Chapter 1
Mia

I am NOT high maintenance. Really, I'm not. A lot of people simply think I am because I'm a princess and all. But that's just not true. I didn't even know I was a princess until I was fourteen, and before then, I lived with the eccentric artist otherwise known as my mother. Anyways, bottom line, I'm pretty easy-going.

So where the HECK does His Royal Highness Michael Marcel Montague Moscovitz of Monaco get off calling me uppity? I mean, I know he's probably suffering from self-esteem issues garnered by his sadistically alliteration-happy royal parents, but he shouldn't take those issues out on a fellow royal that never did anything wrong to begin with.

"Amelia, let it go," my grandmother snapped. Grandmère was the one who had delivered the news that Mr. M&M&M&M refused his invitation for the traditional Genovian-Monacan exchange because he didn't like my public image. "He didn't expressly say that you were conceited. And besides, he is a monarch of his own country and is subject to international ridicule, you are free to think however you wish of him."

"He implied it! And, that's the difference between him and myself," I growled angrily. "I choose not to judge people based on assumptions made by the media. I choose to wait until I've actually met the person before I decide whether or not I like him."

Grandmère rolled her eyes skyward. "Not all of us are as righteous as you, Amelia."

I faintly heard Francois covering the word "hypocrite" with a discreet cough. Rounding on him, I gave him my steely-eyed glare and said, "He has obviously revealed a part of his personality to me, and if I happen to pass him off as a condemnatory jerk, I would appreciate it if you did not question my methods!" And with that final word, I stomped off.

Alright, I might be lying to myself a little. Being called high maintenance doesn't really push my buttons. The reason I'm so worked up is because it's HRH Michael Moscovitz that's calling me high maintenance. And this wouldn't usually be a problem…except the fact that I have a minor crush on him.

Alright, maybe not so minor. Maybe I have a crush on him of astronomical proportions, and if I had to "devote my carnal treasure" to anyone, as my best friend, Tina Hakim Baba, puts it, it would be a toss-up between him and Hugh Jackman, because let's face it: Michael Marcel Montague Moscovitz might be a prince, but Hugh Jackman is Wolverine.

I threw myself onto my royal bed in my royal bedchambers and pulled my royal journal out from underneath my royal desk. Whipping out the royal purple pen, I wrote in big, bold, royal letters on the first clean page, "He may be hot, but he's a royal jerk."

Michael

"I don't understand why you don't want to go meet her," my mother said huffily. "She's a very nice girl. I met her myself."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever. She's a hoity-toity little princess that sees the world through rose-colored glasses, and if she can't have her way, she pitches a fit 'til she does."

"As opposed to a hoity-toity little prince that sees the world through designer Gucci glasses and punches people in the face to get his way?" My sister shot back. We may be family, but we don't necessarily get along, so her defending of Princess Amelia has nothing to do with her regards of the young monarch, more just to cut me down.

"It can't hurt to spend a little time with her," my father coaxed. He was always the most reasonable of the family. He'd do his best to get me to be nice the young princess. For diplomatic reasons, anyway.

"There's a first time for everything," I shot.

My mother stood up and used her menacing five feet, nine inch stature to intimidate me while I was sitting down. Sadly, it was working. "Michael Marcel Montague Moscovitz, Monaco has had a very friendly relationship with Genovia since the First World War and I refuse to let you ruin our cordial diplomatic ties! You are going and that is FINAL!" And with those last words, she stomped off, too angry to say another word.

After father went after her to try and calm her down, Lilly smirked at me and said, "Good going, hot shot."

"Shut up."

Okay, honestly? I don't think Princess Amelia's all that bad. In fact, I think she's kind of pretty.

Alright, alright. I think she's banging and I have this gigantic celebrity crush on her. There, happy? Everyone's entitled to a celebrity crush. Normal young men my age, however, have their celebrity crushes on girls like Jessica Alba and Britney Spears pre-crazy bitch days.

Me? I'm crushing on the future ruler of Genovia. So you could understand why my lackage of masochistic tendencies would prevent me from wanting to spend two months in her palace, right? It's like dangling a Sarah Lee chocolate cheesecake in front of a desert junkie going on a diet.

But it doesn't matter anymore. Because I'm going anyway, and I have absolutely no say in the matter.

Lord, help my libido.

Mia

"Amelia?" My father asked distractedly. He was reading the telegram Albert gave him a few moments ago.

"Yes, Dad?" I asked as I daintily speared my baby spinach onto my fork. He wanted high maintenance? I'd show him high maintenance.

"It seems Prince Michael has changed his mind. He has accepted our invitation to stay with us for two months, and the Dowager Princess Camilla Moscovitz insists that they return the favor and house you for two months."

I nearly spit my water out my nose, but I held it. "What?" I asked as soon as I managed to compose myself.

"It's not at all uncommon, Amelia," he said as he set the telegram aside and continued eating. "There are only several times in history when Monaco has not returned the favor."

"But—but—"

"Amelia, that word is really quite vulgar and I refuse to have it at the dining table," my grandmother said with a severe stare down.

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I turned to my father. "I don't have to go, do I?"

He gave me the Look and said, "Of course you're going."

I pouted. "Can I reject first, then accept after a day?"

He rolled his eyes. "You're being petty, Amelia, and I do not tolerate that in this palace. You're going, and that's final."

I pushed my plate away and got up. "I'm not hungry," I announced as I stalked out of the dining room and up the staircase to my room. What's Prince Michael's damage anyways? Can't he make up his mind? I paced the plush white carpet that blanketed the floor of my chambers in frustration and anxiety.

Crap. I forgot to ask when he's coming.

Well, whatever. I had to devise a plan immediately in order to keep my sanity around him while he was here. Not only was he too hot for his own good, he called me an uppity princess, so strategizing is definitely in order.

Ways to avoid HRH Michael Moscovitz
1. Run the opposite direction every time I see him
2. Get Tina to invite me to as many events as possible
3. Try and head him off with Lars or Francois
4.Explain to the staff that I really don't like him and try to get them to help me out
5. Slip sleeping potions into his water at dinner so he falls asleep immediately

Note to self: get sleeping potions.

Michael

So, I'm gonna have to go after all.

Tomorrow.

You have got to be kidding me.

I was raiding my closet, throwing everything that was slightly decent to be seen in on the red carpet into my suitcase while my servants and the rest of the staff were helping me iron out stuff and packing everything else that I might have overlooked.

And crap, what am I gonna wear when I get there? I have to look perfect; I don't want Princess Amelia to think I'm some sloppy loser.

As I began tossing jeans, shirts, and shoes across my room, the servants quickly jumped out of the way, but Lilly stepped into the crossfire. "Whoa, what are you doing?" She asked as she dodged a steel-toed boot.

"Looking for something decent to wear tomorrow. Get out."

She stepped out of Daniel's way, who had an armful of shoes and was stuffing them into one of my suitcases. "Don't you want some help from your fashion-minded little sister?"

At that I straightened up and gave her a suspicious look. She was rather fashion-minded and she knew what looked good. That didn't mean she necessarily followed the rules herself, she just knew them. "Ookay…"

She stood in front of my almost cleaned out closet and pulled out my lucky jeans, a green pinstriped, button-down shirt, a green sweater, a white tie with strategically placed green paint splotches all over it, and my tan corduroy blazer complete with green hi-top Converse.

I looked at her selection and had to admit, it was really good. I gave her a funny look and asked, "Okay, what's the catch?"

"Catch?" She repeated in confusion. "What catch?"

"I know you too well, Lil, you wouldn't help out if you didn't have something up your sleeve. Now what do you want?"

"Michael, you have some trust issues. Why is that?"

I rolled my eyes. Great, now she was psychoanalyzing me. "Because I have an insane, bipolar little sister. What do you want?"

"I really don't want anything. I actually wanted you to look good on your first day there. Is that so hard to believe?"

"Yes," I replied simply.

"Fine!" She shouted as she walked out of my room. "Next time, I won't help you at all!" She slammed the door shut behind her.

I stared at the door in amazement. She actually didn't want anything. She just wanted me to look nice.

Note to self: make sure she doesn't have a temperature before I leave.

Mia

I woke up the next morning to an army of servants scurrying around the palace. "What's going on?" I asked Julia, my personal assistant.

She gave me a funny look and replied, "Prince Michael is coming today. Dowager Princess Clarisse insists that you look immaculate, so Paolo and Sebastiano are coming in—"

"Where is the princess?" Paolo demanded.

"Now," Julia said. She faded into the background as my stylists began to crowd around me, leaving me no breathing space whatsoever.

Okay. Officially PANICKING. He's coming TODAY? I didn't even get any sleeping potions!

Paolo and Sebastiano pushed me into my bathroom and demanded I scrub every inch of skin, because Sebastiano refused to let his Italian silk touch any unclean part of my body and Paolo had to work with a clean palette.

So after stepping out of my intense shower (because there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that if they found even a speck of dirt on my skin, they'd shove me back into the shower and make me clean myself again), Paolo attacked my rubbed raw red face and squeaky clean, passion fruit smelling hair. At the same time, Sebastiano was whipping out a dress from thin air and throwing it over my head.

A whirlwind two hours later, every single inch of my body was primped and polished and I was shoved out of my room and down the stairs to stand with my father and grandmother. "You look lovely," my father beamed and Grandmère gave a prim nod of approval.

I desperately wanted to scratch at my skin, but I dared not. Instead, I decided to live with the discomfort and waited in growing anxiety for Prince Michael's arrival.

I didn't have to wait too long, though, because just three minutes later, Alfred threw open the doors dramatically and announced, "His Royal Highness, Prince Michael Marcel Montague Moscovitz has arrived." Then he gave an extravagant wave of his hands and stepped aside to reveal the breathless beauty that was Prince Michael.

Oh, Lord.

Michael

I felt my stomach drop almost to my ankles as I caught sight of Princess Amelia. She was wearing a pale blue, silk sundress that stopped a few inches above her knees and stayed on her shoulders with thin spaghetti straps. There was a wide strip of dark blue that swathed from her left underarm to her right hip, and though the dress was simple, it was elegant and brought out her gray gaze, which, by the way, was highlighted with a shimmering mauve eyeshadow and lined with soft brown.

Forcing my saliva glands to start working, I took three shaky steps forward and shook Prince Philippe's hand. "Thank you for inviting me, Your Highness, and I am gravely sorry for declining at first. You see, I thought I would go to France this year with my family and—"

My father chuckled and clapped Prince Michael on the shoulder. "Son, you don't have to explain anything to me. I'm just glad that you could make it." I couldn't help but smile in relief. Thank God he didn't hold it against me.

I stepped towards Dowager Princess Clarisse and kissed her hand. "It is wonderful to finally meet the strong monarch that has led this wonderful country through such a time of prosperity."

Clarisse gave a throaty chuckle and raised one pencil thin eyebrow. "Oh, you're such a flatterer, young man. My granddaughter would be wise to stay away from you."

If I didn't know any better, I'd think this woman was flirting with me. Ew.

Last, but not least.

"Princess Amelia," I said with a voice that I hoped was calm and cool. I bowed and kissed her hand. "You look lovely. How many times did you change before you settled on this dress?"

MICHAEL! What the heck are you THINKING? I wanted to slap myself into submission, but Princess Amelia's facial expression had a similar effect. Her gray eyes hardened, and she said with a voice quivering with emotion, "For your information, Your Highness, I did not have a choice in my attire this morning. And I would appreciate it if you did not insult me in my own home." And with that, she turned on her Jimmy Choo heel and stomped off.

As my sister would say, good going, dip shit.

A/N- Firstly, I would like to say that I cannot remember what Michael's actual middle name is, so for the sake of this story, his full name is Michael Marcel Montague Moscovtiz, okay?

Secondly, I would also like to say that I have not given up on my Supergirl Sequel, nor will I. I'm just going through really bad writer's block in terms of Take Me Away, and I figure the best way to get over it is to get back into the Princess Diaries fanfiction writing groove.

Thirdly, I would greatly appreciate a review so I know whether to continue with this crazy endeavor or not. Because if you guys don't like it, then there's really no point in updating.