Chapter 17 Chapter seventeen
"Aanya," she said. Not Your Royal Highness. Not darling. Just Aanya.
"Mama."
"I came to... I don't know why I came." She looked exhausted. Older. "To see if you've come to your senses. To ask you to apologize and fix this."
"I can't apologize for telling the truth."
"You can apologize for how you told it. For the manner. For betraying your family on live television."
"I didn't betray my family. I refused to keep betraying everyone else."
She was quiet for a long moment. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The damage? Parliament is demanding inquiries. Crown Estate is facing lawsuits. Your father is being questioned about whether he knew about the safety violations. The entire institution is under attack."
"Then maybe the institution needs to change."
"Or maybe it needs to be protected. Defended. Because without it, what do we have? We're just people, Aanya. Ordinary people with no purpose, no platform, no ability to do the good work we do."
"The good work we do while profiting from harm we cause? That's not good work, Mama. That's performance."
"You sound so certain. So righteous." Her voice cracked slightly. "But you have no idea what you've thrown away. No idea how hard it is to survive outside this protection. You've never had to work, to struggle, to make your own way. You think you're free now, but you're just lost."
"Maybe lost is better than complicit."
She looked at me like she was seeing a stranger. "I don't know you anymore."
"I'm not sure you ever did."
She turned to leave, then paused. "The offer stands. Apologize publicly. Retract your statements. We can bring you back."
"At what cost?"
"Your dignity. Your integrity. Your self-respect." She almost smiled. "But you'd have a home. A purpose. A family."
"I'd rather have my conscience."
"Then I suppose this is goodbye."
She walked away.
I stood by Priya's car, watching my mother disappear into the palace, wondering if I'd ever see her again.
Wondering if I'd made the right choice.
Knowing I had, but feeling the weight of it crushing me anyway.
Thursday afternoon, I was lying on Priya's sofa, scrolling mindlessly through news coverage, when my phone rang.
Unknown number. I almost didn't answer. Too many lawyers, journalists, people wanting statements.
But something made me pick up.
"Hello?"
"Miss Windsor? This is Rosa Lombardi. From Brixton Community Centre."
"Mrs. Lombardi. Hi."
"I hope I'm not disturbing you. I got your number from... well, that doesn't matter. I wanted to check how you're doing. Tuesday night was intense, and I've been worried."
The kindness in her voice nearly broke me.
"I'm... managing. Thank you for asking."
"I saw the news. About your title, your family. I'm sorry. I know it must be devastating."
"I knew the cost when I spoke. I don't regret it."
"That's what I thought. What I hoped." She paused. "Listen, I know this might be premature, and you probably need time to figure things out, but I wanted to extend an offer. We're starting a new education access program at the centre. Working with displaced families, helping kids who've had to change schools, supporting literacy in the community. It's not glamorous. The pay is terrible. Twenty-two thousand a year. But it's real work that actually helps people."
I sat up. "Are you offering me a job?"
"I'm offering you an opportunity to use your education experience for something that matters. If you're interested."
Twenty-two thousand a year. I'd spent more than that on clothes in a single year as a working royal.
But it was real work. Real purpose. Real people.
"Mrs. Lombardi, I... I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll think about it. No pressure. But Aanya? What you did Tuesday took incredible courage. Don't waste that courage hiding away because you're scared of being ordinary. Ordinary work that helps people is more valuable than extraordinary work that helps no one."
After we hung up, I sat staring at my phone.
A job. An actual job. At a community centre in Brixton.
The same community centre where Dev presented his research.
I pulled up the internet, searched for average London rent. One-bedroom flats in Brixton, the few I could afford, ran around nine hundred pounds a month. On twenty-two thousand a year salary, after taxes, I'd have maybe fourteen hundred a month total.
Nine hundred for rent left five hundred for everything else. Food, transport, bills, life.
Could I live on five hundred pounds a month?
I had no idea. I'd never had to think about it.
But I wanted to try.
I texted Rosa back: I'm very interested. When can we meet to discuss details?
Her response was immediate: Tomorrow, 2 PM at the centre? Bring your CV.
I stared at the message.
CV. Curriculum vitae. Resume.
I'd never written one.
What would I even put on it?
Experience: Being a princess. Skills: Ribbon cutting, appearing interested in things I know nothing about, speaking five languages while saying nothing of substance.
Not exactly compelling.
I opened my laptop. Searched "how to write a CV." Started typing.
Aanya Windsor
Education: Cambridge University, BA History of Art, First Class Honours
Experience:
Royal Literacy Trust, Patron, 2019-2025
\- Oversaw funding distribution for literacy programs across UK
\- Conducted site visits to evaluate program effectiveness
\- Represented organization at national education conferences
Was that real experience? Or was it just performance?
I didn't know anymore.
But I kept writing.
Friday morning, I received an email from palace counsel.
Miss Windsor,
This is to confirm that all royal property must be returned by 5 PM today. This includes:
\- All jewelry from the Royal Collection
\- All clothing purchased with royal funds
\- All items in Kensington Palace apartments not personally purchased by you
\- Any documents or materials related to royal duties
Failure to comply will result in legal action.
We note that you are currently in possession of one laptop computer which may contain confidential royal materials. We require that you surrender this device for review before it can be returned to you.
They wanted my laptop. The one with all my research. My notes. The document I'd written about what I'd learned.
No.
I backed everything up to an external drive Priya had lying around. Then I factory reset the laptop, wiping it completely.
They could have the hardware. They weren't getting my thoughts.
At 4:30 PM, I delivered three boxes to the palace service entrance.
Jewelry. Clothes. The laptop, wiped clean.
The staff member who received them didn't make eye contact.
"Is that everything?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Sign here confirming receipt."
I signed. Aanya Windsor, not HRH Princess Aanya of Wales.
Just Aanya Windsor.
Nobody.
I walked away from Kensington Palace for the last time.
Didn't look back.
Friday evening, Priya and I were eating takeaway on her sofa, watching the news coverage of my "exile" (their word, not mine), when my phone buzzed.
Text from an unknown number: This is Dev Marchetti. Priya gave me your number. Hope that's okay. I wanted to check if you're all right. I saw the news about your title, your family. I'm sorry. I know that's inadequate, but I am.
I stared at the message.
Dev Marchetti had texted me.
The man whose research had started all of this. Who'd lost his father to the institution I'd represented. Who I'd defended by destroying my own life.
I typed back: It's more than okay. Thank you for checking. I'm... managing. One day at a time.
His response came quickly: For what it's worth, what you did Tuesday was the bravest thing I've ever seen. Changed everything for my research. For my father's memory. For me. Thank you doesn't come close to covering it, but thank you.
Me: You showed me the truth. I just chose to tell it. That's not bravery. That's basic decency I should have had all along.
Dev: You gave up everything to tell it. That's not basic decency. That's extraordinary.
I didn't know what to say to that.
After a minute, another message: This might be completely inappropriate timing, but would you want to get coffee sometime? Just to talk. No cameras, no media, no palace handlers. Just us.
My heart jumped.
Coffee. With Dev Marchetti.
The man I'd thought about constantly since Tuesday. Since the gala. Since I'd seen his photo in the Guardian and realized the server who'd caught me was the researcher exposing my family's crimes.
Me: I'd like that very much.
Dev: Tomorrow? There's a café in Brixton I like. Nothing fancy, but the coffee's good and it's quiet.
Me: Send me the address.
He did. A place called Nido Café. Two-minute walk from the community centre.
Me: See you tomorrow. What time?
Dev: 10 AM?
Me: Perfect.
After we'd confirmed, I sat holding my phone, staring at the messages.
Tomorrow I'd meet Dev Marchetti. Actually meet him. Talk to him. Without cameras, without stages, without the performance of Princess Aanya because that person didn't exist anymore.
Just me. Just him. Just coffee.
I was terrified.
I was excited.
I had no idea what to wear. Everything I owned was either three jeans and jumpers or formal gowns I'd left at the palace.
"Priya?" I called. "I need help. I'm meeting Dev tomorrow and I have nothing to wear and I don't know how to act like a normal person getting coffee and I think I might throw up."
Priya appeared, grinning. "Finally. I thought you'd never ask for help with the really important crisis."
We spent the next hour going through her wardrobe, finding clothes that fit me. Simple, normal, nothing that screamed "former princess."
Navy jumper. Jeans that actually fit. Her brown leather jacket.
"You look like an actual person," Priya said, studying me. "Not a royal. Not a scandal. Just a woman meeting someone for coffee."
"That's terrifying."
"That's the point. No performance. No protocol. Just you."
After she went to bed, I lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, thinking about tomorrow.
About seeing Dev Marchetti without stages between us.
About what I'd say. What he'd say. Whether the connection I'd felt on Tuesday was real or just adrenaline and circumstance.
About the fact that I had a job interview at two PM at the same community centre where we were getting coffee at ten.
About the fact that in less than a week, I'd gone from Her Royal Highness Princess Aanya of Wales to unemployed, homeless, nobody Aanya Windsor.
And somehow, lying on a friend's sofa, about to have coffee with a man I barely knew, facing a completely uncertain future with five hundred pounds a month to live on, I felt more real than I had in years.
More scared. But more real.
And tomorrow, I'd find out if real was better than the performance I'd left behind.