Chapter 7 Chapter seven
AANYA
I woke to my phone vibrating against the nightstand. Six AM, two hours before my official alarm. A text from James, my private secretary: Ma'am, we need to move up this morning's briefing. 7 AM instead of 8. Palace communications wants to discuss the photos before your Islington visit.
The photos. Of course.
I sat up in bed, reached for my laptop on the side table, and opened Twitter. Didn't take long to find what I was looking for. The image was everywhere, trending under #PrincessAanya and #BuckinghamPalaceGala.
There I was, caught mid-fall, Dev's hands steadying me, his waistcoat being wrapped around my waist. Our faces inches apart. Edmund in the background, looking useless.
The Daily Mail: "Mystery Server Saves Princess from Wardrobe Malfunction: Who Is He?"
The Sun: "Aanya's Knight in Shining Armor! Royal Rescued by Handsome Stranger"
The Telegraph was more restrained: "Princess Aanya Aided by Palace Staff Member After Gown Incident"
But the comments. God, the comments.
"Meanwhile Edmund just stood there like a muppet"
"The way he's looking at her though 👀"
"That server showed more care in 5 seconds than Edmund has in 2 years of 'courting' her"
"Anyone else think there's chemistry there or just me?"
I closed the laptop. This was exactly what the palace communications team would be panicking about. Not the torn gown; that could be explained as accident. But the optics. A server catching me while my supposed future husband did nothing. The intimacy of the moment caught on camera. The narrative it created.
I should feel embarrassed. Concerned about the PR implications.
Instead, I kept thinking about Dev's hands steadying me. The efficiency of his movements. The South London accent when he'd said "careful." The fact that he'd helped me even though, if he was who I thought he was, he had every reason to let me fall.
I walked to my wardrobe, opened it. His waistcoat still hung there, out of place among my Erdem gowns and Burberry coats. I touched the fabric. Thought about the Tube ticket I'd found: Brixton to Westminster. Thought about the Guardian article I'd read last night, the photo of Dr. Dev Marchetti with those same intense eyes.
The man who caught me was the man who would expose my family in five days.
And I'd kept his waistcoat like some ridiculous token.
My phone buzzed again. This time, my mother: Darling, we need to talk about last night. Before your briefing. My sitting room, 6:45.
Twenty minutes to shower, dress, and mentally prepare for whatever lecture was coming.
\---
I arrived at my mother's private sitting room at exactly 6:45. Princess Catherine was already dressed, impeccable in a Chanel suit, her morning tea untouched on the table beside her.
"Sit," she said, gesturing to the chair across from her.
I sat.
"The photographs from last night are... unfortunate," she began, her voice carefully neutral. "James tells me the palace press office has been fielding calls since five AM. Everyone wants to know who the server was, why Edmund didn't help you, whether there's..." she paused delicately, "anything we should be aware of."
"There's nothing to be aware of, Mama. My gown tore. A staff member helped. That's all."
"A staff member who looked at you like..." She stopped, shook her head. "Never mind. The optics are problematic. Edmund's parents are concerned. They're asking questions about his role in your life, whether the relationship is progressing as expected."
"Edmund stepped on my gown. That's why it tore."
My mother's expression tightened. "Yes. We're aware. His father called your father at six this morning to apologize. Edmund is... mortified."
Good, I thought, then immediately felt guilty. It wasn't Edmund's fault he was inadequate. He'd been raised for this life the same way I had. Taught to look perfect, act appropriately, never risk anything real.
"The server," my mother continued. "Palace catering is reviewing their staff list, but the agency they use for large events is being... difficult about releasing names. Privacy concerns, apparently." She studied my face. "You didn't recognize him?"
I thought about lying. Decided against it. "No, Mama. It all happened very fast."
Not technically a lie. I hadn't recognized him in the moment. Only later, when I'd seen his photo in The Guardian. When I'd realized the server who caught me was Dr. Dev Marchetti, the man whose research would expose everything my family had tried to hide.
"Well, James is handling it. We'll release a brief statement thanking palace staff for their professionalism, emphasize that you're grateful to all who assisted, avoid drawing further attention to the specific individual." She picked up her teacup, finally taking a sip. "And we need to discuss Tuesday."
My stomach dropped. "Tuesday."
"The Brixton forum. James sent me the briefing documents last night." Her eyes met mine, sharp and assessing. "This Dr. Marchetti. His research is quite... inflammatory."
"His research is quite thorough, actually. I read the Guardian article. The evidence he presents about Crown Estate development practices is..."
"Is being reviewed by palace lawyers," my mother interrupted smoothly. "Who assure us that Crown Estate operations are entirely within legal parameters and that any allegations of wrongdoing are based on selective interpretation of data."
"Selective interpretation? Mama, he has documents showing..."
"What he has," she said, her voice hardening slightly, "is a personal vendetta against an institution he blames for his father's death. It's understandable, even sympathetic. But that doesn't make it accurate."
I stared at her. "Do you actually believe that? Or is that what you've been told to believe?"
The silence that followed was cold.
"Aanya," my mother said carefully. "I understand you want to be helpful. To show the monarchy cares about these issues. That's admirable. But your role on Tuesday is very specific. You're there to listen, express sympathy, and redirect to appropriate channels. You are not there to validate allegations against Crown Estate. You are not there to engage in political debate. And you are absolutely not there to go off-script."
"What if the script is wrong?"
"The script is palace-approved. That makes it right." She set down her teacup with a sharp clink. "This isn't a philosophical discussion, darling. This is about protecting the monarchy during a vulnerable time. Your uncle's scandal is still fresh. Public opinion of the royal family is fragile. We cannot afford another misstep."
"So we lie? We perform concern while doing nothing?"
"We maintain dignity while working through proper channels." My mother's expression softened slightly. "I know this feels restrictive. Believe me, I understand better than you think. But there are ways to create change within the institution, and there are ways to destroy the institution while accomplishing nothing. You need to learn the difference."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that "proper channels" seemed designed to prevent actual change rather than facilitate it. Wanted to ask when exactly the institution had ever reformed itself without external pressure.
But my mother's face told me the conversation was over.
"Your briefing with James is in ten minutes," she said, standing. "Please, Aanya. Just read the talking points. Smile. Express sympathy. Come home. Don't make this more complicated than it needs to be."
I stood, smoothed my dress, nodded.
But I didn't promise anything.
The briefing with James and the palace communications team was exactly what I expected. Three people in expensive suits explaining why my role on Tuesday was to "project empathy without admission of liability."
"Dr. Marchetti will likely present his research findings," James said, sliding a folder across the table. "We've prepared responses to the most inflammatory claims. The key is to acknowledge community concerns without validating specific allegations."
I opened the folder. Page after page of carefully worded deflections.
If asked about displacement: "The Crown Estate is committed to working with local communities and follows all applicable housing regulations. We're always open to hearing concerns through established grievance procedures."
If asked about pollution: "Environmental standards are set by government agencies, and Crown Estate developments comply fully with all requirements. We take environmental stewardship seriously."
If asked about Lorenzo Marchetti's death: "We cannot comment on specific cases, particularly those involving ongoing legal matters or settlement agreements. However, worker safety is and has always been a priority."
I read the last one twice. Lorenzo Marchetti. Dev's father. The man who died because Crown Estate managers decided fixing scaffold violations cost more than potential liability.
And I was supposed to say "we cannot comment" while sitting across from his son.
"What if I'm asked direct questions?" I said. "What if residents want actual answers, not bureaucratic language?"
"Then you express sympathy for their frustration and reiterate that you're there to listen and ensure their concerns reach the appropriate decision-makers," said Margaret from communications, a woman in her fifties who'd been managing royal PR since before I was born. "You're a conduit, not a policy maker. That's your strength in this situation."
"My strength is that I can't actually do anything?"
Margaret's smile was patient, practiced. "Your strength is that you represent the institution's commitment to engagement without being personally responsible for past decisions. You're the empathetic face of potential future change."
Potential future change. Also known as: nothing will actually change, but we'll make it look like we're trying.
"The other concern," James said carefully, "is Dr. Marchetti himself. He's... quite passionate about this issue. Given his personal connection to the Crown Estate situation, he may become confrontational."
I thought about Dev's hands catching me before I fell. The care with which he'd covered my torn gown. The fact that he'd helped me despite having every reason not to.