Beth had been on Tinder for three years.
Three years of carefully curated photos (the one with the puppy, the one that made her look outdoorsy, the one where her arm looked toned). Three years of opening lines that ranged from "hey" to the occasional creative attempt that still somehow ended in "hey." Three years of dates that were fine, or bad, or so aggressively mediocre that she'd invented a fake emergency just to escape.
She was twenty nine, single, and thoroughly over it.
So when she matched with someone whose profile simply said "Prince Charming" and featured a single photo of a man in what appeared to be actual royal regalia, she assumed it was a joke. A very committed joke, maybe, given the castle in the background, but a joke nonetheless.
His first message was: "I don't usually do this, but my mother is insisting I find a suitable partner, and Tinder seemed more efficient than a ball. Dinner? I'll send a carriage."
Beth laughed out loud, screenshot it, and sent it to her group chat with the caption: "Finally, a man with commitment to the bit."
The replies were immediate: "You have to go." "Please go and report back." "If you don't go, I will."
She went.
The carriage was real.
At eight o'clock on Saturday night, an actual horse drawn carriage pulled up outside her apartment building. The horse was white. The driver wore a top hat. Beth stood on the sidewalk in her nicest dress, clutching her phone, and wondered if she was being filmed for some elaborate prank show.
The driver handed her a card. It read: "Please excuse the transportation. The Aston Martin is in the shop. —P"
She got in the carriage.
The castle was, impossibly, also real. It rose out of the countryside like something from a storybook, all turrets and towers and ivy-covered stone. The gates opened as they approached. Footmen in livery helped her down. A butler escorted her through halls lined with paintings of people who looked just like her date, going back centuries.
And then she met him.
Prince Alexander Frederick William of Somewhere Beth couldn't pronounce was, objectively, the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. Tall, broad shouldered, with dark hair and blue eyes and the kind of jawline that launched ships. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and smiled like he'd practiced it in a mirror.
"Beth," he said, taking her hand. "Thank you for coming. I know this is... unusual."
"That's one word for it."
He laughed, and it was a nice laugh, she supposed. A little rehearsed, maybe. But nice.
Dinner was served in a dining room that seated fifty. They sat at opposite ends of a table long enough to require semaphore. A small army of servants delivered course after course while Beth and the prince attempted conversation across the vast expanse of polished wood.
"So," she called, "what do you do for fun?"
"I enjoy polo. And fencing. And occasionally, I go on the royal yacht."
"Right. Of course. The yacht."
"And you? What do you do for fun?"
Beth considered. "Netflix. Brunch with friends. Occasionally, I go to the park and look at ducks."
He nodded thoughtfully, as if comparing duck-viewing to yachting was a valid equivalence. "Fascinating."
The conversation continued in this vein for three hours. Beth learned that he had opinions about tax policy, that he'd never cooked a meal in his life, and that his favourite movie was The Crown because "it's about my family, you know?" He asked polite questions about her job in marketing and listened to her answers with the attentive expression of someone who was definitely thinking about something else.
By dessert, Beth was desperately bored.
But then he suggested a tour of the castle, and things got... interesting.
The library was impressive. The ballroom was magnificent. The gallery of family portraits was historically fascinating and also mildly terrifying (so many dead kings, all looking exactly like her date). And then they reached the tower.
"The view from the top is remarkable," he said, gesturing to a spiral staircase. "Would you like to see?"
Beth, who had been texting her friends under the table all night, shrugged and followed.
The staircase was narrow, forcing them close together. She could smell his cologne—expensive, subtle, probably made from the tears of angels. At the top, the view was indeed remarkable: the moonlit grounds stretching for miles, forests and fields and a tiny village in the distance.
"Beautiful," she said.
"Not as beautiful as you."
She turned, expecting the line to be delivered with ironic self-awareness. Instead, he looked completely sincere. Earnest, even. Like he genuinely believed that line was the right thing to say.
He stepped closer. "May I kiss you?"
It was so polite, so proper, that Beth almost laughed. But he was very handsome, and the view was very romantic, and she'd come all this way.
"Yes," she said.
He kissed her.
It was... fine. Technically correct. His lips were soft, his technique was adequate, his hands stayed respectfully on her waist. It was the kind of kiss you'd demonstrate in a instructional video about kissing. Beth felt absolutely nothing.
He pulled back, looking pleased with himself. "Shall we continue in my chambers?"
Beth's phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. Then again. The group chat was exploding.
She glanced at the messages: "OMG update" "ARE YOU IN A CASTLE RN" "send pics of the prince's bedroom"
She looked at the prince, waiting expectantly. She looked at the staircase. She thought about the carriage ride home, the terrible wifi she'd noticed earlier, the fact that she'd probably have to make small talk with footmen on the way out.
"Sure," she said. "Why not."
His chambers were exactly what you'd expect: massive four-poster bed, antique furniture, a portrait of some ancestor looking disapproving from the wall. The wifi, as Beth had suspected, was terrible, one bar, if that.
The prince poured them both champagne from a crystal decanter and sat beside her on the bed. He was still wearing his suit jacket. Beth suspected he might wear it to bed.
"You're very beautiful," he said again.
"You mentioned."
"I mean it. I've met many women, but there's something about you. Something... real."
Beth appreciated the sentiment, even if it sounded like it came from a script. "Thanks. You're very handsome. Very princely."
He smiled, pleased. Then he leaned in to kiss her again.
This time, his hands were more adventurous, sliding up her sides, cupping her breasts through her dress. His touch was correct, technically speaking. The right amount of pressure, the right places. It was like being touched by someone who'd read about touching in a book.
Beth's mind wandered. She wondered if her friends were still awake. She wondered if the carriage driver got overtime. She wondered if the prince had ever had to do his own laundry.
He was undressing her now, with careful, practiced movements. Her dress pooled on the floor. His jacket followed. He looked at her body with appreciation that seemed genuine, if a little detached.
"You're exquisite," he said.
"You're not so bad yourself."
He laid her back on the bed and continued his exploration, mouth on her neck, her breasts, her stomach. Each kiss was placed with precision, like he was following a map. Beth closed her eyes and tried to focus.
But her mind kept drifting.
She thought about the guy from last month who'd made her laugh so hard she'd snorted wine through her nose. She thought about the barista who always remembered her order and had beautiful forearms. She thought about literally anyone who would make a joke right now, or mess up, or do something unexpected.
The prince's hand slid between her legs. His fingers found her centre with unerring accuracy. He touched her exactly the way she might have instructed, if anyone had asked.
It felt like nothing.
She was wet, her body responding mechanically to stimulation, but her mind was miles away. She thought about her vibrator at home, which had better wifi than this castle. She thought about the time she'd hooked up with a guy who'd accidentally elbowed her in the face and they'd laughed about it for twenty minutes. She thought about how this man, this actual literal prince, was the most boring lover she'd ever had.
He entered her with the same careful precision, moving in a rhythm that was perfectly adequate and utterly forgettable. Beth made the appropriate sounds, she'd been socialised well enough for that, but her heart wasn't in it.
When he finished, with a polite gasp and a murmured "that was wonderful," she felt nothing but relief.
He lay beside her, looking satisfied. "I'd like to see you again. Tomorrow, perhaps. My mother will want to meet you."
Beth stared at the ceiling. "Your mother."
"The queen. She's very eager for me to find a suitable partner. You're the first one I've brought back to the castle."
Of course she was. The first woman he'd deemed worthy of the royal treatment. Beth felt a hysterical laugh building in her chest.
"The thing is," she said carefully, "I'm not sure this is going to work."
He sat up, concerned. "Why not? Was I unsatisfactory? I was told I'm very satisfactory."
"You're very satisfactory. That's kind of the problem."
He looked genuinely confused. Beth took pity on him.
"Look," she said, sitting up and pulling the sheet around herself, "you're handsome, you're rich, you're a literal prince. You're going to make someone very happy. But that someone isn't me. Because I need someone who will make me laugh. Someone who will accidentally elbow me in the face and then we'll laugh about it for twenty minutes. Someone who doesn't make me feel like I'm in a performance review."
"A performance review?"
"It's a work thing. Never mind." She stood and began gathering her clothes. "Thank you for dinner. The carriage was a nice touch. But I think I'll call an Uber."
"The Uber won't be able to find the castle. It's not on any maps."
"Then I'll walk until it can."
He watched her dress, his expression a mixture of confusion and something that might have been admiration. "You're very... direct."
"So I've been told."
At the door, she paused and looked back. He was sitting on the bed, still naked, looking like a very handsome, very confused Renaissance painting.
"For what it's worth," she said, "you should try being less perfect. Mess up sometimes. Say the wrong thing. It's more attractive than you'd think."
She walked out.
The walk to where Uber could find her took forty five minutes. The glass slippers the prince had provided (because of course he had) gave her blisters. Her phone battery died. A fox screamed at her from a hedge.
But when she finally got home, kicked off the ruined shoes, and collapsed into her own bed, she was smiling.
The group chat exploded again when she finally charged her phone.
"UPDATE NOW"
"did u sleep with a prince??"
"IS HE GOOD IN BED"
Beth typed: "He was fine. Boring. Perfect. Terrible wifi. 3/10, would not recommend."
"And the slippers gave me blisters."
Her friends' reactions were a beautiful cascade of laughing emojis, shocked emojis, and one very confused "wait what slippers"
Beth grinned and put her phone on silent.
Three days later, she matched with someone new on Tinder. His profile said "Professional Duck Viewer" and his first message was: "I heard you're an expert. Thoughts on mallards vs. wood ducks?"
She laughed so hard she choked on her coffee.
They met for brunch. He was late, spilled coffee on his shirt, and spent twenty minutes passionately arguing that swans were "overrated and mean." By the end of the meal, Beth was pretty sure she was in love.
That night, in his small apartment with excellent wifi, they made love with all the messiness and imperfection and genuine connection that had been missing from the castle. He elbowed her in the face at one point. They laughed about it for twenty minutes.
Beth thought about the prince, somewhere in his castle, probably practicing his polite smile in the mirror. She hoped he found someone who appreciated perfection.
She'd take this, the chaos, the laughter, the terrible coffee and the excellent wifi, over a thousand castles.
The glass slippers sat in her closet for a year before she finally threw them out. They were beautiful, but they never fit quite right.
Neither, she'd learned, did princes.
