Chapter 12 Chapter twelve
Priya arrived with bags of food from our favorite restaurant and two bottles of wine that probably violated some royal protocol about day drinking.
"You look terrible," she said, setting everything on my sitting room table. "When's the last time you slept?"
"Thursday? Maybe Friday morning." I opened one of the containers. Pad Thai. Exactly what I needed. "I've been reading."
"Reading what?"
"Everything. Crown Estate financial reports. Parliamentary questions. Freedom of Information requests. Dr. Marchetti's full dissertation draft."
Priya poured wine into two teacups, the only glasses in my sitting room. "How bad is it?"
"Worse than I thought. It's not just negligence, Priya. It's systematic. Planned. They've been doing this for decades."
"And you're planning to say this on Tuesday."
"I have to."
"Even though it will destroy your life."
I took a long sip of wine. "My mother came this morning. She read what I've been writing. Told me I'll be cast out. Stripped of title, removed from succession, cut off completely."
"Jesus, Aanya."
"She slapped me. First time ever. Then told me Papa wants to see me Tuesday morning before the forum."
Priya was quiet for a moment. "Are you scared?"
"Terrified. But more scared of spending the rest of my life performing concern while doing nothing. Watching families displaced, people harmed, communities destroyed, all while I smile and cut ribbons and pretend the institution I represent isn't built on exploitation."
"What about Edmund?"
I'd almost forgotten about Edmund. "What about him?"
"His family's property development company. Ashworth Properties. They've done joint ventures with Crown Estate, haven't they?"
I pulled out my laptop, searched. Found it immediately.
Ashworth Properties had partnered with Crown Estate on four major London developments in the past decade. The Clerkenwell Rise project Mrs. Okonkwo mentioned. Angel Square. Two others in Southwark and Hackney.
All of them flagged in Dev's research for displacement and environmental issues.
"Oh God," I said. "Edmund's family is part of this. The man they want me to marry, his family fortune is built on the same exploitation I'm about to expose."
"Does Edmund know? About what you're planning to say Tuesday?"
"I haven't spoken to him since the gala. Since he stepped on my gown and stood there uselessly while a server caught me."
"The famous mystery server." Priya grinned slightly. "Who, according to the internet, is either your secret boyfriend or your future revolutionary co-conspirator or both."
"He's the PhD student presenting the research. Dr. Dev Marchetti. The man whose father died because Crown Estate managers decided safety violations weren't worth fixing."
"And you're planning to validate everything he says."
"Because it's true."
Priya poured more wine. "You know this is insane, right? You're going to stand up in front of cameras and destroy your own family's institution to defend a man you've met exactly once, for thirty seconds, at a gala."
"I'm not doing it to defend him. I'm doing it because it's right."
"But it doesn't hurt that he's apparently very attractive and caught you when you fell in a moment the entire internet has decided is incredibly romantic."
Despite everything, I almost smiled. "Have you seen the photo?"
"Everyone's seen the photo. You're looking at him like he's the first real thing you've ever seen. He's looking at you like he can't decide if you're worth saving or just another rich person who'll disappoint him. Edmund's standing in the background looking like a confused golden retriever. It's very cinematic."
"It was thirty seconds, Priya."
"Thirty seconds that are about to change both your lives." She studied my face. "You're really going to do this. Stand up on Tuesday and throw away everything."
"I don't know if I'm throwing it away or finally finding it."
We sat in silence for a while, eating Thai food and drinking wine in the middle of the afternoon while light shifted across the sitting room.
"I'll help," Priya said finally. "However you need. Place to stay after they cast you out. References for jobs, though I have no idea what former princesses do for work. Moral support. Wine. Whatever."
"Thank you."
"Also, for what it's worth? I think you're doing the right thing. Completely insane, probably self-destructive, definitely going to cause a massive scandal. But right."
After Priya left, I spent the rest of Saturday reading Dev's research. All three hundred pages. Every footnote. Every citation. Every piece of evidence.
By the time I finished, it was past midnight. And I understood completely why he was doing this. Why he couldn't soften it, couldn't make it academic and polite, couldn't remove his father's photo from the presentation.
Because this wasn't abstract. This was people's lives. His father's life. Families displaced. Children losing their homes. Communities destroyed.
And my family had profited from all of it.
On Tuesday, I was going to have to say that out loud.
Whether I was ready or not.
Sunday morning, I went to the Chapel Royal. Not because I was particularly religious. But because it was quiet, private, one of the few places I could think without staff hovering.
I sat in the back pew, watching morning light filter through stained glass, thinking about my uncle. The one my mother had mentioned. The one who'd thought honesty mattered more than stability.
I'd been thirteen when his divorce happened. Didn't fully understand the scandal, just knew suddenly he wasn't at family gatherings anymore. Wasn't in the official photos. Became a person we didn't mention.
He'd wanted to marry someone the family deemed inappropriate. Had questioned whether the monarchy was still relevant. Had given an interview suggesting the institution needed fundamental reform.
And they'd frozen him out. Removed him from official duties. Let the tabloids destroy him. Made him an example of what happened when you prioritized conscience over duty.
Was I about to become the same example?
My phone buzzed. Text from James: Ma'am, your father would like to move Tuesday morning's meeting to tomorrow (Monday) at 10 AM. Please confirm.
They were trying to pressure me before the forum. One more chance to make me read the palace script.
I typed back: Confirmed.
Another text, this one from an unknown number: Princess Aanya, this is Rosa Lombardi from Brixton Community Centre. Dr. Marchetti mentioned you'll be attending Tuesday's forum. Just wanted to reach out directly, woman to woman. These are real families with real concerns. I hope you'll truly listen. Not perform listening. Actually hear us.
I stared at the message. Rosa Lombardi. Dev must have given her my number, or she'd found it somehow.