worked in comfortable silence, occasionally reaching for the same apple and drawing back with a quick apology.
When our eyes met, she didn't look away immediately like most servants did.
"Why are you out here alone, Your Highness?" she asked, her voice gentle but curious.
"I'm hiding from a fate I can't accept," I admitted, surprised by my own candor.
Charlotte paused, an apple in her hand, and said softly, "Sometimes the heart knows what the world refuses to see."
I gesture toward a secluded path lined with flowering cherry trees, away from the watchful eyes of palace guards.
Charlotte hesitates for a moment, glancing at her half-filled basket of apples.
Then, she sets it carefully against the trunk of the tree, as if it were a precious treasure.
We walk side by side, maintaining a proper distance between us.
The air is filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the distant chirping of birds.
Charlotte begins to speak, her voice carrying a hint of nervousness.
"I work in the palace kitchens," she says, her hands moving expressively as she talks.
"I help prepare pastries for the royal table."
She pauses for a moment, her eyes gazing into the distance.
"Sometimes, I wonder who eats them. The king and queen, perhaps? Or maybe their guests?"
A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips.
"Once in a while, I sneak a glance at the dining hall. I've seen you there, Your Highness. You always look so serious and focused."
She chuckles softly.
"But I bet you have your own secrets too."
I remain silent, intrigued by her words.
Charlotte continues talking, sharing stories about her daily life in the palace kitchens.
She speaks about the early mornings spent kneading dough and the late nights spent cleaning up after feasts.
Her voice fills with excitement as she talks about creating new recipes and experimenting with flavors. "There's this one apple tart that I make every week," she says, her eyes lighting up.
"It's for the children's wing. They love it so much that I have to make extra every time."
A realization hits me like a wave.
The apple tart she makes is for Whiney, my sister who loves sweets more than anything else in this world.
And Charlotte has been feeding her without even knowing it.
My sister always saves half of that tart for me, saying it reminds her of mother's cooking from before everything changed.
I lead Charlotte to a stone bench near the cherry trees, where we can sit and talk without being overheard.
My heart races as I tell her about finding Whiney in her room each evening, clutching one of those apple tarts.
Charlotte's eyes widen when I describe how my sister savors each bite, pretending our mother made it just for her.
I confess that I've been sneaking extra tarts to Whiney's room, watching her face light up at the familiar taste of cinnamon and honey.
Charlotte listens intently, her hands clasped together as if she's praying.
When I finish speaking, she looks at me with a mix of surprise and understanding.
"I had no idea," she says softly.
"But it makes sense. The children's wing is always asking for more of those tarts."
She pauses for a moment, collecting her thoughts.
"Your Highness, would you like to learn how to make them?"
I'm taken aback by her offer.
Me, the crown prince, in the palace kitchens?
It would be a scandal if anyone found out.
But Charlotte leads me through winding servant corridors I've never seen before, checking each corner before motioning me forward.
The rough stone walls and dim lighting feel foreign compared to the polished marble halls I'm used to.
She explains in whispers how to avoid the busy areas where we might be spotted.
When we reach the kitchens, she pulls me behind a column as two cooks pass by, their arms laden with pots and pans.
The warmth of her hand on my arm lingers even after she lets go.
We wait in tense silence, watching as the cooks disappear into the steam-filled room.
Through the fog of cooking smells and sounds, I catch a glimpse of the counter where Charlotte makes those beloved tarts.
Charlotte turns to me, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Are you ready for your first lesson in pastry-making, Your Highness?" she whispers, a playful challenge in her voice.
I nod, feeling a strange mix of excitement and apprehension.
"First, you need to know how to knead dough properly," Charlotte says, standing close behind me at the flour-dusted counter.
She places her hands over mine, guiding them through the motions.
"You press down with your palms, then fold it over and repeat."
The heat of the kitchen makes my face flush, but it's not just from the ovens.
I try to focus on her instructions rather than the feel of her body against mine.
When I struggle with a particularly stubborn fold, Charlotte reaches around me to show the correct pressure.
Our fingers overlap, and my heart skips a beat.
I nearly drop the dough, but she steadies my hands.
For a moment, she lingers there, her touch sending shivers down my spine.
"You're a quick learner, Your Highness," she murmurs, her breath warm against my ear.
I clear my throat, trying to regain composure.
"Perhaps it's the teacher," I reply, glancing at her with a smile.
I watch as Charlotte's delicate fingers press into the soft dough beside mine, showing me how to curve the edges just right.
The kitchen's warmth surrounds us as she demonstrates the gentle pinching motion needed for the tart's rim.
When I try to copy her technique, my clumsy attempts leave uneven ridges.
She takes my hands again, molding them to the proper position.
Her hair brushes against my shoulder as she leans in closer to inspect my work.
The intimacy of the moment makes my pulse quicken, and I nearly crush the dough between my fingers.
I realize that in this hidden corner of the palace, I'm learning more than just how to make tarts.
I steady my trembling hands on the counter, watching as Charlotte demonstrates the proper kneading technique once more.
The kitchen's warmth envelops us as she places a fresh ball of dough before me.
Her fingers brush mine as she positions my hands correctly, showing me how to press with my palms.
I mimic her movements, working the dough with careful concentration while she observes.
When the dough starts feeling smoother under my touch, I glance at Charlotte for approval.
"You're doing well," she says softly, her eyes meeting mine with a hint of pride.
"But there's something else I need to tell you, something about why we're really here."
I pause, my hands stilling on the dough as I sense the gravity in her voice.
I pause my kneading, my heart pounding in my chest as Charlotte's hands still rest on mine.
The kitchen's warmth feels more intense now, flour dusting our joined fingers on the half-shaped dough.
She shifts beside me, her shoulder brushing mine as she turns to face me.
The nearby ovens crackle and steam rises around us, but I barely notice.
My throat tightens as I gather my courage, leaning closer until my mouth is near her ear.
The question I've been holding back all evening finally escapes in a whisper, making her fingers tense against mine.