Chapter 13 Chapter thirteen
Woman to woman. Actually hear us.
I typed back: Mrs. Lombardi, I promise you I will listen. And I will tell the truth about what I've learned. Whatever that costs.
Sent it before I could second-guess.
Her response came quickly: Then we'll see you Tuesday. Thank you, Your Highness.
I sat in the chapel for another hour, watching light move across the walls, thinking about truth and cost and what kind of person I wanted to be.
When I finally left, I knew what I needed to do.
Monday morning, I dressed carefully for my meeting with Papa. Not the formal suits I wore for official engagements. Simple dress, minimal jewelry. I wanted to look like myself, not the performance of Princess Aanya.
His private study smelled like pipe tobacco and old leather, familiar and comforting despite everything. He was at his desk, reading documents, looking tired.
"Sit, darling," he said without looking up.
I sat.
He finished reading, set the papers aside, finally met my eyes.
"Your mother told me about the document you've been writing. Your plans for Tuesday."
"Yes."
"I've spent the past two days meeting with lawyers, with palace communications, with Crown Estate executives. Trying to find a way to manage this situation that doesn't destroy everything we've built."
"Papa..."
"Let me finish." His voice was gentle but firm. "I've also spent the past two days reading Dr. Marchetti's research. All of it. Not the summaries. The actual evidence."
I hadn't expected that.
"And?" I asked quietly.
"And he's right. About most of it. Crown Estate development practices have caused harm. Real harm, to real people. The environmental racism he documents is accurate. The displacement patterns are systematic. And yes, the safety violations that led to Lorenzo Marchetti's death could have been prevented."
Hope flickered in my chest. "Then you understand why I have to..."
"I understand why you want to. I understand why it feels morally necessary." He stood, walked to the window overlooking the gardens. "But Aanya, wanting to tell the truth and being strategically wise about how you tell it are different things."
"You sound like Dean Morrison trying to pressure Dev to soften his presentation."
"I sound like someone who's spent forty years learning that dramatic gestures often accomplish less than patient, strategic work within systems." He turned back to face me. "If you stand up on Tuesday and validate everything Dr. Marchetti says, what happens next?"
"The truth comes out. Crown Estate is held accountable. Practices change."
"Maybe. Or maybe this happens: You create headlines for a week. Opposition MPs grandstand. Palace issues formal apologies. Crown Estate promises reviews. Then the news cycle moves on. Estate practices continue largely unchanged because the fundamental structures that enable them remain intact. And you, having alienated your family and destroyed your position, have no platform left to create actual systemic change."
"So I should stay silent? Let them get away with it?"
"I'm saying there are ways to create change that don't require destroying yourself in the process. Work within the institution. Use your position to push for reforms quietly. Build coalitions. Apply pressure strategically."
"How long would that take?"
"Years. Maybe decades."
"And how many more families get displaced in those decades? How many more workers die because safety violations aren't addressed fast enough?"
My father's face tightened. "That's not fair."
"It's the truth. You've spent your whole life working within the system, Papa. Has it fundamentally changed? Or have you just learned to be comfortable with incremental progress that lets you feel like you're doing something while the harm continues?"
"I've accomplished real things, Aanya. Climate initiatives. Mental health advocacy. Modernizing..."
"You've accomplished things that make the monarchy look good. Things that don't threaten the fundamental structures of power and profit. But when it comes to actual accountability for institutional harm? You've protected the institution over the people it hurts."
The silence was heavy.
"If you do this," my father said finally, "you're out. Stripped of title. Removed from succession. No royal income. No palace support. You'll be on your own."
"I know."
"You'll lose everything."
"I'll lose the performance. The title. The position I never chose. But maybe I'll find who I actually am underneath it."
He studied my face for a long moment. "You're sure about this."
"Terrified. But sure."
"Then I can't stop you." He walked back to his desk, pulled out an envelope. "This is a letter removing you from official royal duties, effective immediately. I'll hold it until after Tuesday. But once you validate Dr. Marchetti's allegations publicly, this becomes official. There's no going back."
I took the envelope. Felt its weight.
"Your mother and I will always love you," he said quietly. "But we can't support this choice. We can't let you destroy the institution we've dedicated our lives to serving."
"I know."
"Then I suppose this is goodbye. To HRH Princess Aanya of Wales, anyway."
I stood. Walked to the door. Paused.
"Papa? The research you read. Dr. Marchetti's evidence. Do you believe it's true?"
"Yes."
"Then how can you keep defending the institution that did those things?"
"Because I believe the institution, despite its flaws, does more good than harm. And I believe destroying it in the name of moral purity would harm more people than it would help."
"Or you believe that because it's easier than admitting you've spent your life serving something fundamentally corrupt."
I left before he could respond.
Monday afternoon, I did something I'd never done. I searched for Dev Marchetti on social media.
Found him on Twitter. Sparse profile. Mostly academic posts, retweets of environmental research, occasional Italian phrases I assumed were for his family.
No personal photos. No selfies. Just work.
But I found a video from two years ago. A presentation he'd given at a climate justice conference. Watched him explain environmental racism to a packed auditorium. The passion in his voice. The precision of his argument. The way he made complex data feel human and urgent.
He was brilliant. Genuinely brilliant. Not performance brilliant. Actually brilliant.
And on Tuesday, I was going to sit across from him and validate everything he'd spent years proving.
I wondered if he knew. If he understood that I wasn't his enemy. That I'd seen the evidence, believed him, was planning to tell the truth regardless of cost.
Probably not. Why would he? To him, I was just another royal. Another symbol of the institution that had killed his father.
I pulled up the photo. The one from the gala. The one everyone had seen.
Me, falling. His hands catching me. Our faces close. Edmund useless in the background.
Priya was right. I was looking at him like he was the first real thing I'd ever seen.
Because maybe he was.
A man who'd worked three jobs to support his family. Who'd spent years documenting injustice. Who'd chosen truth over career security. Who'd helped me despite having every reason not to.
The opposite of everything I'd been raised to value. Stability. Decorum. Institutional loyalty. Protecting power rather than challenging it.
Tomorrow morning, I'd lose my title. My position. My family, in any way that mattered.
But tomorrow evening, I'd finally tell the truth.
And maybe, just maybe, I'd find out who I could be when I wasn't performing Princess Aanya anymore.
Monday night, I couldn't sleep. Kept thinking about Tuesday. About the forum. About standing up in front of cameras and Dev Marchetti and my community and saying the words that would change everything.
At 2 AM, I gave up on sleep. Went to my desk. Opened the document I'd been writing.
Read through what I'd planned to say. Edited. Revised. Made it sharper. Clearer. Truer.
By the time I finished, it was nearly 5 AM. Light starting to creep through the curtains.
I had the opening memorized:
"My name is Aanya Windsor. Until very recently, I was Her Royal Highness Princess Aanya of Wales, fourth in line to the throne. I'm here tonight because I've spent the past week reading Dr. Marchetti's research. All of it. And I need to tell you something: he's right. About everything."
Simple. Direct. True.
Everything the palace had trained me never to be.
I saved the document. Closed my laptop. Sat watching the sun rise over London.
Twelve hours until the forum.
Twelve hours until I destroyed the life I'd been born into.
Twelve hours until I found out who I was underneath the title and the performance and the centuries of institutional expectations.
I wasn't ready.
But I was sure.
And that would have to be enough.