Well, well, well.
If Daddy Dearest thought he could break me down with a few cold words about being a future slave, he was sorely mistaken.
Because while my royal milestones were a problem for him, they were also a perfect opportunity for me to learn a valuable lesson in the fine art of subtle rebellion.
Who tells me that I cannot be a genius and a master of slow-motion mayhem?
It was time to slow down.
If the King wanted me to be a tool, a puppet, a obedient little princess for his political ambitions, then I was going to play dumb.
And I was going to do it so convincingly that even he would wonder if I were really his daughter... or just a very sophisticated puppet.
Step 1: Baby-Style Regression
I began small. Nothing overt. A few well-planned hiccups in my progress. I could still do my milestones incognito—fine motor skills, motor skills, coordination? Check. I could stand, walk, talk, and crawl like the super-genius baby I was. But when the court's eyes, the King's, or anyone else's were on me, I did things differently.
I started to stumble.
I'd intentionally trip over my own feet, taking care to fall on my butt whenever I attempted to walk. And when someone would try to get me up, I'd just. refuse. I'd go limp. Like a baby who'd forgotten how to use their legs.
At the playdates with the other aristocratic babies? Oh, I played dumb. I only showed interest in shiny things—and only when no adults were watching.
The most hilarious part? Nobody had a clue.
Everyone just assumed that I was developing at a typical rate. They had no idea the real Charlotte was hard at work executing the most complex baby hoax ever.
Step 2: Operation Misdirection
Then, I needed to get inside the King's head. Not his heart, because that was obviously a lost cause, but his mind. His game plan.
So, I started playing with the smallest details. The smallest things. Nothing obvious, just. hints.
Every time the royal advisors were present, I ensured to loudly whimper whenever the King walked by. And if he scooped me up and attempted to soothe me, I'd loudly burp loudly, just to let everyone know that I was not some perfect little doll.
I also began to form an attachment to my stuffed animals—namely, the ratty, grimy one that had been abandoned in the nursery by some visiting aristocrat. It was the ideal representation of my new, "more human" status as a baby.
I would start to crawl away from the royal authorities whenever they attempted to impart manners to me, babbling incoherently and shaking my head as if to declare, "You're wasting your time, people. I'm a rebel."
Step 3: Baby's First Revolt
But the real masterpiece? The one that caught my father's eye in a way I was positive would be remembered for years to come:
I would not drink my royal milk.
Yep. I just. wouldn't.
Instead, I gazed at the shimmering silver goblets containing the best milk, narrowed my eyes suspiciously, and turned my head away.
The maids did everything—rotating my bottles, heating them to the exact temperature, placing the milk in a crystal decanter, hoping the lavish presentation would appeal to me. But not a chance. I rejected it.
I even threw my bottle at the wall occasionally. Not with any vicious intent, naturally, but simply because I had made up my mind that this sort of treatment was not acceptable to me from now on. The royal milk did not deserve me, and I did not deserve it.
I could've just gulped it down easily—easy calories, easy progress. But no, I allowed it to accumulate, allowed them to worry, allowed them to view me as the trouble child they could never manage.
The King's Reaction
The King? He was furious. First, the early achievements. And now this.
He had summoned a royal conference that day, no doubt to discuss this latest turn of events—or, at least, the failure to progress on my part.
"Charlotte's conduct is disturbing," he stated, his voice a creepy calm. He sat at the head of the table, the normal group of advisors and courtiers fidgeting nervously in their seats. He glared at me, my diapered body sitting smugly in my chair, my rosy cheeks puffed out in defiance.
"She won't eat. She won't drink. She won't learn any lesson we've tried to teach her. We cannot let this continue."
The advisors looked at each other nervously. Everyone knew that a strong heir was necessary for the future of the kingdom, but now the King was staring at me like a flawed model.
"She's backtracking. It's like she's doing this intentionally."
I snickered in my head. Oh, I was.
But on the outside, I simply let out a melodramatic yawn, acting the part of the sleep-deprived baby who could not possibly have a plan behind her big, innocent eyes.
He didn't know what to do with me anymore.
And that was how I started my final rebellion. The King viewed me as a threat. Fine. But I'd prove to him that the greatest threat was one that didn't follow the rules. One that didn't grow when and how you wanted. One that could slow down and pretend to be a helpless little thing—all while plotting my next move in secret.
Because if the King believed he could manipulate me by holding me back, then I'd prove to him that a real royal doesn't grow by the book. They warp it.
And that's what I was going to do.