William’s hands were shaking as he read the palace summons. His father, King Charles, weak from cancer treatments, had just signed away 9-year-old Prince George’s childhood. At Buckingham Palace, Queen Consort Camila sat at the head of the table like a judge passing sentence.
George would be ripped from his school, placed under her control in a royal preparatory program, and she would serve as co-regent over William himself. When William refused to hand over his son, Camila’s eyes turned to ice. “Gentlemen,” she commanded the household guards stationed at the door. “Escort the Prince of Wales from this room.” Kate gasped.
This was impossible, unthinkable, but the guards stepped forward. Everyone expected William to back down. Instead, he did something no one saw coming. He stepped forward toward Camila, toward the armed guards, and in his eyes burned a cold, focused fire.
“If you think I will let anyone decide my son’s future without me,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. “You are mistaken. What happened next would either save his family or destroy the monarchy forever.” The kitchen at Anmer Hall smelled of butter and toast, of coffee brewing, and something sweet baking in the oven. Sunlight slanted through the windows, catching the edges of cereal bowls and juice glasses, turning everything golden.
Kate stood at the counter, her hair pulled back loosely, humming something under her breath as she flipped pancakes. At the table, Charlotte was telling Louie a very elaborate story about a princess who could talk to horses, her hands gesturing wildly, nearly knocking over her orange juice. Louie giggled, syrup on his chin, completely entranced.
George sat quieter, focused on his cereal. But there was a softness to his expression, contentment, the kind that only comes from being exactly where you belong. William sat at the head of the table, reading the newspaper, but not really reading it. He was watching them instead. The way Kate moved through the kitchen like she was dancing.
The way Charlotte’s imagination spilled out of her in torance. The way Louie laughed with his whole body. The way George looked up every few moments to check that his father was still there, still present, still his. This was the life they’d fought for. The small, ordinary, impossibly precious life, the one that existed in the margins of duty, in the spaces between appearances and obligations. here in this kitchen.
They were just a family, not heirs or future kings or symbols of continuity, just them. And then his phone rang. William’s hand froze halfway to his coffee cup. The ringtone was different, the one reserved for palace calls, the one that made his stomach tighten even on good days. He pulled the phone from his pocket, saw the switchboard number, and felt the room shift around him.
The golden light seemed to dim. The laughter felt suddenly fragile. He answered, “Yes.” The voice on the other end was clipped, “Formal, efficient.” Charles, private secretary, the one who only called for things that couldn’t wait. Your royal highness, his majesty, requests your immediate presence at Clarence House.
This morning, if possible, William’s hand tightened on the phone. The word requests was doing a lot of work there. This wasn’t a request. requests came with options, with scheduling conflicts acknowledged, with polite offers of alternative times. This was a summons. This morning, William repeated, his voice carefully neutral. Did he say why? He did not, sir, only that it’s urgent. Urgent? The word hung in the air between them.
William closed his eyes briefly, then opened them to find Kate watching him from across the kitchen, her smile fading. She knew. She always knew. I’ll be there within the hour, William said, and ended the call. He set the phone down on the table like it might explode. For a moment, no one spoke.

Charlotte had stopped mid-sentence. Her story about the princess forgotten. Louie looked between his parents, sensing the shift in atmosphere, even if he couldn’t name it. George’s eyes were fixed on William’s face, studying him with that too old, too aware expression he sometimes wore, the one that reminded William of himself at that age, watching his own father, learning to read disaster in the tightening of a jaw, or the way hands curled into fists under the table. “What is it?” Kate asked quietly, setting down the spatula.
William looked at her, then at the children, then back at her. your grandfather? He said, keeping his voice steady for their benefit. He wants to see me right away. Is grandpa okay? Charlotte asked immediately, her voice high and worried. I’m sure he’s fine, sweetheart. William said, though he wasn’t sure at all. He probably just wants to discuss some palace business. But Kate’s face had gone pale.
She knew as well as he did that Charles didn’t summon him to Clarence house on a Thursday morning for palace business. Not like this. Not with the word urgent attached. Go play upstairs for a bit, Kate said gently to the children. Daddy needs to get ready. But I haven’t finished my story, Charlotte protested. You can tell me the rest later, Kate promised.
I want to hear how the princess saves the kingdom, but right now upstairs, please. There was something in her voice, a firmness that the children recognized and didn’t argue with. George slid off his chair without a word, taking Louis hand, Charlotte followed, casting one last worried look over her shoulder.
When they were alone, Kate moved around the table and sat in the chair George had vacated, reaching for William’s hand. Her fingers were cold despite the warmth of the kitchen. “What did they say?” she asked. “Just that he wants to see me.” Urgent. No explanation, William. She paused, swallowing. What if it’s the cancer? What if it’s gotten worse? He’d been thinking the same thing.
Had been thinking it from the moment he heard that ringtone. If he crossed of to attain was honest. His father’s illness had been the shadow hanging over everything for months now. The thing they didn’t talk about with the children, but carried with them constantly. The doctors had been cautiously optimistic at the last update. But optimism was a fragile thing when you were talking about cancer.
When you were talking about kings and mortality and the weight of a crown that would pass from one head to another. I don’t know, William said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. But I need to go. I need to see him. Kate nodded, but she didn’t let go of his hand. Do you want me to come with you? He wanted to say yes.
wanted her beside him for whatever this was. The way she always was, his anchor, his steadying force. But something in his gut told him this was a conversation he needed to have with his father alone. Stay with the children, he said. Keep everything normal here. If something’s if it’s bad news, I’ll call you immediately.
She studied his face for a long moment, then lifted his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. I don’t like this. Neither do I. Whatever it is, we face it together. Together, he echoed the word both a promise and a prayer. He stood, pulling her up with him and wrapped his arms around her.
She pressed her face into his shoulder, and he felt the tremor that ran through her, the fear she was holding back, the questions she wasn’t asking. He held her tighter, memorizing the feel of her, the smell of her shampoo, the way she fit against him like they’d been designed for this. When they finally pulled apart, he kissed her forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then he went upstairs to change, moving on autopilot. Suit, tie, shoes polished to a mirror shine, the uniform of duty, the armor he wore when he had to be the Prince of Wales instead of just William. The children were in the playroom when he came back down. He paused in the doorway watching them.
George had pulled out his Lego set and was building something with intense concentration. Charlotte was sprawling on the floor with colored pencils, drawing what looked like a horse with wings. Louie was crashing toy cars into each other, providing his own sound effects. “I’m heading out,” William said, and three heads turned toward him.
George stood up immediately, crossing the room with purpose. Dad? William crouched down so they were eye level. Yes. Is everything okay? The question was too big, too weighted. George’s eyes were searching his face, looking for the truth beneath whatever answer William gave, and William realized with a sharp pang that this was what his son’s life would be.
reading between lines, searching for truth in carefully worded statements, learning to carry worry that children shouldn’t have to carry. I hope so, William said honestly, because he’d always promised himself he wouldn’t lie to his children, not about the things that mattered. I’m going to go see Grandpa and then I’ll know more.
” George nodded slowly, processing this. “You’ll come back?” The question hit William like a fist to the chest. “You’ll come back?” as if there was a world where he wouldn’t. As if his leaving could somehow be permanent, could somehow mean abandonment.
But George had lost a great grandmother not so long ago, had watched the family grieve, had learned that sometimes people left and didn’t come back. Always, William said fiercely, pulling George into a tight hug. Always, George. No matter what, Charlotte had abandoned her drawing and joined them, wrapping her arms around William’s neck. Bring Grandpa a picture, she said. Tell him I drew him a horse.
Horses make everyone feel better. They do, William agreed, his throat tight. That’s very thoughtful, darling. Louie toddled over, not wanting to be left out. And suddenly William was buried in children, all arms and warmth and innocent affection. He closed his eyes and held them, all of them, trying to press this moment into his memory like flowers in a book. When he finally stood, Kate was in the doorway watching.
Their eyes met, and an entire conversation passed between them without words. Be careful. I love you. Come home. We need you. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together. He kissed each child on the head, then walked to where Kate stood. One more kiss. This one on her lips, gentle and lingering. “I’ll call you,” he said. “I know.
” He walked to the front door, grabbed his keys from the bowl on the hall table, and paused with his hand on the door knob. Behind him, he could hear the house Kate hurting the children back to their activities. Charlotte asking if she could make another drawing. George’s quiet voice suggesting they play outside later. The sounds of home.
The sounds of the life he’d built. The sanctuary he’d created for his family. He looked back over his shoulder, taking it all in, the light still golden through the windows. Kate’s silhouette in the kitchen doorway. The laughter starting up again. Resilient as weeds. The threshold between safety and duty.
between the man he was in this house and the prince he had to be beyond it. William opened the door and stepped through the A49 stretched ahead of him. Gray and rain sllicked the morning traffic building as London drew closer. William had waved off the offer of a driver. Needed to be alone with his thoughts.
Needed the illusion of control that came from having his hands on the wheel. The wipers beat a steady rhythm against the drizzle. Thump, thump, thump, thump. Like a heartbeat, like a countdown. He’d made this drive a thousand times. Knew every curve, every junction, every place where the road opened up to show glimpses of fields or villages, or eventually the sprawl of suburbs that marked the approach to the city.
But today, the landscape felt different, foreign somehow, as if the summons had rewritten the map, turned familiar territory into unknown country. His mind wouldn’t stay still. It kept circling back to that phone call, to the word urgent, to the tightness in his chest that had started the moment he’d answered. What if it was the cancer? What if his father was dying? Not in the abstract eventual way they’d all been trying not to think about.
But now, today, with decisions that needed to be made and time running out, he wasn’t ready. God help him. He wasn’t ready. The radio played low, some morning show host discussing the upcoming royal engagement calendar with nauseating cheerfulness.
William reached out and switched it off, preferring silence, or not silence exactly, the hum of the engine, the hiss of tires on wet pavement, the occasional splash as he passed through a puddle, the sounds of forward motion. His mother had made this drive too, had sat in cars moving between the sanctuary of home and the demands of palace, between the person she wanted to be and the person she was required to be.
He wondered if she’d felt this same dread, the same sense of inevitability, if she’d looked in the rearview mirror and seen her children’s faces and felt her heart crack with the weight of what she couldn’t protect them from. George’s question echoed in his head. You’ll come back. Of course, he would come back. He would always come back.
But what version of himself would make that return journey? What news would he carry with him? What changes would have been set in motion that couldn’t be undone? The traffic thickened as he reached the M11. Cars multiplying around him. Everyone rushing toward London for their own urgent reasons. A woman in a blue sedan. Makeup half applied. Probably late for work. A delivery van.
The driver singing along to something William couldn’t hear. A family. Children in the back seat. Heading to the city for a day out. All these lives intersecting and separate. None of them knowing that the man in the black Range Rover beside them was driving towards something that might change everything.

Rain beatated on the windshield and through it London began to rise on the horizon. Gray buildings against a gray sky. The city that held his father, that held Clarence house, that held whatever truth he was about to face. William’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. His jaw clenched. The tension in his shoulders spread down his spine.
Whatever waited for him in London, he thought it would change everything. He pressed down on the accelerator and drove faster toward his fate. Buckingham Palace never felt welcoming. Not really. It was too vast, too formal, too full of ghosts and history, and the weight of centuries pressing down on every marble floor, every gilded frame, every portrait of long dead monarchs watching with judgmental eyes.
But today, as William and Kate walked through the corridors toward the state drawing room, it felt particularly hostile. The air itself seemed thicker, harder to breathe. They hadn’t planned to come together. William had been summoned alone.
Another urgent call from the palace switchboard just yesterday evening, 24 hours after the meeting with his father at Clarence House. barely enough time to process what Charles had told him before being pulled back into the machinery of succession and protocol. But when Kate had seen his face as he ended that call, seen the way his shoulders had gone rigid and his jaw had set in that particular way, that meant he was preparing for battle. She’d simply said, “I’m coming with you.” He hadn’t argued.
Couldn’t argue really, because they both knew what this was. Charles had warned him, hadn’t he? She’s arranged a meeting tomorrow at the palace. The full household will be present. And now here they were walking side by side down corridors that echoed with their footsteps, their hands occasionally brushing against each other small points of contact, reassurance, solidarity.
A footman opened the door to the state drawing room, and William felt Kate’s intake of breath beside him. The room had been arranged like a courtroom. That was the first thought that struck him. The deliberate staging of it all. The long mahogany table positioned in the center.
Chairs arranged on both sides, but with one seat conspicuously elevated at the head. The windows had been left uncurtained. Gray morning lights streaming in to illuminate everything with unforgiving clarity. And around the perimeter of the room, standing at attention or seated in smaller chairs against the walls, were at least a dozen people, private secretaries, equaries, senior members of the household staff, the keeper of the privy purse, the Lord Chamberlain, an audience, witnesses to whatever was about to unfold.
And at the head of the table, in the elevated chair that should have held the king, sat Camila. She wore navy blue, a power color. Kate thought distantly, and pearls, and her expression was perfectly composed, pleasant even. But her eyes were cold as she watched William and Kate enter.
Tracked their progress across the room like a predator watching prey approach. “This isn’t a meeting,” Kate murmured, her voice barely audible, meant only for William. “It’s a staging.” I know, William said, his voice equally quiet, equally controlled. But she could feel the tension radiating off him, could see the way his hands had curled into loose fists at his sides.
“Your royal highnesses,” Camila said, her voice carrying across the room with that particular aristocratic projection that made even pleasantries sound like pronouncements. “Thank you for coming. Please sit. She gestured to two chairs positioned on the opposite side of the table. From her positioned, Kate noticed slightly lower than Camila’s own seat.
Another deliberate choice. Another power play. William didn’t move toward the chairs. Didn’t sit. He stood there, hands at his sides, posture military straight, and met Camila’s gaze directly. Kate positioned herself slightly behind him and to his right present, united, but letting William take the lead.
This was his fight, his family, his son. They were here to discuss. She would support him, would stand with him, but she wouldn’t overshadow him. The silence stretched. Someone in the room shifted uncomfortably. A chair creaked. Outside, a car passed on the mall. The sound muffled by the thick walls, but still audible in the tension. Camila’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Please,” she said again. “Do sit. This may take some time. I’ll stand,” William said. His voice was perfectly polite, perfectly measured, but there was steel underneath it. “Thank you.” Kate watched the room’s reaction. Saw the private secretaries exchange glances. Saw the Lord Chamberlain’s eyebrows rise fractionally. Saw Camila’s smile freeze.
Just for a second before settling back into place. As you wish, Camila said, and Kate heard the edge in it now, the first crack in the composed facade. “Then let us begin.” Camila opened the leather portfolio in front of her with deliberate care, as if she were unveiling something precious, rather than beginning an ambush.
She extracted several documents, each bound in palace stationary. Official seals visible even from across the table. Given his majesty’s health, she began, and Kate felt William tense beside her at the words at the clinical way, Camila referred to his father’s illness. We must address matters of continuity, of transition.
The crown cannot afford uncertainty, and arrangements must be made to ensure stability during what may be a difficult period ahead. She slid one of the documents across the table toward William. He didn’t move to pick it up, didn’t even look down at it. His eyes remained fixed on Camila’s face. These are proposals, Camila continued, developed in consultation with several senior advisers regarding Prince George’s preparation and education.
Given his position in the line of succession, given that he may, God forbid, find himself much closer to the throne than anticipated certain accelerations are necessary. Kate’s stomach dropped. She moved closer to William, her hand finding his under the table, hidden from view, but grounding him, grounding herself.
“Excelerations,” William repeated, his voice dangerously quiet. “Yes,” Camila’s hands were folded on the table now, perfectly manicured nails interlocked. “We propose that Prince George be removed from his current educational setting and enrolled in a comprehensive royal preparatory program immediately.” This would include intensive tutoring in constitutional law, history, diplomatic protocol, and public speaking.
He would be mentored by selected members of the household, trained in the expectations and responsibilities of his future role. The room felt airless. Kate couldn’t breathe. She thought of George, sweet, serious George, who built elaborate Lego structures and worried about his father and still sometimes had nightmares about losing the people he loved. George, who was 9 years old. Under whose supervision? William asked.
Though Kate suspected he already knew the answer, Camila’s smile was thin. Satisfied. Mine primarily. As queen consort, I am uniquely positioned to guide him through. No. The word cut through the room like a blade. William hadn’t raised his voice, but something in the quality of it made everyone flinch. Kate felt her heart hammering against her ribs. Camila’s expression hardened. I beg your pardon.
George is 9 years old, William said. Each word measured and precise. Exactly. Camila replied, leaning forward slightly. Old enough to begin proper training. Your father was younger when his education in royal duties commenced in earnest. The queen herself training. William’s voice had dropped even lower, had taken on an edge that Kate had only heard a handful of times in their marriage, and never in a setting like this. “He’s a child. He’s the future king,” Camila said.
And there was steel in her voice now, too. The polite veneer cracking. “There’s a difference. Surely you of all people understand that personal feelings cannot supersede duty.” Kate’s hand tightened on Williams. She could feel the tremor running through him, not fear, but rage, carefully controlled, but barely. “And there’s more,” Camila said, pulling another document forward.
Given the uncertainties ahead, we also propose the establishment of a formal regency council. Should his majesty become unable to fulfill his duties, this council would provide oversight and guidance during the transition period. I would serve as co-regent alongside you, ensuring continuity. And whose protection is this for? William interrupted.
His jaw was tight enough that Kate could see the muscle jumping. Georgees or yours? The room went utterly silent. Several people had stopped breathing. The Lord Chamberlain looked like he wanted to sink through the floor. One of the private secretaries had gone pale. No one spoke to the queen consort like that.
No one challenged her directly, not in front of the household, not with witnesses present. It simply wasn’t done. Camila’s eyes flashed with something dark and dangerous. I beg your pardon. You heard me. William still hadn’t raised his voice. Still stood perfectly still, perfectly controlled.
But the fury underneath was palpable now, filling the room like smoke. This isn’t about George’s education. It’s not about the stability of the crown. This is about you securing your position, your influence before my father. His voice cracked just slightly before he mastered it again before the succession. How dare you suggest? How dare I? William took a single step forward and several people in the room actually moved back.
You want to remove my son from his school, from his life, from everything stable and normal he has? You want to turn him into a symbol, a tool before he’s even had a chance to be a child. And you want me to just accept this, to hand him over to you? Kate found her own voice then, surprising herself. This isn’t just about George, she said, her voice steadier than she felt. It’s about all of them.
Charlotte Louie, you want to reshape our family to suit your vision of what the monarchy should be, but they’re not chess pieces. They’re children. Camila’s gaze swung to her cold and assessing. With all due respect, Catherine, this is a matter for for their parents, Kate said firmly. Which is us, not you. The temperature in the room had dropped 10°.
The courters and secretaries were all studiously looking anywhere but at the three of them, desperate not to be dragged into this confrontation. But Kate could feel their attention, their shock at what was unfolding. Camila stood slowly, and the room seemed to shrink around her. “I had hoped,” she said, her voice like ice, that we could approach this reasonably, that you would see the wisdom in these proposals, the necessity. But I see I was mistaken.
William’s jaw clenched. He still didn’t sit, didn’t back down. These arrangements, Camila said, tapping the documents with one perfectly manicured finger, are not suggestions. They have been developed with careful thought and considerable input from those who understand what the crown requires, and they will move forward with or without your cooperation.
The shift in Camila’s demeanor was almost physical, as if she’d shed a skin, revealed something harder and colder underneath. Her voice, when she spoke again, carried an authority that made it clear this had always been where the conversation was heading. The polite overture, the proposals laid out like they were up for discussion, it had all been theater.
“This isn’t a request, William,” she said, his name without his title. a deliberate slight. The king has signed off on the framework. The paperwork has been drawn up. The preparatory program has already been organized. Prince George will begin his new educational schedule within the fortnight. Williams entire body went rigid. Then I’ll speak to my father directly. By all means.
Camila’s smile was sharp as broken glass. Though I should tell you, he’s given me full authority to proceed with these arrangements. He trusts my judgment in matters of succession and preparation. As should you, full authority? Williams voice was dangerously quiet. Over my son, over the future of the crown. For a moment, Kate thought William might actually lose control.
She could feel the rage vibrating through him, could see his hands trembling with the effort of keeping them at his sides instead of slamming them on the table, instead of doing something he’d regret. And then he moved, not toward the table, not in anger or violence. He simply stood up straighter, pulled his shoulders back, and said with absolute clarity, “No.
” The single syllable dropped into the room like a stone into still water. Ripples of shock spread outward. Several people gasped. Actually gasped as if William had said something obscene. Camila’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?” I said. No, William’s voice was stronger now, more certain. George will not be removed from his school.
He will not be enrolled in any program without my consent. He will not be handed over to you or anyone else for training like he’s some kind of project to be managed. He is my son, mine, and Kate’s. And we will decide what’s best for him. You’re being unreasonable. I’m being a father. The words hung in the air between them. heavy with meaning.
Kate felt tears prick her eyes, felt pride and fear and love all tangled together in her chest. This was William, as she’d always known he could be not the careful, controlled prince who measured every word and gesture for public consumption, but the man underneath, the father who would burn the world down before letting anyone hurt his children.
Camila’s face had gone rigid, all pretense of warmth or reasonleness abandoned. “George will not be removed from his life,” William continued, his voice gaining strength with each word. “He will not be turned into a symbol before he’s ready. He will not spend his childhood learning to be king when he should be learning to be a person.” “I won’t allow it.
You won’t allow it?” Camila’s voice rose slightly, the first crack in her composure. You seem to be forgetting your position, William. You are the Prince of Wales. Yes, but you are not yet king. And until you are, you do not make unilateral decisions about succession planning or the preparation of future heirs.
That authority rests with the king, and by extension with me as his representative in these matters. You are not his representative,” William said flatly. “You’re his wife. That doesn’t give you authority over my children.” The room was so quiet. Kate could hear her own heartbeat. Could hear the clock ticking on the mantelpiece.
Could hear faintly traffic from outside. The normal world continuing while everything in this room teetered on a knife’s edge. Camila’s jaw tightened. She straightened in her chair. And when she spoke again, her voice was pure ice. Then you leave me no choice. She turned toward the door where two household guards stood at attention.
Young men in formal uniform, faces expressionless, trained to follow orders without question. Kate hadn’t even noticed them earlier, had been so focused on Camila and the documents, and Williams barely controlled Fury. But now they seemed to fill the doorway, solid and immovable.
“Gentlemen,” Camila said, her voice carrying clearly across the room. “Please escort the Prince of Wales from the room. This discussion is over.” For a second, Kate couldn’t process what she’d heard. Couldn’t believe it. This was Buckingham Palace, not some authoritarian regime. You didn’t just order guards to remove members of the royal family from meetings. It was unthinkable. Impossible.
And yet the guard stepped forward. Kate stood so quickly. Her chair scraped against the floor. “You can’t be serious.” “Quite serious, I’m afraid,” Camila said, not even looking at her. Her eyes were fixed on William. Challenge and certainty written across her face. “If William cannot conduct himself appropriately in official discussions, then his presence is no longer required.
The arrangements will proceed regardless. The guards were closer now, moving with that careful precision that military men used when they weren’t quite sure if what they were doing was right, but had been trained to follow orders anyway. Kate could see the conflict on their faces, the uncertainty, the discomfort. This was wrong. Everyone in the room knew it was wrong, but no one was moving.
No one was speaking up. They were all frozen, watching, waiting to see what would happen when an immovable object met an unstoppable force. William didn’t retreat. That was the thing that would stay with Kate forever. The image that would replay in her mind in the days and weeks to come.
The moment when the guards moved toward him, when everyone expected him to back down or argue or appeal to reason, he didn’t do any of those things. He stepped forward toward Camila, toward the guards, into the space where the confrontation would either break or explode into something neither side could take back.
And in his eyes, Kate saw it clearly, would swear to it later. There was fire, not the hot, uncontrolled fire of rage, the cold, focused fire of absolute certainty, of a man who had found his line in the sand and would not be moved from it, of a father who had just been threatened, whose child had just been used as a pawn and who had finally, finally had enough.
His voice, when he spoke, was low, controlled, but unmistakably dangerous. If you think I will let anyone, anyone decide my son’s future without me, you are mistaken. The guards froze midstep. They weren’t prepared for this. Weren’t prepared for resistance from a member of the royal family. Weren’t prepared for the sheer intensity radiating from William like heat from a forge.
Kate moved before she’d consciously decided to step to William’s side, shoulderto-shoulder with him, presenting a united front. They stood together facing down Camila and her guards and the entire weight of palace protocol and centuries of tradition. “You may have married the king,” Kate said, and her voice was steadier than she’d expected, clear and cutting through the tension. “But you are not his mother, and you are certainly not George’s grandmother.
” Camila’s face flushed with anger. “How dare you?” “No.” William cut her off, and the word cracked like a whip. How dare you? You have no authority over my children. None. You have no right to make decisions about their education, their upbringing, their futures. You are not their family.
You are not their guardian. And you sure as hell are not their regent. Someone in the room, one of the private secretaries, made a small sound of distress. The Lord Chamberlain had his hand over his mouth, looking ill. This was unprecedented. This was careerending, reputation destroying, potentially monarchy shaking territory.
No one spoke to the queen consort like this. Not publicly, not with witnesses. But William wasn’t finished. You want to talk about authority? He took another step forward. And now he was close enough to Camila that she had to look up to meet his eyes. Let’s talk about authority. I am the prince of Wales.
I am the heir to the throne. I am George’s father and when it comes to decisions about my son’s life, my authority supersedes yours today, tomorrow, and every day after.” The senior guard, a man in his 40s with salt and pepper hair and kind eyes that looked deeply uncomfortable with his current orders, cleared his throat softly.
“Your royal highness,” he was speaking to William, his voice quiet, respectful, but firm. We have our orders. William turned to look at him. Not with anger, Kate noticed, but with something like understanding. These were just men doing their jobs, following the chain of command, trying to navigate an impossible situation. And I’m giving you different ones, William said, his voice gentler now, but no less absolute.
Stand down. The guard’s eyes widened slightly. He looked past William to Camila, then back again. The conflict on his face was painful to watch duty waring with conscience. Orders against instinct. The room held its breath. Everyone watching, waiting.
Who would the guards obey? The queen consort who had given them a direct command or the prince of Wales, the future king, the man whose authority would one day be absolute. It was the longest 5 seconds of Kate’s life. And then William did something brilliant. something that would be talked about in palace corridors for years to come. He didn’t wait for them to decide, didn’t stand there in a battle of wills.
He simply turned, offered his arm to Kate with perfect courtly grace, and began walking toward the door, not fleeing, not retreating, walking with his head high, his shoulders back, with the absolute confidence of a man who knew exactly who he was and what he represented. As he reached the guards, he paused, looked at them directly, and said quietly enough that only they and Kate and perhaps Camila could hear, “You can follow your orders, or you can remember who you serve.
The crown, not a consort.” The guard stepped aside. It wasn’t dramatic. Wasn’t a big gesture or a moment of obvious rebellion. They simply moved, created space, let William and Kate pass through. behind them. Camila’s voice rose sharp with fury. You’ll regret this, William. I will take this to the king.
I will make sure he knows exactly how you’ve William stopped at the doorway. Turned back and the look on his face made Camila’s voice falter and die mids sentence. Do, he said simply. Please do. And I’ll tell him exactly what you tried to do to his grandson. I’ll tell him how you tried to use his illness, his weakness, to grab authority that was never yours.
I’ll tell him how you ordered guards to remove me, his son, his heir, from a meeting, because I dared to protect my child. He paused. Let that sink in. Let her see exactly how this would look when the truth came out. And then, William said softly, “Well see who regrets what.” Kate’s hand was tight on his arm.
She could feel him trembling, not with fear, but with adrenaline, with the aftermath of standing up, of finally saying all the things he’d been holding back for months, maybe years. He looked around the room one last time, making eye contact with each person there, the private secretaries, the courters, the Lord Chamberlain, every witness to what had just happened.
If anyone wants to discuss my son’s education, William said clearly. You can make an appointment through my office. Like civilized people, this meeting is over. And then he walked out, Kate beside him, leaving Camila sitting alone at the head of that carefully staged table, her face white with rage, her perfect plan in ruins around her.
The door closed behind them with a soft final click. In the hallway, Kate finally let out the breath. she’d been holding. Her legs felt like water. Her hands were shaking. William leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and for a moment looked like he might collapse. “Did that really just happen?” Kate whispered. “Yes,” William said, opening his eyes. “Yes, it did.
” And despite everything, despite the fear and the anger and the knowledge that there would be consequences for what they’d just done, Kate saw something in his face that had been missing for weeks. peace or something like it. The peace that comes from finally finally standing your ground.
They walked in silence down the long corridor. Their footsteps echoing off marble floors and high ceilings. Past portraits of dead monarchs who had never faced anything like this. Who had lived in times when power was absolute and challenges to authority were met with exile or worse.
The palace felt endless around them, maze-like, as if they might walk forever and never find an exit, never escape back into the world where they were just William and Kate. Instead of the Prince and Princess of Wales, instead of people who had just openly defied the Queen Consort in front of a dozen witnesses, Kate’s hand was still gripping William’s arm, her fingers tight enough to leave marks.
She could feel herself shaking, not just her hands, but her whole body. fine tremors running through her like aftershocks. Her heart was racing so fast she felt laded. The adrenaline that had carried her through the confrontation was starting to fade, leaving behind a dizzy, unsteady feeling that made her wonder if her legs would continue to hold her up. William’s face was unreadable.
His jaw was still clenched, his shoulders rigid, his gaze fixed straight ahead like he was navigating by pure will rather than sight. But she could feel the tension in him, could feel how tightly he was holding himself together. They turned a corner, found themselves in a smaller corridor, away from the main state rooms, away from the possibility of running into anyone.
And finally, finally, William stopped. He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and put his hands over his face. Kate had seen him angry before, had seen him frustrated, overwhelmed, griefstricken. But she’d never seen him quite like this, shaking with the force of everything he’d been holding back. Everything he’d kept control during the confrontation, now threatening to spill out in the aftermath.
“What just happened?” she whispered, though she knew. She’d been there. She’d watched it unfold, but saying it out loud felt necessary. felt like the only way to make it real. Williams laugh was harsh. Bitter oo, he said, his voice muffled behind his hands.
She tried to stage a quiet coup, take control of George’s education, establish herself as co-regent, position herself at the center of the succession planning. All while my father is, he couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t say the words dying or incapacitated or any of the other clinical terms that described what was happening to Charles.
Kate moved closer, pulled his hands away from his face, and wrapped her arms around him. He was taller than her, broader, but in that moment, he folded into her embrace like a child seeking comfort. She felt his arms come around her waist, felt him bury his face in her shoulder, felt the shudder that ran through him. “You did the right thing,” she said fiercely, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head.
“William, you did exactly the right thing.” “Did I?” His voice was rough, strained. I just defied the queen consort in front of the entire household. I challenged her authority, refused her orders, made the guards choose between us. Kate, this is this could be. You protected George, she interrupted.
You protected our son from being used as a pawn in someone else’s power game. That’s what you did. That’s all that matters. He pulled back enough to look at her, and she saw the fear in his eyes. Not fear of Camila or the consequences, but deeper fear. The fear of a father who had just realized how vulnerable his children were, how many people would try to use them, shape them, control them.
The fear of a man who was beginning to understand the weight of what was coming. “She wanted to take him away,” William said, and his voice cracked. She wanted to remove him from school, from his life, from everything normal and good about his childhood.
She wanted to turn him into a project, a symbol, and my father signed off on it. My father gave her permission to, “Your father is sick,” Kate said gently. “He’s exhausted and scared and probably not thinking clearly.” “That’s not an excuse, but it’s an explanation. She took advantage of that. She manipulated the situation, but you stopped it.
William straightened slowly, pulling himself together, piece by piece. She watched him do it, watched him rebuild the composure, the control, the princely mask, but his eyes were still wild, still haunted. I need to see my father, he said. Now, I need to hear from him directly what he knew, what he approved, what he actually wants.
Because if Camila was telling the truth, if he really did give her authority over George, he trailed off. The implications too painful to voice. Kate nodded. Then we go to Clarence house together. No. William cupped her face in his hands, gentle despite everything. You go home to the children. They’ll have heard something by now. Palace staff gossip faster than any news network. They’ll be worried. They’ll need you to tell them everything’s all right.
Is everything all right? He looked at her for a long moment, then leaned forward and kissed her forehead. It will be, he said. I’ll make sure it will be. Clarence house felt different. In the late afternoon light, softer somehow, more intimate than the vast formality of Buckingham Palace.
William had driven there directly from the palace, barely remembering the journey, his mind cycling through everything he needed to say, everything he needed to ask. He’d called ahead this time, told the staff he was coming, that it was urgent, that he needed to see his father immediately. The private secretary had tried to tell him that his majesty was resting, that perhaps tomorrow would be better, but William had simply said, “Now,” in a tone that left no room for argument.
So now he stood outside his father’s private chambers, taking a moment to steady himself before knocking. Whatever happened in the next hour would determine everything. the future of his relationship with his father, the protection of his children, possibly the future of the monarchy itself.
He knocked, heard his father’s voice, weaker than it should be. Come in. Charles was in bed, propped up against pillows that seemed to dwarf him. He’d lost weight. William could see it in his face, in the way his night shirt hung loose on his frame. But his eyes were alert, intelligent, and deeply sad as he watched William enter.
I heard, Charles said before William could speak about the meeting, about what happened with Camila. William closed the door behind him, leaned against it. Did you know what she was planning? I Charles hesitated, and that hesitation was answer enough. I approved certain recommendations for George’s education, for succession planning, but I didn’t. For George to be taken out of school. William’s voice was controlled, but barely.
For a regency council with her at the helm. For her to have authority over my son’s upbringing and education. You approved that? Charles closed his eyes. She said it was necessary for continuity, for the stability of the crown during uncertain times. And you believed her. I was tired, Charles said quietly. I am tired, William. The treatments, the constant appointments, the worry about what happens to the monarchy when I’m gone. It’s exhausting.
And she offered to handle it, to take some of the burden off. I thought I thought she was trying to help. The anger drained out of William. replaced by something worse. Sadness. The heartbreak of watching his father, a man who had spent his entire life preparing to be king, who had waited longer than any heir in history, admit that he’d been too weak to protect his own grandson.
“William” moved to the chair beside the bed and sat down heavily. “Dad,” he said, and his voice was gentler now. She’s trying to control what happens after you’re gone. She’s trying to position herself at the center of everything. the transition, George’s preparation, the succession. She’s not helping. She’s consolidating power. I know, Charles said, and his eyes opened.
They were wet. I know that now. I knew it when she told me what happened today. How you stood up to her. The way she described it, she was furious, but also shocked. She didn’t expect you to fight back, to protect George so fiercely. What did you expect? William asked, not accusingly, but genuinely curious.
Did you think I’d just hand him over? I don’t know what I expected, Charles admitted. I’ve been so focused on my own mortality, on how little time I might have left, that I haven’t been thinking clearly about what comes after, about what you’ll need, what George will need. I’ve been afraid.
The confession hung in the air between them. William had never heard his father speak so openly, so vulnerably. Charles had always been careful with his emotions, practiced at maintaining the royal facade, even in private moments. But illness had stripped that away. Left him raw and honest. Afraid of what? William asked softly.
Of dying, Charles said simply, of what the monarchy becomes without me? of whether I’ve done enough, prepared you enough, left things in good enough order, of whether I’ll even get to see George grow up, see what kind of king he becomes. He paused, swallowed. Of being forgotten, William felt his throat tighten. You won’t be forgotten, and you’ve prepared me more than you know.
But I can’t protect what you’ve built, what the queen built before you. If I’m constantly fighting people who should be on my side, if I’m having to defend my children from members of my own family, you’re right, Charles said. You’re absolutely right. And I’m sorry. I should have been stronger. Should have seen what she was doing.
Should have protected George myself instead of leaving you to do it. Then trust me now, William said, leaning forward. Trust that I’ll protect the crown, that I’ll protect George and prepare him the right way when he’s ready. But I can’t do that if she’s undermining me at every turn. If she’s using your authority to overrule mine.
Charles was quiet for a long moment, his gaze drifting to the window where late afternoon sun painted the room gold. When he spoke again, his voice was firmer, more like the king he still was. I’ll speak to her today. I’ll make it clear that George is your son, your responsibility, and that all decisions about his upbringing go through you.
No programs, no changes, no arrangements without your explicit consent. And the Regency Council, there will be no council,” Charles said firmly. “When the time comes when I can no longer fulfill my duties, you’ll stand alone, as you should, as every monarch before you has stood. The crown doesn’t need co-regents or advisers or people trying to manage the transition.
It needs a king. William felt something loosen in his chest. Something that had been wound tight since that morning when the phone first rang. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Charles reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and William took it. father and son sitting in the fading light holding on to each other across the gulf of illness and duty and all the complicated history between them.
I’m sorry, Charles said again, for not being stronger, for letting her manipulate the situation, for putting you in a position where you had to fight for your own son. Just get better, William said, and his voice broke slightly. That’s all I need. just get better. We need you. I need you. George needs to know his grandfather. I’m trying, Charles said. The doctors are optimistic about the new treatment.
But even if even if it doesn’t work, I need you to know I’m proud of you. What you did today, standing up for George, refusing to back down, that’s what a king does. That’s what I should have taught you years ago. You protect your family always, above everything else. William nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
He sat there for a while longer, just holding his father’s hand, watching the sun sink lower in the sky, marking the end of a day that had changed everything. Anmmer Hall had never looked more welcoming than it did when William finally pulled into the drive just after 6. The windows were lit against the gathering dusk, and he could see movement inside small shadows.
That meant the children were still up, probably waiting for him. Kate met him at the door before he could even get his keys out. She searched his face, reading the answer to all her unspoken questions in his expression. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “We talked. He’s going to handle it.” She exhaled, then pulled him inside. The children know something happened.
I tried to keep things normal, but George overheard me on the phone with your office and it’s all right, William interrupted gently. I need to talk to them anyway. The children were in the living room, an unusual tableau. George sat on the couch, ramrod straight, his hands folded in his lap in a way that reminded William painfully of himself at that age. Charlotte was curled in the armchair, her favorite stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest.
Louie was playing with trucks on the floor, but even he was quieter than usual, glancing up every few seconds to check on his siblings. “Mom said something happened today,” George said as soon as William entered. “Something serious.” William looked at Kate, who gave him an encouraging nod, then moved to kneel in front of George so they were eye level.
Charlotte immediately uncurled herself and came to sit beside her brother. Louie abandoned his trucks and climbed onto George’s lap. You’re right, William said. Something did happen. And I think you’re old enough to know about it, all of you. George’s face was pale but determined. What was it? Some people at the palace, William began carefully. wanted to make decisions about your future without asking what you wanted or what mommy and I wanted.
What kind of decisions? George asked about your school, about how you’ll learn to be, who you’ll be someday. William paused, choosing his words carefully. About preparing you for responsibilities that are still a long way off, George’s eyes widened. Do I have to leave? Leave my school? Leave home? No, William said firmly, reaching out to take George’s hands. No, sweetheart. Not until you’re ready.
Not until you choose. And maybe not even then. We’ll figure it out together when the time comes. But the important thing is nobody makes those decisions except us, our family, nobody else. Charlotte’s voice was quiet but piercing. Was it Granny Camila? Kate drew in a sharp breath.
William saw her hands tighten on the arm of the couch. The children were more perceptive than they’d given them credit for. Or perhaps they’d simply picked up on all the unspoken tension. The careful avoidance of Camila’s name the way William and Kate had been navigating around the subject for weeks.
“It’s complicated, darling,” William said. “She’s not really our grandmother, is she?” Charlotte pressed, and there was something knowing in her voice, something that said she’d been thinking about this for a while. Before William could answer, Louie piped up. I thought she was just Grandpa’s friend.
The innocence of it, the way Louie had distilled the entire complicated situation down to its essential truth, made William want to laugh and cry at the same time. “She’s married to Grandpa,” William said carefully, which makes her part of the family. But you’re right that she’s not your grandmother the way Granny Diana would have been or the way my mother is your grandmother even though she’s not here. George was studying his face intently.
What did she want to do to me? She wanted to change things. William said to have more say in how you’re raised, how you’re taught. But that’s not going to happen because you have parents who love you and who will always always put you first before duty, before the crown, before anything. He gathered all three of them close and they came willingly, George stiff at first, then relaxing.
Charlotte burrowing into his side, Louis small arms wrapping around his neck. No matter what happens, William said into their hair, breathing in the smell of shampoo and childhood. You are loved. You are safe. And no one decides your future but you. When you’re ready, when you choose. Until then, you’re just our children.
Just George and Charlotte and Louie. Not princes and princesses. Not symbols or tools or projects. Just ours. Promise? George whispered. Promise? William said. On everything I am, on everything I’ll be. I promise. The children were finally asleep, tucked into their beds with extra stories and longer hugs, reassured, but still processing everything. William had stayed in George’s room until his son’s breathing had evened out into sleep.
had watched him in the dim glow of the nightlight, and thought about all the ways he could have lost him today, all the ways the palace machinery could have ground them down if he hadn’t fought back. Now he and Kate were in their bedroom, the door closed, the rest of the house quiet around them, and Kate, who had held herself together through the entire evening, who had smiled and soothed and made dinner and read stories and been the steadying presence the children needed, finally broke. She made it three steps into the room before the sobs
came. Great wrenching things that shook her whole body. William caught her before she could crumple, pulled her against his chest, and held on while she cried. “I thought they were going to take you away,” she gasped between sobs. “In that room when she ordered the guards, “I thought I know,” William said, his own voice rough. “I know. I’ve been so scared,” Kate said.
the words tumbling out now that the dam had broken. Since your father’s diagnosis, since we found out about the cancer, I’ve been terrified about what it means for us, for the children, about how fast everything could change, about losing the life we’ve built here. William guided her to the bed, sat down with her, kept his arms wrapped tight around her.
“I’m not ready,” he admitted quietly. “I’m not ready to be king. I don’t know if I ever will be. Kate pulled back to look at him, tears still streaming down her face. You’re already acting like one. What? Today? She said, wiping at her eyes. What you did today? Standing up to her, protecting George, refusing to back down even when she had guards between you and the door. That’s what a king does.
Not because of a title or a crown or any of that. Because you protected your family. because you knew what was right and you didn’t let anyone tell you otherwise. William thought about that about the moment when he’d stepped forward instead of back when he’d looked at those guards and made them choose about sitting with his father and finally finally having the conversation they should have had months ago.
About kneeling in front of his children and promising them safety, control over their own lives. “I fought for George today,” he said slowly. But I also I claimed something. My authority, my place. I stopped waiting for permission to protect my family. Yes, Kate said simply. You did. They sat in silence for a while. Kate’s head on his shoulder, his arms around her waist.
The intimacy of it, the way they fit together, even after everything, especially after everything felt like the only real thing in a day, full of performance and power plays and political maneuvering. William looked out the window at the darkened grounds of Anmmer Hall, the gardens Kate had planted, the field where the children played football, the small kingdom they’d built here, away from palaces and protocols. This is it, he said quietly.
This is what I’m fighting for. Not the crown or the monarchy or the continuation of some thousand-year tradition. This you and the children and the life we have here. This small domestic perfectly ordinary life. Kate lifted her head to look at him. It’s not going to stay ordinary though, is it? No, William admitted.
Probably not, but we can protect pieces of it. We can make sure they have childhoods. Make sure they have choices. Make sure that when the weight of the crown comes, and it will come, they’re ready for it because we made them strong enough to carry it, not because someone else broke them into shape.
Kate kissed him then, soft and lingering, tasting like salt and relief and home. Together, she whispered against his lips. Together, he agreed. They stayed like that for a long time, holding on to each other and the promise they’d made. While outside the world shifted and changed and prepared to test them again.
But for now, in this moment, in this room, in this small kingdom of their own making, they were enough. Life continued. That was the strange thing about it. The way the world kept turning, even after everything had shifted on its axis. A week after the confrontation, Anmer Hall had settled back into its rhythms, but not quite the same ones.
There was something different in the air now, something harder to name, but impossible to miss. William and Kate moved through the house with a new kind of synchronicity. Small gestures that spoke volumes. The way Kate’s hand would find his shoulder as she passed behind his chair at breakfast.
The way William would catch her eye across a room, and some entire conversation would pass between them in silence. They had always been united, always been partners. But now there was something forged in fire about it. They had stood together against an impossible thing and won. That changed people. George had returned to school, but he carried himself differently now.
Still quiet, still serious, but with something more solid underneath. He knew things now that other 9-year-olds didn’t know. That his life was not entirely his own. That people would try to use him. that his father had fought for him and would fight for him again. It was a heavy knowledge for such small shoulders. But William watched him and thought, “He’s stronger than I was at his age.
He’ll be all right.” Charlotte had drawn a new picture, taped it proudly to the refrigerator. “My family,” it said in her careful handwriting, surrounded by hearts and stars. She’d drawn them all herself with wild curly hair. Louisie with his gaptothed smile. George tall and serious. And in the center, William and Kate hand in hand smiling.
In the very corner, almost an afterthought, she’d sketched a tiny crown. Not on anyone’s head, not dominating the picture, just there in the background where it belonged. Kate had stood in front of that drawing for a long time, not saying anything, her fingers pressed to her lips. The palace had issued a statement, brief, carefully worded, designed to end speculation without revealing anything.
Succession planning and the education of their royal highnesses remains under his majesty’s direct oversight in consultation with the prince and princess of Wales. Dry, bureaucratic, but the message underneath was clear to anyone who knew how to read palace speak. Camila had been shut out. William had won, but William knew better than to think it was over. People like Camila didn’t give up. They regrouped.
They waited. They found new angles, new approaches. For now, though, she’d been neutralized. For now, his children were safe. William was in his study when his phone rang. The sun setting through the windows and painting everything amber and gold. He’d been going through correspondence, the endless parade of letters and briefings and requests that came with being Prince of Wales.
But his mind kept drifting to George at school, to Charlotte’s drawing, to Kate in the garden with Louie teaching him the names of flowers. The ringtone cut through his thoughts. That ringtone, the palace switchboard, his stomach dropped. Not again. He almost didn’t answer. Almost let it go to voicemail.
couldn’t face another crisis, another summons, another problem that needed solving. But duty was duty, and he’d been raised to answer when the crown called. Yes. His voice was tight, braced for impact. William, it was his father’s voice, and William’s heart lurched, but not with fear, with surprise. Because Charles sounded stronger, clearer, more like himself than he had in months.
“Dad,” William sat up straighter. “Is everything all right?” “More than all right.” There was something in Charles’s voice William hadn’t heard in a long time. “Hope.” The doctors just gave me the latest results. The new treatment, it’s working. The tumor markers are down significantly. there, cautiously optimistic, William exhaled.
A breath he felt like he’d been holding for months. Relief flooded through him, so intense it was almost painful. That’s That’s wonderful. That’s I’m not done yet, William, Charles said, and there was warmth in his voice, maybe even amusement. You have time. We have time. We’ll take whatever time we’re given, William said, and his voice cracked slightly on the words.
However much that is. There was a pause, comfortable and full. Father and son sharing a moment across the miles between them. I love you, Dad, William said. The words coming easier now than they ever had before. I love you too, son, Charles replied. Take care of those grandchildren of mine. All of them.
I intend to be around to watch them grow up. When William ended the call, his hands were shaking, but this time it was with joy. The doorbell rang just as dusk was settling over Anmer Hall, turning the sky purple and orange, the first stars beginning to appear. Inside, dinner was almost ready.
Kate in the kitchen, the children scattered through the house in various states of premeal chaos. Louie was building something elaborate with blocks. Charlotte was reading in the window seat. George was helping Kate set the table, carefully arranging napkins with the concentration he brought to everything. The doorbell rang again, insistent. Urgent.
William looked up from the newspaper he’d been pretending to read. Kate emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, her eyebrows raised in question. “Are we expecting anyone?” she asked. “No,” William said slowly, standing. Palace staff always called ahead. Friends texted first. Unannounced visitors to Anmer Hall were unusual. The children had already heard the bell. George appeared in the hallway.
Curious, Charlotte abandoned her book and came running. Even Lewis toddled over, wanting to see who had come to visit. I’ll get it, William said. But the children were already ahead of him, racing toward the front door with the fearless enthusiasm of people who’d never learned that surprises could be dangerous.
Kate moved to William’s side and they exchanged a glance, one of those wordless communications that had become second nature. Together, whatever this is, we face it together. George reached the door first, pulled it open with Charlotte crowding behind him. Louie trying to squeeze between them and then silence. William couldn’t see yet.
Couldn’t see past his children’s bodies. Couldn’t see who stood on the other side of the threshold. But he saw George go very still. Saw Charlotte’s hand reach for her brothers. Saw the way they seemed to hold their breath. “Who is it?” William called, already moving forward. Kate beside him.
He stepped past the children, saw the figure silhouetted against the darkening sky, backlit by the last rays of sunset, so he couldn’t quite make out the face, the details, the identity of this unexpected visitor. And for a moment, just a moment, William felt the weight of everything.
The confrontation with Camila, the conversation with his father, the promises he’d made to his children, the future spreading out ahead of them, uncertain and inevitable, and terrifying and precious all at once. Kate’s hand, found his squeezed once. William stepped forward, his children behind him, his wife beside him, and looked at whoever had come to their door at dusk, whatever news or challenge or change they brought with them. “We’re about to find out,” he said quietly. The door stood open.
The future waited on the threshold, and whatever came next, they would face it the way they always had, the way they always would. Together.