The year flew by in a blur, filled to the brim with study. Amelia's days were scheduled by the minute. Mornings were for secret, grueling workouts with Leon, honing her body and reflexes. Afternoons were for lessons with Madame Eloise, polishing her manners and intellect to a blinding sheen. In the evenings, when the palace fell silent, she locked herself in the library and, with the help of the faithful Leon who procured the necessary documents, conducted a secret audit. She studied genealogical trees, financial reports, and political alliances of all the noble houses, compiling a dossier on every potential "investor" in her future.

  Project "Diamond" was in full swing, with the cutting and polishing proceeding from two diametrically opposite directions.

  The day of her sixteenth birthday was approaching, and with it, her first ball. Queen Isolde decided it was time for one of the most critical stages of preparation: selecting and tailoring the debut gown.

  The Princess's boudoir had been transformed into an unofficial war room. Besides the Queen herself, several of the kingdom's most influential and elderly ladies were invited—duchesses and countesses whose life experience and sharp tongues were legendary at court. They sat on elegant settees, sipping tea and waiting with the air of strict experts for the proceedings to begin, ready to offer "priceless" advice to the young debutante.

  The star of the day was Madame Giselle, the capital's most fashionable and expensive modiste. Upon entering the room, she swept a critical gaze over Amelia from head to toe.

  "Your Highness," she pronounced with a thick, affected accent, "the ball is a mere two months away. To ensure the dress fits perfectly, we may need a strict diet. We will tuck a little here," she waved a hand vaguely around the waist, "and emphasize... what ought to be higher up."

  Amelia nodded politely while her head maid, Clara Langley, helped her into the foundation of the ball gown—a tight whalebone corset.

  Clara had served the Princess for four years already. A pretty girl of twenty with chestnut hair swept into an elegant bun and kind blue eyes, she was more than just a servant to Amelia. Clara hailed from an impoverished but noble family, and over the years of service, she had become the Princess's closest friend and confidante. She was the only one who knew about the secret training and the night sorties into the city, and she had covered for her mistress more than once, risking her own position.

  When the corset laces were tightened and Amelia stood before the "council" in just her chemise, an awkward silence hung in the room. The ladies' expectations had clearly not been met. Instead of the lush, soft forms that the corset was supposed to lift and accentuate, they saw a slender, toned, but absolutely flat figure devoid of seductive curves. Years of training had made her body strong and resilient, but had added none of the roundness so prized in high society. She was fit and flat as a board.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  "Ah, my dear, such a frail frame..." the old duchess broke the silence first, hiding a sympathetic smirk behind her fan. "Men, you know, like to have something to hold onto."

  "It matters not, child," chimed in another, more practical matron. "Properly chosen lace, ruffles, and a few... special pads in the right places... work wonders. Madame Giselle is a sorceress; she will create the illusion."

  Amelia stood with her head bowed, her shoulders trembling ever so slightly. But not from shame—from a mixture of rage and genuine bewilderment. She wasn't acting. For the first time in a long while, she was truly thrown off balance.

  "Something to hold onto"? "Pads"? Are they... are they serious? her mind raged. In my past life, I heard constantly how important slenderness was! K-pop idols, actresses... everyone dreamed of being stick-thin! Weighing 45 kilograms was a national obsession! And here... here my ideal physical form turns out to be a defect?

  Blood rushed to her cheeks. It wasn't just insulting; it was absurd.

  Are they choosing cows at a county fair? Is this the aristocracy or a livestock breeders' club? I spent years on morning runs and planks to stay toned, and now they tell me I’m a "flat board" that needs to be stuffed with cotton? What barbarism!

  She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down and switch from emotions to analysis.

  Alright... Calm down. New country, new rules. New beauty standards. So, 'physical specs' are another variable in the equation I hadn't accounted for. Fine. We will work with what we have. I'll simply add a new column to my suitor dossier: 'Physique Preferences'. Let's see who here appreciates 'lush forms' and who appreciates elegance.

  Later, when the ladies and the modiste had departed, leaving behind a heap of sketches and the scent of expensive perfume, Clara approached the Princess, who was still standing by the mirror.

  "Do not listen to them, Your Highness," she said quietly and sincerely, draping a silk robe over Amelia's shoulders. "They are simply envious of your youth and grace. You have the figure of a dancer, not a fishwife."

  Amelia looked up at her, and there was no longer a shadow of offense in her eyes. She smiled warmly at her faithful friend.

  "Thank you, Clara. I know. But they gave me a good idea."

  That same evening, she went to her mother. Queen Isolde was sorting through papers in her study.

  "Mother," Amelia began with a calculated dose of timidity. "Today... it made me realize that at the balls, I will feel very lonely and insecure among all these ladies who judge so strictly. I need a person by my side whom I trust, someone who will help me keep my composure."

  She paused and continued decisively:

  "I ask you. Please, make Clara Langley my First Lady-in-Waiting."

  The Queen raised an eyebrow, looking up from her letter.

  "Your maid?"

  "She is from a noble family, and her manners are impeccable," Amelia spoke insistently but respectfully. "She has served me faithfully and truly for four years, knows my habits, and knows how to keep silent. I need an escort at the balls. I need a loyal ally at my back, not another Duke's daughter who will gossip about me. Clara is the best candidate."

  Queen Isolde thought for a moment. Her daughter was right. Clara's status allowed it, and having an absolutely devoted person next to the Princess in the snake pit of court intrigue would be strategically sound.

  "Very well," she finally nodded. "I will give the order. From tomorrow, Lady Clara Langley is your Lady-in-Waiting."

  Amelia dipped in a curtsy, barely suppressing a victorious smile. Project "Diamond" had just acquired its most loyal Chief Operating Officer.