pjs - The Prince's Diaries - full fic
💌 Synopsis: Jongseong is a prince—refined, disciplined, and expected to marry a woman of his father’s choosing.
You, on the other hand, are just a college student struggling to keep up with rent—until a team of royal advisors shows up on your doorstep and tells you that you’re the lost princess of Genovia.
But royal life isn’t a fairytale, and duty doesn’t care about love.
Because when the clock strikes midnight on the constitutional deadline, you’ll have to choose: your country or your heart.
“If I were just Jay, not a prince, would you still choose me?”
cw: SMUT but lots of fluff, smut on a piano, smut in a library, smut on a chaise, lots of fluff barely any angst the reader is in distress cuz of this whole princess thing.
Your alarm blares for the third time, and you finally surrender to consciousness, throwing your arm out to silence the offending device. Another Monday. Another week of classes, part-time work, and trying to stretch your student budget until the next paycheck. Nothing special.
The apartment you share with your roommate isn't much—a cramped two-bedroom with perpetually spotty WiFi and a temperamental shower—but it's home. At least for now.
"Late night?" Your roommate smirks over her coffee mug as you stumble into the kitchen, hair still wrapped in a towel.
"Research paper," you groan, reaching for the coffee pot. "Professor Kim is trying to kill us all before midterms."
You're pouring cereal when a sharp knock at the door makes you jump, spilling Cheerios across the counter.
"You expecting someone?" your roommate asks, already heading to answer it.
You aren't. It's 8:37 AM on a Monday. Nobody visits at 8:37 AM on a Monday.
When your roommate opens the door, the hallway seems suddenly filled with people. Men in dark suits. A woman with an impossibly tight bun. All of them standing with perfect posture, like they've collectively swallowed broomsticks.
"May we come in?" It's not really a question. The woman steps forward, eyes scanning your apartment with barely concealed judgment. "We're looking for Y/N L/N."
Your roommate points at you wordlessly, backing away as the entourage enters.
"Ms. L/N," the woman says, her accent crisp and foreign. "I am Charlotte Martell, private secretary to Her Majesty Queen Clarisse Renaldi of Genovia."
