Chapter 10 Chapter ten
"It's also my chance to finish my PhD and get the LSE position. To finally have a real salary. To help Mum and you and Marco without working three jobs."
"And if you have to compromise everything you believe in to get that salary, is it worth it?"
The question landed hard.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I really don't know."
"Look, I get it. The LSE thing is huge. Real money, real research, real stability. But Dev, if you cave now, if you let them bully you into silence, what happens next time? And the time after that? Where's the line?"
"I'm not caving. I'm just considering whether there's a way to present the research that's still truthful but less... inflammatory."
"Less inflammatory meaning less effective. Meaning easier to ignore." Giulia's voice softened. "I know you're trying to take care of us. I know the money matters. But you can't sacrifice yourself, your integrity, your whole reason for doing this research, just to make them comfortable."
"Williams won't recommend me if I don't play ball."
"Then fuck Williams. Find another way. But don't let them take this from you. Don't let them make Dad's death meaningless by turning it into a polite footnote in an academic paper nobody reads."
I leaned against the embankment wall, watching the Thames flow past. Tourists laughing. Street musicians playing. Normal people living normal lives while I tried to figure out how to tell the truth without destroying my future.
"I'll figure it out," I said finally.
"I know you will. And Dev? Whatever you decide, we're with you. Me, Marco, Mum. We're proud of you no matter what."
"Even if I blow up my PhD and we all stay poor forever?"
"Even then. We'll figure it out together."
After we hung up, I stood there for a while longer. Thinking about what Williams said. About what Dean Morrison said. About the LSE position that could change everything.
About my father's photo. About whether removing it was a tactical choice or a betrayal.
My phone buzzed again. This time, Rosa Lombardi from Brixton Community Centre: Dev, just confirming Tuesday logistics. Forum starts at 7 PM, but media will be there from 6:30. Also heads up, palace just confirmed Princess Aanya will definitely be attending as royal representative. Thought you should know.
I read the message twice.
Princess Aanya. Not just generic palace officials. An actual royal. Fourth in line to the throne.
They were pulling out the big guns. Sending someone sympathetic, young, female. Someone who could smile and express concern and make it look like the monarchy cared without actually having to change anything.
I thought about the palace secretary's text. "She's committed to hearing community concerns."
Hearing. Not acting. Not changing. Just hearing.
I typed back to Rosa: Confirmed. I'll be there at 6.
Then I opened a new text to the number that had sent the message from Princess Aanya's secretary. Typed and deleted several responses. Finally settled on: Tell Her Royal Highness I look forward to presenting the evidence on Tuesday. I'm sure it will be very educational.
Sent it before I could second-guess the tone.
Stared at my phone. Probably shouldn't have been that flippant. Too late now.
Immediately another text came through, from Williams: Have you made a decision about the presentation? Dean needs to know.
I stared at the message.
Made a decision.
Typed: I'm presenting the research as planned. With my father's photo. With every piece of evidence. If that costs me the LSE recommendation, so be it.
Sent it.
Felt my stomach drop as I watched the message deliver.
What had I just done?
My phone rang. Williams.
I answered.
"Marchetti, don't be stupid about this."
"I'm not being stupid. I'm being honest."
"Honesty without strategy is just martyrdom. You'll present your research, the palace will discredit you, King's will distance itself, and you'll end up with nothing. No PhD, no LSE position, no career. Is that what you want?"
"What I want is for my father's death to mean something. What I want is for people to understand what the Crown Estate actually does. What I want is the truth to matter more than my career."
"The truth won't matter if no one listens because you've made yourself too easy to dismiss."
"Then I'll make sure my evidence is so strong they can't dismiss it."
Williams sighed. Long, heavy, defeated. "I believe in your work, Dev. I really do. But I can't protect you if you're determined to make yourself a target."
"I'm not asking you to protect me. I'm asking you to let me do the work I came here to do."
Another long silence.
"Fine," Williams said finally. "Present it however you want. But don't come crying to me when it blows up in your face."
He hung up.
I stood on the embankment, phone in hand, pretty sure I'd just destroyed my academic career.
But at least I'd done it on my own terms.
\---
I got home around three. Mum was at the kitchen table, still in her cleaning uniform, looking exhausted.
"Devlin," she said when I walked in. "Where have you been? Marco said you left early without eating."
"Sorry, Mamma. Had some things to deal with at university."
She studied my face. "What things?"
I sat down across from her. Might as well tell her. "The university wants me to change my presentation for Tuesday. Make it less controversial. Remove Dad's photo."
Her expression hardened. "E tu? What did you say?"
"I said no."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Good."
"They might not recommend me for the LSE position. I might not get the postdoc. Might not finish the PhD."
"Your father didn't die so you could learn to be silent." She reached across the table, took my hand. "He died because people who had power decided his safety wasn't worth the cost. If you stay silent now, if you make his death polite and academic and forgettable, then they win. They always win."
"I might lose everything, Mamma."
"No. If you lie about your father, if you pretend his death doesn't matter, then you lose everything. Job, no job, this doesn't change who you are. But betraying him? That changes everything."
I felt something tight in my chest loosen slightly.
"Sarà difficile," I said. It will be hard.
"Tutto ciò che vale la pena è difficile." Everything worth doing is hard. She squeezed my hand. "But you don't do it alone. We carry it together, come sempre." Like always.
Marco appeared in the doorway, still in his school uniform. "Dev? You all right? You look absolutely knackered."
"I'm fine. How was school?"
"Boring. Chemistry test kicked my arse." He came into the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water. "Is it true the princess is coming to your forum?"
"How did you know that?"
"It's all over Twitter. People are making memes about the mystery server who saved her at the gala." He pulled out his phone, showed me. Someone had photoshopped a cape onto the figure catching the princess. The caption: "Not all heroes work for the palace."
"They haven't figured out it's you yet," Marco added. "Still calling you mystery server. But it's everywhere."
Despite everything, I almost smiled. "That's not even a good photo of me."
"Yeah, well, you're famous now. Mystery server turned palace whistleblower. Once people connect the dots." Marco sat down at the table. "Are you nervous? About Tuesday?"
"Terrified."
"Good. Means it matters."
"When did you become so wise?"
"I have a really smart older brother. He taught me everything I know." Marco grinned, then sobered. "Seriously though. I know they're trying to pressure you. I know it's scary. But you're doing the right thing. Dad would be proud."
Hearing him say it, this seventeen-year-old kid who barely remembered our father, who'd had to grow up without him, who'd watched me work myself to exhaustion for years trying to fill that gap... it hit harder than anything Williams or the dean had said.
"Thanks, Marco."
After Mum went to get ready for her evening shift, after Marco disappeared back to his room to study, I sat alone at the kitchen table with my laptop.
Opened my presentation one more time.
Looked at slide 15. My father's photo. His smile. The safety report. The proof.
I thought about what Dean Morrison said. About removing it to seem more objective. About presenting the data on its own merit.
I thought about what Giulia said. About not letting them take this from me. About not making Dad's death a polite footnote.
I thought about what Mum said. About silence being the real betrayal.
And I thought about Tuesday. About standing in front of my community, the media, and a princess, and telling the truth about what happened to my father.
I didn't change anything.
Closed the laptop.
Made dinner for Mum before her shift. Helped Marco with his chemistry revision. Folded the laundry. Did all the normal things that made life feel manageable.
But my mind kept circling back to Tuesday.
Four days until I either vindicated my father's death or destroyed my own future trying.
Maybe both.
I pulled out my phone one more time. Scrolled through Twitter out of curiosity. Found the viral photo Rosa had mentioned.
There it was. Me catching the princess. My hands on her waist, her eyes wide with surprise, the moment frozen. Edmund Ashworth blurry in the background. Thousands of retweets. Comments speculating about who I was, whether there was chemistry, why Edmund had been useless.
The intimacy of it was strange. A private moment, public now. Her face inches from mine, both of us caught in something neither had expected.
I scrolled past it quickly. Didn't matter. Just optics, just performance. The princess was just another wealthy person playing a role.
I wondered what she was thinking. This princess who'd never had to work for anything, who'd been born into wealth and privilege, who represented the institution I was about to expose.
I wondered if she'd actually listen. Or if she'd just perform sympathy the way royals always did, then go back to her palace and forget everything she'd heard.
I wondered if she knew. If she understood what her family's institution had done. What it was still doing.
Probably not. People like her never did. They lived in a different world, where consequences happened to other people.
Though something about the way she'd looked at me that night at the gala... genuine surprise, genuine gratitude. For three seconds she'd seemed real.
No. I was imagining things. Projecting what I wanted to see. She was just another royal playing a role.
On Tuesday, I was going to bring those consequences into her world.
Whether she was ready or not.