The Amazon Prince

The Amazon Prince

A Tale of Delusion, Destiny, and Delayed Deliveries

By

D’Anna Cannaveno

Every maiden dreams of meeting her Prince Charming—a tall, gallant man with dazzling armor, flowing locks, and rippling pectorals that glisten in the light of enchanted fireflies (or, in our case, the flickering fluorescents of aisle 17). Some dream of royalty. Others long for dangerous rogues with forbidden tattoos and mysterious pasts. And if you're on the thrillingly toxic side of the tavern, perhaps a charming outlaw or street sorcerer with a sketchy past and a good jawline will do.

But me? I found mine in the most magical of all realms—Amazonia.

Welcome to Castle EWR, a towering fortress of steel beams, conveyor belts, and crushed dreams. This kingdom was filled with noble Ops Dukes, weary peasants (also known as associates), and the ever-glorious heartbeat of the land: scan wands—magical devices used to tame the chaos of the Sortation Realms.

And I?

I was no mere worker.

I was the one, the only—

Princess of Pack and Scan.

Regal. Ravishing. Relentless. A living legend in my own mind.

I walked the halls of Castle EWR with authority, my boots clicking like war drums. My beauty? Blinding. My sass? Sharper than a broken tape dispenser. I was adored, envied, and whispered about in the break room like some kind of mythical creature.

Men fell at my feet (and sometimes slipped on packing tape). I was irresistible. Untouchable. Unapologetically her.

All were enchanted by me—except for one.

A man immune to my spell.

A mere villager.

Short in stature, strong in sarcasm. Clearly cursed. Possibly blind.

And from that moment on, I was doomed.

Doomed to fall headfirst into a fairytale that was more delusion than destiny.

And this, dear reader, is how it all began…

Part II: The First Encounter

Wherein the Princess meets the Peasant—and is appropriately offended

It was a dark and cursed morning in the land of Amazonia. The moon still reigned over the sky as I arrived at Castle EWR, the enchanted fortress where packages roamed free and hope went to die. It was 4:00 a.m.—a most ungodly hour, suitable only for witches, sorcerers, and the truly desperate (me).

The air was thick with the scent of freshly awakened cardboard, floor wax, and an aggressive amount of cologne worn by the local villagers who clearly had no sense of restraint or allergies. As I walked through the castle’s halls, scanning in with my magical wristband, I met with my noble companion—my best friend, my fellow royal, and the only soul permitted to walk beside me without fear of being banished.

Together, we strutted through the dim corridors of Castle EWR, cloaked in sass and wisdom, our noble carts rattling behind us. As always, we were engaged in sacred discourse—a serious and scholarly discussion known throughout the realm as:

The Revelations of Man.

“Men,” I declared, with all the conviction of a war general. “So simple. And yet… somehow the root of all chaos.”

“Like cursed frogs,” my companion replied, adjusting her crown (or safety vest).

We were wise.

We were weary.

We were women.

And in our deep musings, I was not watching where I walked.

Which is how it happened.

A divine accident. A heavenly shove from the gods of chaos.

I turned a corner with my royal cage, and—bam—collided into him.

The Peasant.

He stood before me, average in height, sarcasm radiating off him like heat from a dying microwave.

No tattoos. No piercings. No trace of mystery or danger.

Not even a magical weapon or visible curse mark.

Just… a guy.

I gazed at him, expecting the usual: jaw dropped, eyes wide, hands reaching for my number.

Instead, he said:

“First impressions are everything.”

I gasped. Silently. Internally. Loudly. Emotionally.

Did this man not know I was the Princess of Pack and Scan?

That I walked through Castle EWR like a divine breeze?

That peasants were to fall at my feet, not sass me?

I blinked. My royal smile faded into a confused grimace.

Still, I recovered quickly. “I’m not usually this clumsy,” I said, offering him my most humble courtly tone, while silently plotting his social downfall.

He just stared.

Unmoved. Unbothered. Unimpressed.

I was offended.

No—betrayed.

The audacity. The insolence. The challenge.

From that moment on, I knew:

This was personal.

This man—this short, sarcastic, glass-wearing mortal—would come to know the full weight of my charm.

And so it began.

Part III: The War Begins

Wherein the Princess takes up arms (emotionally), and Operation: Obsession begins

From the moment I walked away from that treacherous, unimpressed peasant, I knew one thing:

This. Was. War.

No one—no one—stood before the Princess of Pack and Scan and lived to not compliment her. He may have been blind, cursed, or suffering from a recent head injury… but regardless, he was now my divine mission. My prophecy. My peculiar little project.

I began my campaign immediately.

It was subtle at first.

Tactical.

I “coincidentally” began appearing in his work section—assigned, of course, through my royal connections. The Ops Dukes adored me. I had them wrapped around my pinky finger (and slightly intimidated by my Yelp-worthy attitude). If I wished to be moved? It was done. If I wished to hover near a certain short peasant? Also done.

I observed him. Quietly.

Gracefully.

With the focus of a trained assassin, but make it romantic.

I watched the way he stacked his cages. The way his little biceps flexed while scanning. The way he never once acknowledged me.

Suspicious.

And yet... thrilling.

No matter how many times I placed myself within two arm’s lengths of him, no matter how many times I did the polite princess laugh™, he refused to swoon.

My best friend tried to intervene once:

“Maybe he’s just... not interested.”

I looked her dead in the eyes.

“No,” I whispered. “He’s obviously emotionally repressed and intimidated by my presence. That’s different.”

Then came the Bend and Snap.

Yes. The sacred move, taught to me through the teachings of Saint Elle Woods herself. A maneuver both seductive and dangerous if performed on polished concrete. I had practiced it endlessly, honing it like a magical spell.

And so, one fine morning—whilst he and the Duke of Water-Spidering stood near the enchanted wrap cart—I made my move.

I wore my finest royal onesie. A little cleavage. A lot of confidence.

I twirled my hair. I gave my most alluring smile.

And then...

Bend.

And.

SNAP.

The Duke immediately fell under my spell.

He gasped. Complimented my attire. Nearly proposed.

And yet…

My prince?

He blinked.

Not in awe.

Not in agony.

Just… blinked.

And said:

“Are you okay?”

AM I OKAY?!

Sir, my ego is currently dissolving in a puddle on the floor. The laws of attraction are being rewritten before our very eyes.

I smiled, but my temple vein was visibly pulsing. I knew then… this was no ordinary mortal. This man was made of stone. Of steel. Possibly raised in the Mountains of Emotional Unavailability.

I had no choice.

It was time for The Direct Approach™.

I grabbed his arm. Firmly. Lovingly. Desperately.

Staring deep into his sarcastic soul, I tilted my head and—using my highest, most royal baby voice—asked:

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

There it was. The checkmate. The kill shot. The endgame.

My breath hitched. My heartbeat was galloping through my chest.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

He stared back.

Blankly.

And said:

“I’m not gonna tell you you’re pretty.”

…

Somewhere in the distance, a glass slipper shattered.

Part IV: The Royal Plot Twist

Wherein the Princess plots, the Prince resists, and numbers are exchanged under dramatic protest

By the time I maneuvered my way into the sacred Jiffy Sort Section, I had mastered the art of accidental placement. My strategic "oh-wow-I-didn’t-even-know-you-worked-here" face was flawless. The Ops Dukes, ever loyal to their beloved Princess of Pack and Scan, had granted my silent wish without question. As always.

There he stood—across the conveyor belt.

Tired. Mildly annoyed.

Magnificent.

I took my place across from him, our scan wands poised like rival swords, the belt between us humming like a magical moat of crushed dreams. Our eyes met. Briefly. Accidentally. Maybe spiritually.

Let the games begin.

Each day brought more tension. More sarcasm. More... whatever this was.

“Why are you always in my section?” he asked one morning without looking up.

“Why are you always where I coincidentally decide to be?” I countered sweetly.

He blinked. “You’re stalking me.”

“I call it... divine positioning.”

He rolled his eyes. I nearly proposed on the spot.

We worked across from each other, day after day. Jiffys flying. Hearts lowkey fluttering (mostly mine). I peppered him with questions, not-so-subtle compliments, and increasingly flirtatious banter.

“You always this annoying?” he asked.

“Only for emotionally unavailable men,” I smiled. “You’re my specialty.”

He chuckled. CHUCKLED. Progress.

Then one day, everything shifted.

He sighed, tossed his scanner down, and said, “I gotta leave early today. I have an interview.”

“Oh?” I asked, pretending like I hadn’t overheard him tell three other villagers already. “For another peasant role?”

He smirked. “Photography. I shoot events and portraits on the side.”

A creative? An artist?

My heart. My lungs. My entire internal system malfunctioned.

I gasped. “So you’re mysterious and artsy?”

“Guess I’m full of surprises.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. You’re still rude.”

But he smiled.

And then—he started walking away.

Just like that. No goodbye. No wink. Not even a dramatic cape twirl.

Unacceptable.

I dropped a jiffy. Launched across the section. Pushed past two confused associates and chased him down the sorting line like a deranged noblewoman with a romantic vendetta.

“Wait!” I called, almost tripping over an air pillow.

He turned around, eyebrow raised.

“So are you gonna give me your number, or what?” I demanded, hands on hips, panting dramatically.

He stared at me. Calm. Unbothered. Annoyingly hot.

“…What if I give you a fake number?” he said, the audacity in his voice so strong I could taste it.

I gasped like I had just been slapped by a nobleman in front of the entire royal court.

“Never mind,” I snapped. “I’m no longer interested.”

I spun around with all the grace of a woman about to cry in a breakroom.

“Wait—hold up,” he called after me, actually laughing. “I’m just messing with you.”

I turned back, arms crossed.

“I’m trusting you with my heart and cellular connection,” I muttered.

He pulled out his phone. Typed his number. Showed it to me.

“Here. It’s real. You can test it if you don’t believe me.”

I took it, suspicious but hopeful. My thumb hovered over the “text” button like a trigger.

He glanced over.

“So you’re gonna text me?”

I shrugged.

“Maybe.”

And walked away like the delusional queen I am.

From that moment forward… something changed.

He began showing up in my section.

He started the sarcastic banter.

He laughed more.

He asked questions. About me. Like I was the mysterious one.

And slowly but surely…

I was no longer the only delusional one in this castle.

We became inseparable.

Witty.

Chaotic.

A royal mess.

We’ve now been together for four years.

Me, radiant as ever.

Him, still refusing to say I’m pretty—but also holding my hand under the break table and sending me sneak pics from his photography gigs.

Did he ever actually say I was beautiful?

No.

But he acted like I was.

And in my world…

That’s canon.

The End.