I Reincarnated as a Princess… But Ended Up Selling Fruit

There were only three rules Lara lived by:

Never sell enchanted fruit before lunch.

Don't flirt with imperial agents.

And never, under any circumstances, let anyone see the glow under her shirt.

Simple rules. Clean. Effective. Peaceful.

So naturally, by noon, she had already broken two of them.

"—I'm telling you, these apples cure hangovers," Lara said sweetly, slipping a glossy red one into a merchant's palm like a dealer on a divine mission. "Three copper. Or one embarrassing story. Your choice."

The man blinked at her. "Isn't that blackmail?"

"It's marketing."

Her stall—wedged between a spice vendor and a woman who knitted profanities into dish towels—was the loudest, most colorful spot in the sleepy town square. Baskets overflowed with fruit: apples, pears, the occasional suspicious pomegranate. Most were magically grown, though no one was supposed to know that.

Especially not the trio of imperial scouts browsing two stalls down, pretending to argue over carrots.

"Are they looking over here again?" Lara whispered to Rime, who sat curled on a crate like a bored housecat. His fur was snow-white. His soul was 97% judgment.

"They're pretending not to," he yawned. "You're glowing again, by the way."

Lara cursed under her breath and tugged her scarf higher. Damn spirit mark. Always pulsing when she was stressed, horny, or hiding something. Which, unfortunately, was all the time.

She adjusted her apron, straightened her apple sign ("BITE ME: 3 COPPER"), and tried to focus on being Normal again.

Then she felt it.

A prickling down her spine. That someone's watching me feeling you get right before a bird poops on your shoulder or a divine plotline lands in your lap.

She looked up—and locked eyes with a man standing ten feet away.

Tall. Black coat. Gloves. Hair like a war poem. And eyes so dark they probably had their own political agenda.

He was holding an apple.

He didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just stared.

And Lara?

She smiled.

Because nothing screams danger like a man holding fruit and looking at you like he's seen you naked.

Which, to be fair… he might've.

"Can I help you, or are you just here to intimidate my apples?"

The man blinked once. Maybe twice. His face didn't move much, but his grip on the apple tightened like it had personally insulted his bloodline.

"I heard you sell… special fruit," he said.

Ah. There it was. The buzzword. Special. As in enchanted. As in illegal in twelve out of thirteen provinces and highly discouraged in the presence of imperial scouts.

Lara smiled wider, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I sell apples. Juicy. Crisp. Sometimes emotionally supportive. Depends on the weather."

His gaze flicked to the stall's hand-painted sign:

BITE ME.

In smaller script below: No refunds if it turns you into a frog.

"Where'd you grow them?" he asked.

"Oh, here and there. Bit of sunlight, lots of sarcasm."

He didn't laugh. Of course he didn't. Men like him didn't laugh—they brooded. Intensely. Sexily. Like they'd just walked off the battlefield and into someone's unresolved feelings.

"Is it true one of your apples healed a merchant's mana poisoning last week?" he asked.

Lara's smile didn't budge, but her heartbeat tripped over its own shoelaces.

Because yes. That did happen.

Because no. That merchant wasn't supposed to talk.

And because holy spiritfruit, this man was too close and too curious.

"Poison?" she said innocently. "Sir, this is a grocery stall, not a holy relic emporium."

His eyes narrowed. "So you haven't sold anything… unusual?"

Lara leaned in. "Sir, I once sold a pear shaped like a penis. Does that count?"

A pause. Then, finally, a twitch of his lip. Not quite a smile. But definitely a crack.

Rime, still lounging behind the stall, muttered under his breath, "One of these days, someone's going to stab you for flirting mid-interrogation."

"Let them try," Lara whispered.

The man held her gaze a second longer, then reached into his coat and pulled out three copper coins. Placed them neatly on the stall.

"I'll take the apple," he said. "The healing kind."

Lara arched a brow. "Which one's that?"

"You tell me."

And just like that, he turned and walked off—coat billowing, hair perfect, apple in hand.

Lara exhaled only after he disappeared down the alley.

"…Shit," she muttered.

"Language," said Rime.

She smacked his tail.

Rime hopped onto the counter like he paid rent.

"I don't like him," he announced.

"You don't like anyone who doesn't rub your ears," Lara said, watching the alley where the man disappeared.

"He smelled like destiny."

"He smelled like expensive leather and unresolved trauma."

"Exactly."

Lara ran a hand through her hair, staring at the coins still glinting on the stall. "He asked the exact question I've been dreading for five years."

Rime blinked. "Which one? The poison one or the are-you-magically-growing-legendary-fruit-in-your-backyard one?"

She scooped the coins into her pocket. "Yes."

Across the square, the carrot-vendor-turned-imperial-scout was now watching her more closely than his own produce. One of them leaned in and whispered something behind a palm.

Lara pretended not to notice. Which, for her, meant pulling out a ridiculously red apple and dramatically taking a bite like it was an act of war.

Crunch.

They flinched.

Good.

Rime sighed, ever dramatic. "You know what this means, don't you?"

"That we need to relocate? Again?"

"That your one-night stand from three years ago just bought a magically enhanced apple and looked at you like he wanted to bite more than the fruit."

She froze mid-chew. "That wasn't him."

"You sure?"

She wasn't.

Because those eyes? That jaw? That "I have secrets and a six-pack" energy?

Exactly the kind of mistake she'd made three years ago.

The kind that left a mark. A very moon-shaped one.

"Oh gods," she whispered. "If that's him…"

"If that's him," Rime said, tail flicking, "we're either getting laid, arrested, or assassinated by next week."

"Worst case scenario?"

"All three."

Lara bit into the apple again, this time more aggressively.

"Well," she muttered, juice dribbling down her chin. "At least it's Tuesday."

[End of Chapter 1]