The Morning After
The sun was hitting the window with the subtlety of a sledgehammer when I finally blinked my eyes open. My head felt like the War God was using my skull as a practice anvil.
"Ugh... logistics... tax returns... someone fire the sun," I croaked, my voice thick with the aftermath of too much rice wine and CEO-level stress.
I rolled over, expecting to find a pile of reports, but instead, I found Princess Milabuella. She was fast asleep right next to me, still in her tattered pink laces. She was wearing a "crown" made entirely of woven pomade tins and bent spoons, a gift from the drunken bandits, no doubt.
Mila was clutching an empty wine glass to her chest like a teddy bear, and her makeup was a disaster zone; mascara was smeared halfway down her cheeks, and she had a smudge of BBQ sauce on her royal chin.
She looked like a princess who had finally, finally learned how to party like a commoner.
