by Jessica Snell
No one knew about them, the counterfeit princes. In this day and age, no one would suspect. Who could have hoped to get away with it when every tabloid had them on the cover at least once a month? Their fans had memorized their faces, their gaits, the way they held their shoulders, the way the younger prince's mouth quirked up to the left side whenever he flirted with a commoner's cute baby.
But there they were. Raised alongside the true heirs, raised with every benefit of education, every nuance of culture, every privilege of class.
I didn't know about the counterfeit when I first met them, that day I attended the benefit held at the palace. I watched along with everyone else as the royal family smoothly did what they always did: finessed the crowd so that everyone felt special, but only because we were confident that they were more special than we.
I shouldn't have even met him, and when I did, I felt everything you might expect a girl to feel when a handsome prince holds out his hand and smiles.
He was tall and dark and lanky, but he moved with the grace only bestowed by an excellent musculature.
I have never had a defense against that type.
And I didn't even try. Why try to fight, when your daydream decides to dance itself into reality?