Desiring a dramatic switch-up, I dyed my platinum locks black. Gazing at the ghastly gray-green result, tears flowed.

Sir, trying to comfort me, joked, "Well, no need for a wig at the costume party!"

Sobbing, I retorted, "I'm the spitting image of a witch!"

With a mischievous grin, Sir responded, "If you were a witch, fairytales would be obsolete. Every prince would be too consumed with ravishing your tempting body to even glance at those innocent princesses."

I bit my lip, fidgeting beneath my prince's sultry gaze. His plans for after the party were undeniably sinfully wicked—I couldn't wait.