**Chapter 2**
“Shanael, another letter came from *that* reader.”
“What? Again?”
“Yeah.”
I was sick of it. Yet another complaint letter from that same reader.
I didn’t even bother opening it this time—just shoved it into the bottom drawer with the rest.
That drawer was now stuffed with sky-blue envelopes. At this point, even the sight of that color made me nauseous. I’d even gone pale at the sight of a cloudless sky.
Honestly, that reader had some serious dedication. Who else finds time to send one—sometimes two—long, detailed letters a week criticizing every plot and setting detail in my novel? Don’t they have crops to tend during planting season?
Jake, passing by, noticed me filing the letter away unread. He stopped, fished it out of the drawer, and set it back down on my desk with exaggerated care.
“Shanael, this reader sent another generous donation. They’re an important supporter.”
“Maybe important to the paper, but to me? They’re a pain in the neck. I wish they’d just leave me alone…”
Jake smiled and placed a hand gently on my shoulder, claiming that popularity came with burdens, and I had to learn to bear them. I was too exhausted to even sit upright. Just then, the office door swung open and I found myself locking eyes with the chief editor.
“Oh-ho-ho! Shanael!”
Edward’s usual stubbly chin was gone, replaced with a clean shave. He was immaculately dressed, wearing a full suit, and smiling ear to ear as he strode straight to my desk.
**Smack—!**
He slapped something onto my desk.
“What is this?”
“What do you mean, *what*? Take a look!”
It was an invitation—an embossed, gold-edged envelope addressed to none other than me: *Shanael Weaver.* A noble’s ball.
“Hmmm…”
I didn’t even ask which family was hosting it or how a commoner like me ended up on their guest list. I wasn’t interested. I didn’t own a single formal dress, and the thought of going sounded like sheer misery.
I stared blankly at the invitation, and Edward picked it back up, waving it in front of my face.
“You need reference material, right? First-hand experience will help.”
“I’m not going.”
“Why not?”
“I’m tired. I’m ending the series.”
“What?”
They both looked stunned, but not for long—they remembered I’d said the same thing two months ago. They brushed it off like it was nothing. That made me angrier.
“Come on, don’t be like that. I’ll treat you to dinner tonight. One glass of that estate wine and you’ll sleep like a baby.”
“Yeah, Shanael. I’ll even buy you a pillow from the draper’s—the best-selling one. They say you’ll fall asleep the moment your head hits it.”
But I already knew from painful experience that none of their suggestions worked.
Two years of serialization. I’d made good money.
So what? My health was in ruins. My stomach burned like I had one foot in the grave.
“Enough.”
I raised a hand to stop them. They exchanged looks, bowed their heads, and slinked back into the editor’s office, promising silence for the sake of their *star author.*
The paper had grown massively—sales had boomed, staff had increased, and what was once a four-page publication had doubled in size. Even now, another writer was serializing a hit novel: *I Found a Dimensional Gate While Tilling My Fields.* It was about a humble farmer who slayed monsters by moonlight. It was well-received.
‘I’m not even needed anymore.’
I barely managed to sip water through the constant gnawing ache in my gut. That’s when another sky-blue envelope arrived by express mail.
I knew it would be another worthless rant, but curiosity got the better of me. I tore the envelope open roughly and unfolded the letter.
—
> *To the author of “The Crown Prince’s First Love”:*
> *That jewel the Crown Prince offered Iris in the last episode? Pathetic. Who proposes with a three-carat diamond? Even a passing stray dog wouldn’t take that.*
—
“Of course not. Dogs don’t care about jewelry.”
Clutching my stomach, I took a deep breath and forced myself to keep reading, if only to see how much more obnoxious it could get.
—
> *And didn’t I say last week that the enemy prince should be a ridiculous little runt? Then why was he shown mounting a horse so easily? You need to add a scene with a servant lying flat on the ground so he can climb up. Make sure readers focus only on the Crown Prince—he has to be the most dazzling character in the story.*
—
I gripped the letter so tightly the paper crumpled and trembled.
Jake and Edward popped their heads out to ask if I was going home. I smiled sweetly.
“Inspired, actually. I’ll finish the manuscript and send it straight to the typesetters.”
“Ah, sorry to leave you with it.”
“No worries. Good night, Chief.”
“See you tomorrow, then.”
They left, laughing cheerfully. I picked up the letter again, reading it through with tight lips.
—
> *How much do you even know about love, author? Who waits three months to confess to their first love? I would’ve proposed immediately! The Crown Prince’s bashfulness is dragging the story down. Make him more proactive. Oh—and when you describe his hair, make sure it shines. I like sparkly things.*
—
Done.
Considering how much money this reader donated to the paper, they were probably a wealthy merchant or nouveau riche. But two years of this nagging was more than enough.
I wanted to write my own way. But ignoring the feedback meant getting only half the usual donation—and then Edward would corner me, gently forcing edits with that same old line: “Just tweak a few things. It’s not a big deal.”
I had caved every single week.
But I’d hit my limit.
As another sharp pain twisted through my abdomen, I slammed my hands on the desk and sat up straight.
“Not anymore.”
I tore the letter and envelope into shreds.
“What is this envelope made of?! Kevlar?!”
Muttering curses, I finally reduced it to confetti and dumped it into the trash.
I’d suffered enough. I’d been soothing my stomach with herbal teas every night just to survive. No more.
“You like things that sparkle, huh? Fine. I’ll make it *shine.*”
Not the reader—no, I didn’t plan to retaliate against them.
I was going to destroy the very thing they loved most: the Crown Prince.
I picked up my pen, resolve burning.
—
**The Crown Prince’s First Love — Final Chapter**
—
The series was meant to run for another two years, but there was no reason to suffer through that. I’d saved enough to open a bakery in my hometown. I wouldn’t make as much, but peace of mind was priceless.
“What am I, immortal? How long am I supposed to endure this?”
Fueled by rage, the words flowed effortlessly. I didn’t need a mirror to know my face was probably twisted with manic glee.
“Heh… hehe… Let’s make him shine. Really *shine.*”
—
Iris strolled with the Crown Prince along the riverside as the breeze picked up. Petals fluttered around them as the sun began to set. Just as he prepared to seal their future together with a kiss, a sudden gale howled through the valley.
Her blue hair whipped in the wind, her skirt billowing like a sail. She turned to him with a gentle smile—only to freeze.
The golden locks that should have adorned his head were gone.
The sunlight reflected off his smooth, bald scalp.
—
> “Your Highness… are you bald?”
—
In his panic, the Crown Prince reached down to retrieve his fallen wig, but it was too late.
She had seen everything.
—
> “Iris, wait!”
> “I’m sorry, but I can’t accept your proposal. I don’t like bald men.”
> “I’ll fix it! I’ll eat black beans every day. I’ll grow it back, I swear—!”
> “Even so, my heart’s already turned away. I wish you the best in life.”
—
The Crown Prince stood there, tears streaking down his face, watching Iris disappear into the sunset. The moonlight gleamed off his shiny dome.
—
**—The End—**
*Thank you for reading “The Crown Prince’s First Love.”*
—
“Perfect.”
That ought to shake that sky-blue envelope sender to their core.
Let’s see how they like it now.
“HAHA. HAHAHAHA!!! KYAAA-HAH!”
Now I understood why readers loved vengeful twists and fast-paced finales. It was exhilarating.
Now came the tricky part—getting the final manuscript to the typesetters without Edward or Jake finding out.
I left my resignation letter on the desk, took the manuscript, and stood.
I ran my hand along the desk’s corner and whispered softly:
“This is it. I’m free. Finally free.”
No sadness—just a peppermint-fresh sense of liberation.
