Chapter 2 Chapter Two
The ladies' powder room was a blessed sanctuary of marble and gilt. I leaned against the counter, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back was flawless. Dewy skin, perfectly lined eyes, lips the color of English roses. She looked like she belonged in this palace, at this gala, in this life.
I didn't recognize her.
The door swung open, and Priya swept in, cocktail in hand, her own gown, a daring emerald number that would have given the palace press office heart palpitations, making mine look positively nun-like by comparison. Lady Priya Ashworth, my lady-in-waiting and the closest thing I had to a real friend, had never quite mastered the art of royal restraint.
"There you are," Priya said. "I've been looking everywhere. Your mother has Edmund Ashworth trapped in conversation about shooting estates and grandchildren. It's like watching a very polite arranged marriage negotiation."
Despite everything, I laughed. "She's not subtle, is she?"
"Subtle as the changing of the guard." Priya leaned against the counter beside me, studying my reflection. "You all right? You looked like you were about to run during the speech."
"I'm fine."
"Liar." Priya took a sip of her drink. "You had that look. The one where you're physically present but mentally planning your escape to a remote Scottish island. What were you thinking about up there?"
I was quiet for a moment. "I was thinking about how I've given that exact speech at fourteen different events this year. Different venues, same words. Same cadence, same pauses for applause. And everyone always claps, and someone always tells Father how articulate I am, how dedicated. And I was thinking... is this it? Is this my life until I die?"
"Heavy thoughts for a state banquet."
"I know." I turned away from the mirror. "I should be grateful. I am grateful. I have everything—"
"Except autonomy. Except choice. Except knowing who the hell you are outside of being HRH Princess Aanya, fourth in line to the throne, patron of seventeen charities, property of the British people."
The words landed like stones in still water. I felt something crack in my chest.
"That's not fair," I said weakly.
"No, what's not fair is watching my brilliant, funny, kind friend turn into a protocol-approved automaton." Priya set down her glass. "When's the last time you did something just because you wanted to? Not because it was in your official diary or made good optics or advanced some palace strategy?"
"I—" I stopped. I couldn't remember. "I wanted to work on the literacy initiative."
"Which was suggested by the palace communications team to improve your public image after that tabloid nonsense about you being 'the invisible royal.' Try again."
My throat tightened. "What am I supposed to do, Priya? Abdicate? Cause a constitutional crisis? Disappoint an entire nation that expects me to fulfill my duty? Just... run away?"
"I'm not saying run away. I'm saying maybe take a walk. Step outside the bubble. Do something real for once." Priya squeezed my shoulder. "The woman who wrote that speech, the one about giving every child opportunity regardless of circumstances, I don't think she's ever actually spent time with any of those children outside of photo calls. Has she?"
The truth of it stung. I had toured facilities, of course. Smiled for cameras at ribbon cuttings, shaken hands with carefully vetted families, read to children at libraries with full security details and press pools. But spent time? Actually gotten to know the children my patronage was supposedly helping?
"There are programs," Priya continued gently. "Not the ones where you show up for fifteen minutes with a photographer. Real work. Real people. Real life happening outside these palace walls."
"I wouldn't even know how to do that. My protection officers would never allow—"
"Then figure it out." Priya grabbed her clutch from the counter. "Because right now, you're on a path to waking up twenty years from now as patron of forty charities you don't care about, married to a perfectly nice earl you don't love, living a life the palace designed for you before you were born. And I love you too much to watch that happen without at least trying to shake you awake."
She headed for the door, then paused. "Also, for what it's worth? The real you, the one I roomed with at Cambridge who stayed up until three AM arguing about Foucault and sneaking Tesco wine into our dorm, she's a lot more interesting than the royal version. I'd like to see her again sometime."
The door swung shut behind her, and I was alone again with my reflection.
The woman in the mirror stared back, perfect and empty.
I emerged from the powder room to find the evening winding down. Guests beginning to depart, photographers positioning themselves near the exits to capture final shots. I was making my way toward the grand staircase when I saw Edmund Ashworth moving through the crowd toward me.
"Aanya," he called out, his voice warm. "There you are. I've been hoping to catch you."
Edmund looked impeccable in his white tie, his blond hair perfectly styled, his smile practiced and charming. The future Earl of Rotherham, heir to a property development fortune, the man my parents had decided would be my husband.
"Edmund," I said, forcing brightness into my voice. "Lovely speech earlier about sustainable finance."
"Thank you. Though not nearly as moving as yours." He fell into step beside me. "I wanted to discuss something. There's fascinating research about green spaces improving educational outcomes in primary schools. I thought perhaps we could collaborate, my family's foundation could partner with your literacy initiative."
He was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Palace-approved, media-trained, constitutionally appropriate. And I felt nothing.
"That sounds wonderful," I heard myself say. "Have your office contact my private secretary."
"Actually, I was hoping we could discuss it now. Just briefly." Edmund gestured toward a quieter corner of the room. "The Timesphotographer mentioned wanting a photo of the two of us together. For the society pages. Our families working together on charitable initiatives—it would send a positive message, don't you think?"
There it was. The orchestration. The performance. Even our conversation about charity was calculated for media impact.
"Of course," I said, because what else could I say?
We moved toward where the photographer was setting up. Edmund's hand found the small of my back, proprietary, presumptuous, exactly the kind of gesture the palace would love to see in tomorrow's papers.
"Just here, Your Royal Highness, Lord Ashworth," the photographer directed. "Lovely. If you could just....yes, perfect."
That's when it happened.
Edmund shifted his position, moving closer for the photograph. His foot came down directly on the hem of my gown.
I felt the fabric catch, then tear with an audible rip. My balance shifted. I was pitching forward, the floor rushing up to meet me, photographers turning toward the commotion.
Then a strong hands caught me.
It was not Edmund, but a server.