Chapter 20 Chapter twenty
AANYA
The job interview went better than I'd expected.
Rosa was warm, direct, asked real questions about my experience with literacy programs, my understanding of the challenges displaced families faced, my thoughts on community-based education.
I was honest. About my privilege. About how much I didn't know. About how much I wanted to learn.
"Why do you want this job?" Rosa asked. "Really. Not the polished answer. The truth."
"Because I've spent my whole life performing concern about problems I never had to face personally. And I'm tired of performing. I want to do real work that actually helps people. Even if I'm terrible at it initially. Even if it's hard. Even if it pays twenty-two thousand a year and I have to learn to budget and take the Tube and figure out how to be a normal person. I want my life to mean something beyond ribbon-cutting and photo ops."
Rosa studied me for a long moment. "You start Monday. Nine AM. Dress casual, you'll be working directly with families. Bring a notebook and a willingness to listen more than you talk."
"I got it?"
"You got it. Assuming you actually want it. Once you see what the work really involves, you might change your mind."
"I won't change my mind."
"We'll see. First week is probation. You hate it, you can walk away. We hate you, we can let you go. Fair?"
"Fair."
We shook hands.
I had a job.
An actual job.
I walked out of the community centre in a daze, pulled out my phone to text Priya.
Found a text from Dev: How did it go?
Me: I got it. I start Monday.
Dev: Brilliant! Congratulations. Told you that you were qualified.
Me: Or Rosa took pity on the useless ex-princess.
Dev: Rosa doesn't do pity. She saw what I saw. Someone who actually cares about the work.
Me: Still on for tomorrow? The pub?
Dev: Definitely. 7 PM? I'll meet you at Priya's, we can walk over.
Me: Perfect. See you then.
I stood on the Brixton street, phone in hand, realizing I was smiling.
I had a job. I had plans tomorrow with someone who made me feel real. I had a life that was completely uncertain and terrifying and mine.
One week ago, I'd been HRH Princess Aanya of Wales, fourth in line to the throne, living in Kensington Palace with staff and schedule and centuries of expectations.
Now I was Aanya Windsor, nobody, unemployed person staying on a friend's sofa.
Except I wasn't unemployed anymore. I was an education coordinator. Making twenty-two thousand pounds a year. Starting Monday.
I took the Tube home. By myself. Figured out which line, which stop, how to use the Oyster card Priya had lent me.
Got lost once. Asked for directions. Found my way.
Small victory. Ordinary accomplishment. Felt enormous.
When I got back to Priya's flat, she was waiting with champagne.
"You got it!"
"How did you know?"
"Rosa texted. Said she hired you despite your terrible interview skills and complete lack of practical experience because you were honest and clearly desperate and she likes underdogs."
"That's not what she said."
"That's absolutely what she said. I'm paraphrasing." Priya poured champagne into coffee mugs. "To Aanya Windsor, employed person!"
We clinked mugs.
"I'm terrified," I admitted. "What if I'm terrible at it? What if I can't relate to the families? What if they hate me because I'm the disgraced princess who destroyed her family on television?"
"Then you'll learn. You'll listen. You'll get better. That's how jobs work."
"I've never had to get better at anything. Everything I did as a royal was appearance, performance. This is real work with real consequences."
"Exactly. Which is why it matters. Which is why you'll care enough to learn." Priya sipped her champagne. "Also, you're seeing Dev tomorrow. At a pub. Your first pub experience. With a very attractive man who clearly fancies you."
"He doesn't fancy me. We're just... processing what happened together."
"Aanya. I saw the photo of you two at the park today. Someone posted it on Twitter. The way you were looking at each other? That's not processing. That's pining."
"There's a photo?"
She showed me. Someone had taken it from a distance. Dev and me on the hill in Brockwell Park, talking, the London skyline behind us.
The caption: "Fallen Princess and the PhD Student: Romance or Strategy?"
"The internet is obsessed with you two," Priya said. "There are theories. Fan fiction. Ship names. Someone made a Spotify playlist called 'Revolution and Romance.'"
"That's insane."
"That's the internet. Also, you didn't answer my question. Do you fancy him?"
Did I?
I thought about coffee this morning. The way he'd looked at me. The way talking to him felt easy. The hug outside the community centre that I'd initiated without thinking.
The fact that I was already looking forward to tomorrow.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "Maybe. But even if I do, it's terrible timing. I just lost everything. He's just started getting recognition for his research. We're both figuring out our lives. Romance would complicate everything."
"Or it would make everything make sense."
"How?"
"You gave up a throne to validate his research. He sees you as brave instead of broken. You're both trying to figure out who you are outside the roles you were trapped in. Maybe figuring it out together is exactly what you both need."
I wanted to believe that.
But I was scared.
Scared of wanting something I couldn't have. Scared of complicating Dev's life when he'd already dealt with enough chaos because of me. Scared of falling for someone and having it fall apart because I didn't know how to be a person yet, let alone a partner.
"Tomorrow's just a pub," I said. "Just two people getting a drink. Nothing more."
"Sure," Priya said, not believing me for a second. "Just a drink."
Saturday evening, I changed clothes four times before Dev arrived.
Too formal. Too casual. Too trying-too-hard. Not trying enough.
Finally settled on jeans, a simple black top, Priya's leather jacket.
Looked at myself in the mirror. Just a normal person going to a pub.
Except I wasn't normal. And I had no idea what I was doing.
The buzzer rang. Dev was downstairs.
"Breathe," Priya said. "Be yourself. Have fun. Don't overthink."
"I'm a chronic overthinker."
"Then think about this: he asked you to a pub. He waited during your interview. He texted to make sure you were okay. He fancies you. So relax and see where it goes."
I went downstairs.
Dev was waiting on the street, wearing jeans and a dark jumper. He smiled when he saw me.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"Ready for your first pub experience?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
We walked through Brixton evening streets. Restaurants opening, people heading out for Saturday night, normal London life happening around us.
"How are you feeling about Monday?" Dev asked. "The job?"
"Terrified. Excited. Both."
"That sounds right."
"Did you feel like that? Starting your PhD?"
"Every day for the first year. Still do sometimes."
"But you're brilliant at it. Your research changed everything."
"My research nearly destroyed my career before it validated it. There were months where I thought I'd made a catastrophic mistake. Where I wanted to quit, go get a normal job, stop fighting institutions I couldn't beat."
"What made you keep going?"
"My father. The families being displaced. The knowledge that if I gave up, nothing would change. And... pride, honestly. Stubborn refusal to let them win."
"I understand that."
We reached the pub. The Prince Regent. Old building, warm light spilling from windows, sound of laughter inside.
"This is it," Dev said. "Ready?"
"Ready."
He held the door.
I walked into my first pub.