Chapter 8 Chapter eight
"Confrontational how?" I asked.
"He may try to put you on the spot. Ask questions designed to make you either defend indefensible positions or break from palace messaging." James pulled out another document. "We've war-gamed the most likely scenarios. If he directly accuses the Crown Estate of wrongdoing, you respond with..."
"I express sympathy for his loss and reiterate that all Crown Estate operations follow legal guidelines," I recited from memory. "I note that proper channels exist for grievances. I redirect to the advisory process we're establishing."
"Exactly." James looked pleased. "You've got this, ma'am. Just remember you're not there to debate him. You're there to show the monarchy is listening."
Listening. Not acting. Not changing. Just listening.
After the briefing, I had barely twenty minutes before I needed to leave for the Islington primary school visit. I retreated to my office, closed the door, and pulled out my personal laptop.
I opened the folder I'd created last night. Dev's Guardian article. The Crown Estate parliamentary reports I'd found. The Freedom of Information requests showing internal correspondence.
I'd spent three hours after getting home reading everything I could find. Not the sanitized palace briefings. The actual research. The actual testimonies. The actual data.
And the more I read, the more I understood: Dev Marchetti wasn't exaggerating. If anything, he was being careful. Precise. Every claim backed by documentation. Every allegation supported by evidence.
My family's institution had systematically displaced families. Had knowingly built developments that concentrated pollution in poor neighborhoods. Had covered up safety violations that led to deaths.
And on Tuesday, I was supposed to sit in that room and perform sympathy while saying absolutely nothing of substance.
My phone buzzed. Priya: Saw the photos. You ok? Also that server is FIT. Edmund who? 😏
Despite everything, I smiled. Trust Priya to cut through palace drama with the observation everyone was thinking but no one would say.
I typed back: I'm fine. Photos are being "managed." Brief me later?
Her response was immediate: Always. Lunch Wednesday? I need details on this mystery man.
If only she knew. The mystery man was the PhD student about to expose my family. The same man whose waistcoat I'd kept like some ridiculous schoolgirl crush.
I closed my laptop, straightened my jacket, and headed down to where my protection officers and lady's maid were waiting. Another day of perfectly choreographed royal duties.
But Tuesday was looming. Five days away.
Five days to decide if I could actually go through with reading those talking points. Performing empathy while defending the indefensible. Looking Dev Marchetti in the eye and pretending his father's death was just an unfortunate accident with no one to blame.
Five days to figure out who I wanted to be.
The perfect princess.
Or someone real.
The Islington primary school visit was exactly what I'd expected. Adorable children lined up to meet me, teachers nervous and excited, photographers capturing every carefully staged moment. I read to Year 2 students from an approved book about kindness and diversity. I asked Year 5 about their favorite subjects. I praised the literacy program and promised continued royal support.
I smiled until my face hurt.
The head teacher, Mrs. Okonkwo, walked me through the school's new library, funded partially by a grant from my Royal Literacy Trust. She was genuinely proud, genuinely grateful. This program mattered to her, to these students, to this community.
And I realized: this was real work. Real impact. The literacy programs I supported actually helped children.
But they also existed within a system where my family profited from developments that displaced children like these from their neighborhoods. Where Crown Estate returns funded royal life while families struggled to afford rent.
I could do good work and be complicit in harm. Both things were true simultaneously.
"Your Royal Highness?" Mrs. Okonkwo said gently. "Are you all right? You seemed miles away for a moment."
I refocused, smiled. "I'm fine. Just thinking about how important this work is."
"It is. We're so grateful for your support. Many of our students come from challenging backgrounds. Housing insecurity, poverty, instability. Having access to books, to literacy support, it changes trajectories."
"Housing insecurity," I repeated. "Is that a growing issue in this area?"
Mrs. Okonkwo hesitated, clearly not expecting that question. "Well... yes, actually. We've had several families displaced in the past few years as the neighborhood gentrifies. Development projects pricing out long-term residents. It's heartbreaking when students have to transfer schools because their families can't afford to stay."
"Development projects. Do you know which developments specifically?"
"I'm not sure of all the names. There's the Clerkenwell Rise development, the Angel Square renovation... luxury flats, mostly. The neighborhood is changing rapidly." She lowered her voice slightly. "Some of the construction was quite controversial. Environmental concerns, I believe. But I'm not involved in those details."
I made a mental note: Clerkenwell Rise, Angel Square. I'd look them up tonight. Cross-reference with Crown Estate holdings.
My private secretary appeared at my elbow. "Ma'am, we're running five minutes behind schedule. The next engagement..."
"Of course." I turned back to Mrs. Okonkwo. "Thank you for the tour. The library is wonderful. The students are lucky to have you."
As we walked back to the car, I thought about those displaced families. About students forced to change schools because development projects made their neighborhoods unaffordable. About Mrs. Okonkwo mentioning environmental concerns so carefully, so diplomatically, the way people did when discussing things that might be politically sensitive.
About Dev Marchetti's research showing this pattern repeated across London.
About Tuesday.
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That evening, back at Kensington Palace, I did something I'd never done before. I bypassed the sanitized summaries James provided and accessed the Crown Estate's actual public financial reports, the ones available through parliamentary records that I'd somehow never thought to examine myself.
The numbers were staggering. The Crown Estate had generated £312 million in profit last year. Property development was a major revenue stream. London holdings concentrated in areas experiencing rapid gentrification.
I pulled up Dev's research on my personal laptop. Started cross-referencing.
I wasn't an expert in environmental science or urban planning. My Cambridge degree was in History of Art, for God's sake. But the pattern was obvious even to me. Nearly every development Dev had flagged for displacement and pollution was Crown Estate property or Crown Estate-affiliated.
Clerkenwell Rise. Crown Estate joint venture.
Angel Square. Crown Estate development.
The Brixton regeneration project Dev's article highlighted. Crown Estate redevelopment scheme.
Over and over. The same institution. My family's institution.
And tomorrow I had lunch with the board of the Royal Literacy Trust, where I'd be praised for my charitable work while representing the institution that created the exact problems we were supposedly trying to solve.
My phone rang. My father.
"Hello, Papa."
"Darling. How was Islington?"
"Lovely. The new library is beautiful. Mrs. Okonkwo sends her thanks."
"Excellent. She's doing good work there." He paused. "I heard this morning's briefing was a bit tense. Your mother mentioned you had some... concerns about Tuesday's forum."
Of course she'd told him.
"I just want to make sure I'm properly prepared," I said carefully. "The research Dr. Marchetti is presenting raises serious questions."
"Questions the palace lawyers have thoroughly reviewed, I'm told. Aanya, I know you want to be thoughtful about this. But sometimes the most helpful thing we can do is provide stability. Reassurance that the institution is listening and committed to proper processes."
"Even if those processes don't actually lead to change?"
Silence on the other end.
"Aanya," my father said finally, his voice heavy. "I've spent my entire life preparing to be king. Do you know what that's taught me? That the monarchy's survival depends on evolution, yes, but controlled evolution. Change that happens too fast, too dramatically, destroys the institution rather than improving it."
"What if the institution deserves to be destroyed?"
I heard him draw a sharp breath. "You don't mean that."
Did I? I wasn't sure anymore.
"I just think," I said slowly, "that maybe protecting the institution shouldn't come before protecting the people it's supposed to serve."
"The institution is what allows us to serve people. Without it, we're just... people. With no platform, no influence, no ability to create change." His voice softened. "I understand your idealism. I had it too, once. But I learned that working within the system, slowly, carefully, accomplishes more than dramatic gestures that alienate everyone and accomplish nothing."
"Did it? Accomplish more?"
"I like to think so. Climate initiatives, mental health advocacy, modernizing royal protocols. Real changes, Aanya. Slow, but real."
"And how many families were displaced while you worked slowly? How many workers died because safety violations weren't addressed fast enough? How many children like the ones I met today lost their homes because Crown Estate valued profit over people?"
The silence this time was longer, colder.
"Tuesday," my father said, his voice formal now. "You will read the palace-approved remarks. You will conduct yourself appropriately. This is not a request, Aanya. It's an expectation of your role."
"And if I can't?"
"Then we'll have a very different conversation about what your role in this family looks like going forward."
The line went dead.
I sat in my sitting room, phone in hand, feeling the weight of everything closing in.
Four days until Tuesday.
Four days to decide if I was brave enough to risk everything.
Or if I'd spend the rest of my life performing concern while changing nothing.
I thought about Dev Marchetti, sleeping on a sofa bed, working three jobs, still finding the courage to speak truth to power.
I thought about Lorenzo Marchetti, dead because profit mattered more than safety.
I thought about the students at Islington Primary who'd be displaced by the next wave of development.
I thought about the man who'd caught me when I fell, who'd helped me despite every reason not to, who'd disappeared before I could even thank him.
And I thought about who I wanted to be.
Not who I was supposed to be.
Who I actually wanted to be.
I pulled out my laptop and created a new document. Not palace-approved talking points.
My own words.
I didn't know exactly what I'd say yet. But I knew I couldn't read James's script. Couldn't look Dev Marchetti in the eye and pretend his father's death was just an unfortunate accident. Couldn't sit in a room full of displaced families and offer them "established grievance procedures."
If I was going to do this, really do this, I needed to understand exactly what I was saying.
And exactly what it would cost.
I started typing.
Dear Dr. Marchetti,
No. Too formal. Too distant.
I deleted it. Started again.
On Tuesday, I'm supposed to tell you that Crown Estate operations follow all legal guidelines. I'm supposed to express sympathy for community concerns while redirecting to proper channels. I'm supposed to be the empathetic face of potential future change.
But I've read your research. All of it. And you're right.
I stared at the words on the screen. Two sentences. The simplest possible truth.
If I said that on Tuesday, everything would change. My family would be furious. The palace would be in crisis. My future as a working royal would be over.
But at least I'd be telling the truth.
At least I'd be real.
I kept writing.