I Reincarnated as a Princess… But Ended Up Selling Fruit

Lara had a rule:

No panic before breakfast.

So naturally, the universe decided today was the perfect day for a noblewoman to nearly recognize her over a bushel of persimmons.

"Elira," Lara hissed under her breath, "tell me I'm hallucinating."

Elira, chewing lazily on a honey-glazed nut, didn't even look up. "Depends. Are we talking cute hallucination or political threat in heels?"

Lara pointed—subtly, like someone not currently having a breakdown behind the pear display.

Across the market square, dressed in at least three too many layers of lace, was Lady Sancia of House Verlain.

A woman who once called Lysara Aetherion her "darling moonbeam of a niece."

Lara ducked behind the apple cart like it owed her money.

"Elira. She knows my face."

"She also drinks perfume and once tried to marry a man who turned out to be a coat rack in disguise," Elira replied. "Maybe she thinks you're dead and this is your ghost. Or maybe you just look like every other traumatized woman with good cheekbones."

Lara peeked up again. Lady Sancia was staring straight at her stall.

And walking.

Toward.

Her.

"Nope," Lara muttered. "Absolutely not. I did not claw my way back from magical amnesia and a cursed ravine to be recognized by my aunt with the memory of a goldfish and the morals of a mushroom."

She spun on her heel, threw her apron at Elira, and bolted through the back of the stall.

"Cover for me!"

"Always do," Elira said, already turning to the noblewoman with a dazzling smile. "Welcome! Can I interest you in some emotionally unavailable peaches?"

Lara didn't wait to hear the answer.

She was already halfway to the tavern.

The tavern smelled like cinnamon, secrets, and someone's failed attempt at mulled wine.

Perfect.

She slipped into a corner booth, yanked her hood up, and slammed her forehead onto the table.

Rime materialized out of nowhere, judging her from the seat across.

"I don't even need to ask," he said. "You've got the look of someone whose past just sucker-punched their produce."

"Rime," she groaned, voice muffled by wood, "remind me to erase my face. Again."

"Add it to the list. Right under 'burn orchard' and 'stop catching feelings for men who glow.'"

She lifted her head just enough to glare. "I'm not catching feelings."

"You ate a peach he bit into. That's either romantic or deeply unsanitary."

Before she could argue, Seph burst in.

"There you are!" he gasped. "Myrr says the gossip just hit the tavern. Apparently, someone thinks the Crown Prince's secret mistress is hiding in the orchard outside of town."

Lara blinked.

Then blinked again.

"Oh no," she whispered. "I'm the mistress."

Rime just nodded solemnly. "Congrats. You're officially the main character in a royal scandal. Do you want a tiara or a shovel?"

The tavern was packed. Too packed.

The kind of packed that made secrets nervous and elbows sharp.

Lara leaned against the bar, nursing a suspiciously watered-down pear wine, and did her best to blend in. Which, in hindsight, was already a lost cause. She had glowing skin. Spirit magic. A divine mark. And the kind of face that made old women whisper, "You remind me of someone royal, but I can't place who."

Spoiler: they were right. She just really didn't want them to be.

Elira appeared beside her like a summoned demon of gossip. "So. The man from the orchard?"

"Not talking about it," Lara muttered.

"He was hot."

"Still not talking about it."

"And glowing. You were glowing. Are you two, like... magically dating?"

"Please leave."

Elira didn't. Obviously.

She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial purr. "You know who else was asking about you?"

"Please say no one."

"Elric," she said sweetly.

Lara choked on her wine. "The captain of the guard?!"

Elira grinned. "He said your stall's apples have been causing 'unusual side effects.' Asked if you were hiring."

"That sounds suspiciously like seduction disguised as interrogation."

"That's also how you flirt."

Valid. But rude.

At the far end of the bar, a noble-looking woman in travel-stained silks was laughing a little too loudly. She tossed her hair and said, "...and then the duchess said the fruit had healing properties! Can you imagine? Just one bite and her gout vanished!"

Lara froze.

Elira caught her gaze. "You okay?"

"That woman's from the capital."

"So?"

"She knows too much. She just said gout. That's imperial code. It means, 'we're sniffing around for spirit-infused fruit and royal bloodlines.'"

"That's... extremely specific."

"I worked in court, Elira. I know court gossip. You don't mention noble gout unless you're planning to start a war or a marriage proposal."

Elira blinked. "Why are those the same category?"

"They're always the same category."

Lara downed the rest of her wine and stood.

"We're leaving. Now."

"But the night's just getting good!"

"Exactly why we need to go. I can feel the plot thickening and I am not wearing the right shoes."

Lara hated taverns.

Not because of the noise. Or the spilled ale. Or the fact that someone was always crying in a corner about a goat that got away.

No, she hated them because everyone talked.

About everything. Loudly. Sloppily. And with the kind of poetic embellishment that would make a bard weep blood.

"So I heard the orchard girl once healed a dying child with a single apple!"

"She doesn't even go to temple. You know what that means."

"I bet she's a runaway noble. Look at those boots. Too clean."

"She sells fruit, Tom. Not sin."

"Exactly! Sin wouldn't dare."

Lara sat in the farthest booth, hood up, drink untouched, debating whether to chug her ale or just toss it dramatically and storm out.

Neither would help her case.

She'd only come to the tavern to see how bad the gossip had gotten. And so far?

Catastrophic.

Seph slid in across from her, casually eating an entire roast chicken leg. "You're trending."

Lara groaned. "I hate it here."

"Elira's placing bets on how soon someone tries to kiss your boots or burn you as a witch. I gave it two days."

Lara side-eyed him. "You're enjoying this."

"I enjoy chaos. And you? Are the source."

A barmaid dropped a tray near their table and shot Lara a curious look. "You the fruit witch?"

Lara blinked. "...Excuse me?"

"You know." She leaned closer. "The glowing one. With the tree that blooms on command. And the hot imperial boyfriend."

Lara's brain short-circuited. "I'm sorry, what?"

The girl grinned. "Relax. I think it's romantic. He showed up, orchard bloomed, magic flared—classic forbidden love. Like in those steamy scrolls with the covers that never close all the way."

Seph choked on his chicken.

Lara stared. "He's not my boyfriend."

The barmaid winked. "Sure. And I'm not pocketing extra tips with cleavage and charm. Live your fantasy, tree queen."

She sashayed off, leaving a trail of citrus perfume and emotional damage.

Lara banged her head on the table. "This is getting out of control."

"Correction," Seph said, wiping his mouth. "It's already out of control. We're just coasting the wave now."

Lara sighed. "I should move. Change names. Sell carrots in a different country."

"You glow, Lara. You could be in a cave on the moon and someone would still write ballads about your fruit."

She didn't answer.

Because the tavern door opened.

And in walked a man. Not her man, thank the stars—but another imperial-looking bastard with polished boots, a stiff jacket, and the kind of posture that screamed "I get paid to ruin someone's week."

He scanned the room.

Then his eyes landed on her.

Lara whispered, "Shit," and stood too fast.

The man crossed the tavern like he owned the floorboards. "Miss Lira?"

Seph stood too, eyes narrowing.

Lara plastered on a smile. "Who's asking?"

He held out a sealed envelope. Imperial red. Embossed. Smug.

"Message from the Crown."

Lara took it like it might explode.

Because honestly? At this point, it probably would.

[End of Chapter 9]