Chapter 3 Chapter there
"Careful," he said quietly. His accent was distinctly South London, rough around the edges. Not the polished tones of palace staff.
"I—thank you—"
He was already moving, shrugging out of his black waistcoat with practiced efficiency. Before I could process what was happening, he'd wrapped it around my waist, the fabric covering the torn section of my gown. His movements were quick but deliberate, tying it carefully so it looked almost intentional—a fashion choice rather than an emergency repair.
"There," he said, stepping back. "No one will notice."
Camera flashes exploded around us.
Of course they'd seen. The photographers who'd been positioning for the photo with Edmund had captured everything—the stumble, the catch, the intimate proximity, a palace server wrapping his waistcoat around the Princess of Wales's daughter while Lord Ashworth stood uselessly to the side.
"Aanya, darling, are you all right?" Edmund's voice, concerned but distant. He hadn't moved to help. Hadn't even tried.
My protection officer was suddenly there, his hand on my elbow, gently but firmly separating me from the server. "Ma'am, are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine. I just—" I looked back at the server, who'd already stepped away, melting back into the background of the event as if nothing had happened. "He helped me. My gown caught, and—"
"We'll make sure he's compensated for the waistcoat, ma'am," my protection officer said smoothly, already steering me toward the exit. "Let's get you somewhere private."
"Wait, I should thank him properly—"
But when I turned back, he was gone. Disappeared into the machinery of the event, invisible once more among the dozens of staff clearing glasses and folding linens.
All I had was the waistcoat tied around my waist, still warm from his body, and the memory of those dark, serious eyes meeting mine.
And Edmund standing awkwardly where the photographer had positioned us, looking vaguely embarrassed but making no move to follow me.
"I'm terribly sorry," Edmund said, finally approaching. "My fault entirely. Clumsy of me."
"It's fine," I said automatically. "Just an accident."
But something in my chest had shifted. Edmund had stepped on my gown and then stepped back. Hadn't tried to catch me. Hadn't done anything except apologize after the fact.
While a stranger—a server whose name I didn't even know—had moved without hesitation to prevent me from falling.
And the cameras had captured all of it.
When I finally got back to Kensington Palace—to my apartments, tastefully decorated by palace staff, filled with furniture I hadn't chosen and art I hadn't selected—it was past midnight. My lady's maid helped me out of the gown, carefully untying the borrowed waistcoat, and I dismissed her for the night.
I should have sent the waistcoat to be cleaned and returned to palace catering services.
Instead, I found myself examining it. Plain, inexpensive. No designer label. Just standard uniform issue, except... there was something in the inside pocket.
I pulled out a crumpled Tube ticket. Brixton to Westminster. Return journey.
Brixton.
Alone in my sitting room, still in my dressing gown, I did something I almost never did: I opened my laptop for personal use instead of official business.
Priya's words echoed in my mind. Do something real. Figure out who you are.
I should sleep. I had an 8 AM briefing on education policy, then a site visit to a primary school in Islington, then lunch with the board of the Royal Literacy Trust. My schedule was booked in fifteen-minute increments for the next three months.
Instead, I opened a browser—not the palace-monitored network, but my personal phone's hotspot—and typed: "Crown Estate London property development news"
I'm not sure what made me search that specifically. Perhaps Sir David's earlier comment about "stakeholder concerns in urban regeneration." Perhaps the way Father had changed the subject when a journalist asked about Crown Estate profits at last month's press briefing. Perhaps the Tube ticket in my hand—Brixton to Westminster—and wondering what that journey meant for the person who made it.
Perhaps just exhaustion with performing concern about issues I was never allowed to actually examine.
The search results loaded.
The top article was from The Guardian, published earlier today. The headline made my breath catch:
"Crown Estate Profit From Displacement: PhD Student's Damning Research Preview"
Environmental scientist Dr. Dev Marchetti has obtained documents suggesting the Crown Estate's London property developments systematically displace working-class families while concentrating industrial pollution in low-income neighborhoods. Full investigative exposé coming this autumn.
I clicked through.
The article was detailed, technical, devastating. Maps showing how Crown Estate developments clustered in areas with the weakest tenant protections. Data about pollution levels before and after "regeneration." Testimony from families forced out of neighborhoods they'd lived in for generations. Financial analysis showing millions in Crown profit while local communities bore the costs.
And at the center of it all: Dr. Dev Marchetti, 29, PhD candidate at King's College London, whose environmental science research had uncovered patterns the Crown Estate apparently preferred to keep quiet.
There was a photo. A man about my age, maybe slightly older, sitting in what looked like a university office. Dark hair, serious expression, intense eyes that seemed to look straight through the camera.
I stared at the photo for a long moment.
Then looked at the waistcoat folded beside my laptop.
No. It couldn't be.
But that intensity in the eyes. That South London accent. The Tube ticket from Brixton—the same neighborhood featured prominently in the article about displaced families.
The caption read: Dr. Marchetti's father died in a 2015 construction accident on a Crown Estate-affiliated development site. His research is both academic and deeply personal.
I read that line three times.
His father died. On a Crown Estate site.
And tonight, he'd served champagne at Buckingham Palace. Stood near me. Caught me when Edmund's carelessness made me fall. Protected me from humiliation with cameras flashing all around us.
Had he known who I was? Of course he had. Everyone knew.
He'd helped me anyway.
Why?
My phone buzzed. Text from James, my private secretary: Ma'am, we need to discuss tomorrow's schedule. Also, photos from tonight's event are already circulating. We should discuss messaging. Will brief you at 8 AM.
Messaging. The photos of me in a palace server's arms, his waistcoat wrapped around me, our faces inches apart. While Edmund stood awkwardly in the background, looking ineffectual.
I could already imagine the headlines. And what my mother would say about the optics.
I looked back at the screen. At Dr. Dev Marchetti's photo. At the article detailing everything my family had done wrong.
And I typed a new search: "Dev Marchetti Brixton community forum"
The results appeared immediately.
Public forum announcement. Next Tuesday, 7 PM, Brixton Community Centre. "Community Discussion: Crown Estate Development Practices and Tenant Rights." Dr. Dev Marchetti confirmed as primary speaker.
My stomach dropped.
I scrolled down, looking for more details. And there it was, added just hours ago according to the timestamp:
UPDATE: Buckingham Palace has confirmed that HRH Princess Aanya of Wales will attend Tuesday's forum as royal representative to hear community concerns.
They'd committed me. Without asking. Without telling me. Just added my name to an event where I'd be sitting across from a man whose father my family's institution had killed.
A man who'd caught me tonight when I fell.
A man who was about to expose everything.
I picked up the waistcoat again. Felt the weight of it. The reality of it.
In six days, I would stand in a room in his neighborhood, and we would see each other again.
And this time, there would be no cameras capturing a moment of unexpected kindness.
There would only be truth.
The phone screen lit up with another message from James: Speech draft for Tuesday's forum will be ready by Monday. Palace communications wants to review together. This one is sensitive given the Crown Estate situation.
I opened my email. Found the preliminary briefing document he'd already sent.
Re: Brixton Community Forum - Talking Points
Key Messages:
\- Express sympathy for community concerns
\- Emphasize Crown Estate's commitment to responsible development
\- Note ongoing review of practices
\- Do NOT acknowledge specific allegations
\- Do NOT engage with Dr. Marchetti's research directly
\- Redirect to established grievance procedures
I read through the bullet points. The perfect palace response. Say nothing while appearing to care. Perform concern without admitting fault. Protect the institution at all costs.
My finger hovered over the keyboard.
I should type: Received. Will review.
Instead, I closed the email without responding.
I stood up, walked to my wardrobe, and hung Dev Marchetti's waistcoat carefully beside my Erdem gowns and Burberry coats.
A borrowed waistcoat that I had no good reason to keep.
Except that it was the first real thing anyone had given me in longer than I could remember.
And the man who'd given it—who'd caught me while Edmund stood uselessly aside, who'd protected me, who'd disappeared before I could even thank him—was about to expose everything my family had tried to hide.
Tuesday was six days away.
Six days to decide who I wanted to be when I stood in that room.
The perfect princess reading palace-approved deflections to the man who'd saved me from falling.
Or someone who might finally be ready to hear the truth.
Even if that truth was about my own family.
Even if it shattered everything I'd been taught to protect.
I looked at the waistcoat hanging in my wardrobe.
At the Tube ticket that said Brixton to Westminster.
At the photo on my laptop screen of a man with serious eyes who'd lost his father to an institution I represented.
And I made a decision.
I wasn't going to read the palace's script on Tuesday.
I was going to listen.
Really listen.
For the first time in my life.
Whatever that meant.
Whatever it cost.