Page 1 of Big, Burly Bodyguard

chapter

one

Evelyn

Every little girl dreams of being a princess.

Except me. Probably because I am a princess. Literally.

My father is the King of Saldania, a small island nation off the coast of Great Britain. Much like England, our monarchy is mostly symbolic at this point. While Parliament runs the actual government. That said, there are still a lot of expectations that go along with being a princess.

So yeah, being a princess is not a fairytale.

Instead, it comes with dress codes, schedules, posture corrections, and whispered reminders. Every choice is reviewed before it’s ever truly yours. Including what charities I could support and who I would marry.

In case you’re wondering, I have been betrothed to one Harold William Frederick Pendergast, a duke of immense wealth. Money he obviously needs because he must spend an extraordinary amount on hair pomades and shoes. He’s polite enough, but there’s no spark.

My parents aren’t cruel. That’s the part people don’t understand. They love me. They’ve always loved me. They’ve raised me to be polite and responsible and aware of the world beyond myself. They believe in duty, in legacy, in doing what’s required even when it’s uncomfortable.

I do too. Or at least, I’ve tried to.

There are rules for everything. What I wear. What I say. Where I go. Even how I grieve, how I celebrate, how much of myself I’m allowed to show in public. None of which are meant to punish me. They’re meant to protect the image. The institution. The idea of us.

And I understand why that matters.

But sometimes it feels like living inside a glass case—beautiful, admired, and untouched. Safe, yes. But sealed off from the air.

I don’t want to dismantle anything. I don’t want to hurt my parents or embarrass my country or set fire to traditions that have held for generations. I just want to breathe. To wake up and decide what kind of day I’m going to have without consulting anyone first.

I want a life where my worth isn’t tied to how well I perform. Where love isn’t strategic and choices aren’t weighed like negotiations. Where I can be quiet or loud or uncertain without it becoming a political statement.

I’ve spent my life being shaped to occupy space carefully. To speak only when appropriate. To smile, but not too broadly. To weigh every word, every step, every expression as if it might tip the balance of something fragile and invisible.

I’m good at a lot of it.

I know which fork to use and how to greet dignitaries and when to lower my gaze just enough to be gracious without seeming weak. I know how to stand still for photographs and how to make conversation that reveals nothing. I know how to belong everywhere without ever quite being anywhere.

What I’m not good at is wanting more.

God, that feels so greedy to even think. I’ve never wanted for anything in my entire life. At least nothing tactile. My every need is often met before I even know what it is.

And I am grateful for the opportunities, the care, the safety.

But gratitude doesn’t erase longing.

And longing doesn’t make me ungrateful.

It just makes me human.

So yeah, I want more. I want to be able to make mistakes, have a bad haircut, and walk barefoot in my garden. I want to eat something out of a can, learn to drive a car, and bake cookies from scratch.

I want to be a normal person. And more than anything, I want to fall in love. I know that’s unlikely, but I also know it will never happen as long as I stay in Saldania and marry Harold.

In my desperation, I reached out to an old friend and asked for help.

Birdie Crawford’s face fills my laptop screen a second before the sound catches up. We’ve been friends since we were children, and once upon a time, she was supposed to marry my brother. Instead, she escaped our small island nation and moved to America, and married for love.

Currently, she’s sitting at her kitchen table, hair pulled up, giant cup of something–most likely iced water–already in hand.