Chapter 1 Chapter one
AANYA
The champagne was Bollinger, the string quartet was flawless, and I wanted to scream.
I didn't, of course. Instead, I smiled at the arts correspondent from The Telegraph, nodded at the hedge fund manager who'd donated half a million to Father's environmental trust, and accepted air kisses from women dripping in Cartier diamonds. Buckingham Palace's State Rooms glittered like the inside of a jewelry box. All gilt molding and Renaissance paintings, three hundred of Britain's wealthiest gathered to celebrate themselves under the guise of charity.
"And now," the Master of Ceremonies announced, his voice booming through the sound system with perfect BBC diction, "please welcome Her Royal Highness Princess Aanya of Wales to say a few words about tonight's cause."
Applause rippled through the crowd. I set down my untouched champagne and made my way to the podium, my Erdem gown, midnight blue silk with delicate embroidered flowers, swishing against the historic parquet floor.
I'd spent three hours getting ready: hair styled by the palace hairdresser into soft waves, makeup applied by my lady's maid, jewelry selected from the royal collection by Mother. I looked like a magazine spread.
The spotlight flashed my face, warm and blinding. Beyond it, I could barely make out the sea of tables, the expectant faces. I'd given this speech, or versions of it, dozens of times.
"Good evening," I began. "Thank you all for being here tonight. Education has always been close to my heart, ever since I began my work with literacy programs five years ago..."
The words flowed naturally. My private secretary, James, had written this speech three weeks ago, revised it twice with palace communications, and I'd practiced it in the mirror that morning. It hit all the right notes. Royal commitment to service, importance of education, grateful acknowledgment of those doing the real work, call to action. The audience loved it.
"...which is why organizations like the Royal Literacy Trust are so vital. They don't just provide resources, they provide hope. They provide opportunity. They provide the chance for every child in this nation to reach their full potential, regardless of their circumstances."
I paused for effect, swept my gaze across the room like my media training had taught me. Make eye contact. Project warmth but maintain dignity. Never smile too widely, it photographs as unserious.
"Tonight, we've raised over three million pounds for literacy programs across the United Kingdom. But money alone isn't enough. We need sustained commitment to building a more equitable future for all our young people. Thank you."
The applause was thunderous. I smiled, not too wide, and walked off the stage, my cheeks already aching from holding the expression.
"Beautifully done, darling," my mother said, materializing at my elbow the moment I descended the stairs. Princess Catherine looked elegant in a champagne-colored gown, the family diamonds at her throat, her blonde hair pulled back in an immaculate chignon. "Very moving."
"Thank you, Mama."
"Lord Ashworth is at table seven. He mentioned wanting to speak with you about the environmental initiative." Her tone was casual, but I knew better. Nothing Princess Catherine said was ever casual. Every word was strategy.
"I'm sure he did."
"He's doing very well with his sustainable finance portfolio. Edward's people tell me the fund has doubled its returns this quarter." She adjusted one of my earrings with the unconscious precision of someone who'd spent decades being photographed. "His parents are coming to Balmoral in August. We thought it would be lovely."
How could I forget? The invitations had already been sent, the guest rooms allocated, the shooting parties arranged. Three days of carefully orchestrated proximity, his parents and mine discussing lineage and land holdings while Edmund smiled politely and asked me thoughtful questions about my royal duties. He was handsome, successful, appropriate. He checked every box on the list I hadn't realized I was supposed to have.
"Of course," I said.
"He's a good man, Aanya. The kind of partner you'll need." Her eyes sharpened slightly. "You do understand how important stability is right now, don't you? After everything with your uncle..."
She didn't need to finish. The scandal was still fresh. My uncle's divorce, the tabloid feeding frenzy, the opinion polls showing declining support for the monarchy. The palace was in crisis management mode, and that meant the rest of us had to be beyond reproach.
"I understand, Mama."
Before she could press further, my father appeared, distinguished in white tie, his chest full of medals and orders, a cluster of cabinet ministers trailing behind him like pilot fish. The Prince of Wales had the kind of presence that commanded a room, through centuries of institutional authority. People orbited around him, seeking his approval, his endorsement, his favor.
"There's my girl," he said, pulling me into a brief hug. "Excellent speech. The Prime Minister told me he was quite moved."
"The Prime Minister has had four glasses of whisky," I murmured.
My father chuckled. "Even so. You have a gift, darling. The palace communications team was very impressed with how you handled that Radio 4 interview last week. Very impressed."
Translation: I was performing my role adequately. The working royal who cared about education, who could speak eloquently without saying anything controversial, who made the monarchy seem relevant and compassionate without actually threatening any power structures.
"Aanya, you remember Sir David Harrison from the Department for Education?" My father gestured to one of the men in his entourage. "David, my daughter Aanya. She's been leading our literacy initiative in primary schools."
And there it was. For the next twenty minutes, I was passed from minister to lord to family friend, performing the role of HRH Princess Aanya of Wales, fourth in line to the throne, dedicated to public service. I discussed policy frameworks and funding models and stakeholder engagement. I laughed at jokes that weren't funny. I accepted compliments with practiced humility and self-deprecation. Never claim credit, always defer to the organizations doing the real work.
By the time I finally extracted myself, claiming I needed to freshen up, my face felt frozen in its smile.