Try to Starve Me, Watch Me Take the Crown…

Mirabelle Vale, traumatized by childhood starvation and dismissed as 'unmarriageable' at 220 pounds, discovers golden captions exposing her half-sister Celia’s plot to seize the Crown Princess title—and starve her into lifelong servitude. With no time left, she must retrain her body, outwit court politics, and confront deep-seated fear—not for love or power, but for the simple, sacred right to eat.

Quick Info

• Platform: ShortMax
• Genre: Romance, Historical Fantasy, Revenge, Psychological Drama, Coming-of-Age

What if the deadliest weapon in the palace wasn’t a dagger—but a plate of roasted pheasant, eaten slowly, while golden letters flare across your vision:

“She plans to cut your rations tomorrow. You have 17 hours.”

Mirabelle Vale doesn’t want the crown.
She wants to sit at the high table—and eat without bracing for laughter.

At over 200 pounds, she’s been called “unmarriageable,” “unfit,” “a liability in silk.” But none of that matters as much as the memory: ten years old, trapped in a mountain cave, fighting other starving children for moldy bread crusts. Food isn’t comfort. It’s proof she survived. It’s armor—thick, quiet, non-negotiable. So when golden text flickers over her roast goose—“She’s still eating at her size; she won’t make it past the first round”—it doesn’t shame her. It alerts her. Because Celia, her half-sister, flawless and lethal, isn’t just angling for the Crown Prince. She’s already written Mirabelle’s future: one bowl of broth a day, served kneeling, as her lady-in-waiting.

Try to Starve Me, Watch Me Take the Crown - What if the deadliest weapon in the palace wasn’t a dagger—but a plate of roasted pheasant, eaten slowly, while golden letters flare across your vision:

She didn’t lose weight to disappear—she lost it to arrive

Her first attempts were punishing—and futile. Corsets cracked her ribs. Twenty laps around the estate left her gasping in the grass. A “slimming tonic” from a back-alley apothecary nearly stopped her heart—until golden words flashed: “Don’t buy it. It’s fake.”

Then came Dr. Clara Wynn: no scales, no shame, just one question—“What are you really afraid will run out?”
Mirabelle didn’t hesitate: “Food.”
Clara nodded. “Then feed yourself. Just… safer.”

So Mirabelle kept all six meals. All the meat. Just smaller portions. Just steadier. She broke a flaky venison pie in half—and handed one piece to Sir Garrick mid-sword drill. Not as peace offering. As proclamation.

When Captain Gray—the Royal Ranger who’d laughed aloud after she shot an arrow into a tree instead of the target—asked why she’d risk everything for a title she claimed to hate, she answered without flinching:
“So I can eat properly for the rest of my life.”

He dropped his roast chicken. Laughed until he choked. Then started quizzing her on grain tariffs, famine response protocols, and how many bushels of barley a drought-stricken province needs before the first child stops growing.
Real power isn’t posture.
It’s knowing how to feed a kingdom—and keep it fed.

Try to Starve Me, Watch Me Take the Crown - She didn’t lose weight to disappear—she lost it to arrive

The night before selection, Celia poured ink down Mirabelle’s gown—and sliced it clean through the waist

No scream. No stumble.
Mirabelle simply opened the cedar chest beside her bed—and pulled out a spare crimson gown. One she’d packed three days earlier.

Celia’s smile froze.
This wasn’t luck. It was readiness. The same discipline that let Mirabelle ride two hours straight without shifting in the saddle. That let her draw her bow again after five years—and hit the bullseye on her third try. That let her spot tax fraud hidden in the flour delivery logs of a royal bakery.

Now she stands last in the line of twenty-four noblewomen at Lynden Hall Gallery—shoulders relaxed, spine straight, gaze level—not waiting for approval, but measuring. Measuring Celia bathed in golden praise. Watching the court lean in, whispering, “She’ll look ridiculous next to her.”

But Mirabelle isn’t comparing herself to Celia anymore.
She’s comparing herself to the girl in the cave.
And that girl?
She walked out—full, fed, and utterly unafraid.

You need to see the moment Mirabelle serves herself seconds—and watches Celia’s hand tremble as she lifts her fork.