Spoilt Princess Reincarnate As a Waitress

Alexia's POV

I knew one thing for sure: I needed to find the motherfucker who killed me before I could ever fully enjoy my life as the princess of the land. Because, let's be real, what's the point of a second chance at life if I don't get revenge? That's Princess 101. But so far? Zero leads. I've been looking for anyone from my past life who might remember who they were before this mess, but nada. Zilch. People just look at me like I escaped from the local asylum.

And my mom? Well, Brenda's got her own theory. She blames the booze. Says it's because she was drinking when she was pregnant with me. I don't even know if that's biologically possible, but it's classic Brenda to try and dodge responsibility. "I didn't even know I was pregnant!" she always says, like that makes it better. Right, Brenda. Sure.

So, according to her, all my "princess claims" are because of her questionable womb choices. Her words, not mine. She calls me crazy, says I'm delusional, and half the time, I almost believe her. But deep down, I know the truth. If my name and story were still in the history books, someone might have believed me. Instead, I get side-eyes and whispers like I'm some obsessive fangirl of the forgotten Princess Alexia, claiming her identity for clout.

So yeah, this is my life now. A life of frustration, bad tips, and holding onto my sanity by a thread. Speaking of which—have I mentioned how much I hate serving customers? It's the absolute worst. Again, I say: I was not born to serve. I was born to be served. Is that bitchy of me? Sure. But you'd be a little bitchy too if you had to deal with these godforsaken people all day long.

The absolute worst? The self-entitled bitches with designer bags and fake everything. Ugh. If it weren't for the fact that I need to pay rent, I'd dump their food right onto their overly caked-up faces. I have to bite my tongue every time one of them starts snapping their fingers or calling me "sweetie" in that condescending tone.

Then there are the spoiled, narcissistic rich jerks who think their daddy's car gives them a free pass to treat women like objects. Not today, Satan. These guys are like walking perfume ads with egos bigger than their bank accounts. I swear, they should just marry themselves—they're clearly their own type.

When one of those jerks lands at my table, I can smell the entitlement from a mile away. I don't even wait for the inevitable sleazy pickup line or the "accidental" brush of their hand against mine. Nope. I pawn them off on one of the other waiters faster than you can say "unpaid rent."

And here's the kicker: the other waiters love serving these guys. Why? Because these idiots tip big. Flash a smile, sway your hips, and boom—a fat stack of cash. But me? No, thanks. I'd rather scrape by than sell my dignity for a handful of dirty bills. After all, I've already been downgraded enough by this bullshit reincarnation.

If you think I'm being dramatic, well, you're right. I'm a self-entitled bitch, and I own it. But come on—look at where I started. Princess. Crown. Thrones. And now? A diner waitress who has to smile at jerks for minimum wage. I've been downgraded so far I might as well be underground.

This life sucks. But hey, I'm still here, surviving. And you better believe, if I ever find the asshole who killed me, I'll make them regret the day they crossed Princess Alexia of Epheffestus. This bitch may be down, but I'm not out. Not yet.

That's the thing about this new life—it's all survival. I mean, who has time for dreams when you're too busy making sure the lights stay on and there's enough food in the fridge to last until payday? Brenda sure isn't helping. Half the time, I feel like I'm the parent and she's the kid.

Take last week, for example. I came home after an eight-hour shift smelling like fries and misery, only to find her sprawled on the couch with an empty bottle of vodka and the electric bill sitting unpaid on the coffee table.

"Alexia, you're late," she slurred, waving her cigarette like I was supposed to curtsy or something.

I just stared at her. "You mean I'm late to the circus that is this apartment? My bad. Next time I'll rush home to the confetti and balloons."

She didn't get the sarcasm, of course. Brenda doesn't do nuance. But I'll give her credit for one thing—she doesn't complain when I take over. That's my job now. Paying the bills. Keeping the roof over our heads. Making sure she doesn't drink herself into oblivion. Honestly, if my past life hadn't made me an expert in delegating chaos, I probably would've snapped by now.

But back to the diner, because that's where most of the action (read: humiliation) happens. Yesterday, for instance, some hotshot in a tailored suit rolled in with his Gucci loafers and a Bluetooth earpiece like he was auditioning for the role of "Most Punchable Man Alive." He sat in my section, of course, because fate loves to kick me when I'm down.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said, without even looking up from his phone. "I'll take a triple espresso, no foam, and make it quick. I've got a meeting in ten."

Sweetheart. I hate that word. Not because it's offensive, but because it's lazy. At least come up with something creative if you're going to belittle me.

So, I plastered on my best fake smile and said, "Right away, sir." Then I walked into the kitchen, told Maria, the barista, to spit in his cup (she didn't, but it was fun to imagine), and brought him his precious coffee with a flourish.

"Enjoy," I said, setting it down in front of him like it was the crown jewels.

He didn't even say thank you. Just waved me off like I was part of the furniture.

Moments like that remind me why I hate this life. No one bows. No one shows respect. No one even acknowledges your existence unless they want something. And honestly? It's exhausting.

But here's the kicker: even though I hate this life, I still catch myself wondering if there's a way to make it better. Not just for me, but for Brenda too. Yeah, she's a mess, but she's still my mom in this world. And for all her flaws—and trust me, there are many—she's the only family I've got.

That's the thing about being reincarnated. You don't just lose your status and your luxuries. You lose your people. Your family. Your friends. Your home. And no matter how hard you try, you can't get them back.

Sometimes I think about my brothers. The loud, annoying idiots who used to chase me around the castle with frogs and laugh when I screamed. I used to hate them, but now? I'd give anything to hear their voices again.

But that's not how this works. My past is gone, erased from history like I never existed. And all I have now is this diner, this crappy apartment, and this endless cycle of survival.

Still, I'm not giving up. Not yet. Because if there's one thing I've learned from both my lives, it's this: every queen has to start somewhere. And maybe—just maybe—this is where I start rebuilding my throne.

But first? I need to survive the dinner rush without throwing a plate at someone's head. Baby steps.