Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Princess

Walking the Tightrope

The sound of my heels clicking on the marble floor accompanies me as I cross the palace hallway. This damn place has always been like a gilded cage. The high walls, the artwork, the huge windows that let in light, everything is designed to project perfection. To remind you that you can't step out of line, that there are always eyes watching.

"Alexandra, darling, can we talk?" my mother's voice interrupts my thoughts. I stop and close my eyes for a second before turning on my heel.

There she is, Queen Eleanor, impeccable as always, in her fitted suit and perfectly coiffed hair. She is the very image of what a princess, a queen, should be. And every time I see her, I feel the weight of all the times I've failed to meet that standard.

"What is it about this time?" I ask, knowing the answer will be something to do with my behaviour in public, as always.

"Would you please sit down?" she says, pointing to one of the living room couches. I sit down reluctantly, crossing my arms over my chest, waiting for the inevitable.

"I've been watching the news," she begins, in that calm, calculated tone she uses when she's about to lecture me. "And once again, Alexandra, you've made headlines. The tabloids are full of pictures of you at that club, behaving like—"

"Like I always do," I interrupt, not bothering to hide my sarcasm.

"Alexandra" my mother says, her tone hardening, "you can't keep doing this. You can't keep damaging our image. You have responsibilities. You have to behave worthy of your position. It's not just for you, it's for the family, for the legacy"

The same old words. The same expectations that have followed me around my whole life like a fucking shadow. Behaving like a princess? What the hell does that mean? Smile and pretend everything is okay when inside I'm falling apart? That's never been my thing.

"You want me to be like you," I say, getting up from the couch and facing her. "But I'm not. I never will be"

Her eyes harden, and for a second, I see a flicker of frustration. But she hides it quickly. She always does.

"It's not about being like me, Alexandra" she says coldly. "It's about protecting who we are. Maintaining stability in times when everything seems to be faltering. You can't allow yourself to be seen as... weak or irresponsible"

Weak. That word cuts through me like a dagger. I know she doesn't say it outright, but what she's implying is clear: emotions are a weakness. And I, with all my escapades, my nights out, and my wild party girl facade, am living proof of what a princess shouldn't be.

"I'm not weak," I growl, clenching my fists at my sides. "And if that's what you think, then you don't really know me"

I turn and walk out of the room without waiting for a response. It's always the same with her. I'll never be what she expects, and I'm tired of trying.

As I walk through the palace, still fuming from the conversation with my mother, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I pull it out and see a text from Lucas. It says simply, "She sent you flowers"

Flowers? I frown and open the picture he sent me. Sure enough, a bouquet of flowers, with a simple card that only has one initial: "T."

Taylor.

My heart beats faster than it should as I read the initial. I feel a strange mix of nervousness and something that might be excitement, though I don't want to admit it.

What the hell is she doing? I'm not the kind of person who gets flowers sent to. What is she trying to do?

I head straight to my penthouse, closing the door behind me as if that way I can avoid facing whatever it is I'm feeling. I throw my bag on the couch and flop down on the bed, staring at the ceiling as I try to calm the storm that's building inside me.

I can't let this get to me. I can't let Taylor into my life, not even a little. I like to be in control, I like people not to get too close. But she... she's starting to get under my skin.

I check my phone again. How the hell does she have my number, I wonder, remembering what happened at the end of the gala.

The gala progressed, the hours passing slower than I imagined. I felt the weight of every gaze on me, as if they expected me to do something worth shocking. But then, Taylor approached me again, just as I was about to leave.

"Sneaking out early?" she joked, her smile so confident it unnerved me.

"You know, I have a reputation to uphold," I replied, trying to sound disinterested. But inside, there was something different about this interaction. I'd spent the entire evening keeping any conversation with her from lasting longer than necessary, but I couldn't ignore it.

We stood in a more secluded corner of the room, away from the cameras and prying eyes. For a moment, all the noise seemed to fade away. Taylor looked at me with an intensity that made me feel like she could see past my façade.

"You know, you're not what I expected," she said, lowering her voice.

"Oh, I'am not?" I replied with a mix of sarcasm and curiosity. "And what did you expect?"

"Someone more... unapproachable. But you're not. At least, not to me," she replied, her eyes locked on mine. There was something in her tone, in the way she looked at me, that made me feel exposed.

I wasn't ready for that. All my life I've been the one in control, the one who keeps others at a distance. But with Taylor, I felt disarmed, like she'd seen right through me.

"You know what? Give me your number," she said suddenly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I laughed, a little surprised by her audacity. "And why would I do that?"

"Because I know you'll want to talk to me again," she replied with a confident, almost defiant smile.

That damn comment.

I gave her my number before I thought about it too much. And when I did, I knew I'd crossed a line I'd promised myself I wouldn't cross.

"Talk to you later, princess," she said, giving me one last look before walking away.

I should have left it there. I should have laughed and forgotten the whole thing. But the truth was, something about her had me, and I had no idea how to handle it.

Back in the present, I'm lying in bed, staring at the ceiling as the conversation from the gala plays over and over in my head. I wonder if it was a good idea to give her my number. And now, the flowers... I can't help but feel like this is getting out of hand.

I grab my phone and, without thinking too much, start typing a message for her. I delete it. I type it again. Finally, I give up and type quickly:

"Thanks for the flowers, but you don't need to"

I close my eyes and send it.

My phone vibrates almost instantly. Taylor's reply comes quickly, faster than I expected:

"No need, but I wanted to"

I smile involuntarily, but I feel frustrated with myself for doing so. Taylor Swift is not someone I should be letting in, but somehow, she already is.

I run my hands over my face and fall back onto the bed. I'm in danger. Not from the media, not from scandals. I'm in danger of letting my guard down, of letting someone in.

And that, that's the scariest thing of all.