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I can still remember when Henry was born. Not only because his arrival meant that I was unceremoniously tossed out of my “youngest sibling” status, but because once he was born, all of England seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. A second son in the Royal Family meant that the future of the monarchy was secure and the country could rest easy again. They had their heir and their spare; a child destined to be a great king one day, and an extra one just in case. I quickly became the forgotten middle child. In the grand scheme of things, I was of no real use to anyone. I was trotted out for the big family moments, but otherwise left to my own devices, which honestly suited me just fine. 

We were a happy family when we were younger. Outside of all of the privileges and duties that came with being part of a monarchy, we were still a family, the same as any other. We shared meals, we went to school. We played together and fought together, and above all, my brothers and I knew that we were loved unconditionally. When I was little, the world was wide and life was full of possibilities. 

It feels strange to think of who I was back then, like I’m examining memories that belong to a completely separate person; someone I used to know well but now only remember from old photos. That person, the one who existed when my family was whole and happy, is a stranger to me. All that connects us now is a shared history between the woman I have become and the girl who once thought herself invincible.

__________________________________

In the two years since Alex and Henry’s emails leaked, life in London has continued in more or less the same fashion as before. Most of my time has been spent running The Beatrice Fund, which I must say is flourishing. We’ve set up recovery centers all over England with plans to expand even more next year. I’ve never really done anything like this before and it feels so good to finally be doing something productive with the life and the considerable privilege I’ve been given. 

Mum has been busy with parliament, doing her best to enact change wherever possible (though it hasn’t been easy), and Phillip and Martha welcomed a baby boy about ten months ago. The entire country celebrated. We all meet regularly and sometimes share a meal, like we used to.  It’s good to see everyone, but it still feels… strange, having Mum and Phillip on our side again, in a good way. It feels as close to normal as anything ever has with us.

The biggest change since the leak is that Henry no longer lives here. He and Alex live together in New York, but he still flies back every two or three months for some function or familial obligations. Henry doesn’t say much about it, but I can tell that the frequent trips to Kensington make it impossible for him to ever feel truly free of this place. Alex and I have conspired on the phone about it as well. He’s told me that Henry’s mood always grows a bit cloudy in the days leading up to a trip home, and it takes a few days for Henry to shake off that cloud when he returns to New York. 

As much as I miss Henry, and as terrible as Kensington is without him, he is so much better in America, living the life he deserves with the man he loves. Whenever I FaceTime him, or whenever I visit, I can see how happy he is and my heart feels as though it might burst. This is everything I ever wanted for him. 

At the same time, I do love seeing him back in Kensington. Sometimes, if I close my eyes, it’s almost as if we’re children again. Thick as thieves. Not hampered by all the nonsense this life comes with. We sit together and talk and plan for futures we are both excited about, which is a very strange concept, to be honest. Whenever Henry leaves, I hug him and we promise to plan another trip soon. 

However, today’s trip is unscheduled. 

When the door to the music room opens I jump up from the chaise and all but fling myself into Henry’s arms. He hugs me tight and when he lets me go, I get a good look at his face. He only just arrived and already there’s something different about him. Something guarded and closed off. It’s a posture that I recognize far too well. I see it in the way he holds himself, and the clipped way he talks. He’s more… aware, when he is here. He always knows where he is and what he is doing. Even around me. It’s exhausting and disheartening to see. 

“Is something wrong?” I ask. Even his smile is different here. Pinched in a way I don’t like to see, “Where’s Alex? Is he okay?”

His face softens into an adorably smitten expression at the mention of his partner, “He’s wonderful, Bea. Just wonderful. He had to stay behind to study for exams, but he’s doing well. We both are.”

“Good.” I say succinctly, and we settle into the music room. With all the changes and the chaos of the last two years, it’s so good to see that he’s still Henry. He will always be Henry. Even when his guard is up. 

We talk for hours and eventually have food sent up. Phillip is in meetings all day and Mum is once again at Parliament, but we’ll meet up with them later in the evening. 

As we talk about nothing and everything, I can sense something bubbling just underneath the surface. There is something in his tone now, something that is practically bursting at the seams. 

“What is it?” I ask

“What?”

“You look ready to explode. Did something happened?”

“I have some news. Very good news. Nothing is official yet, I suppose, but, well, I wanted you to be the first to know,” I let out a small gasp. I know what’s coming, “Alex and I are engaged.” 

I am typically a very level-headed person. I’ve had various schoolmates tell me those exact same words, including my very best friend in the world, and while I was understandably excited, I was never ridiculous about it. I didn’t squeal or jump around or gush over the ring. But when Henry says the word “engaged,” I do just that. I jump to my feet, let out a high-pitched squeal, and hug him. Henry laughs, not only at his own joyous news, but at my rather unhinged reaction.

“You’re the first person I’ve told, Bea. Well, second, but that’s only because Pez called me first, and he figured it out immediately.”

“Of course he did,” I say with a laugh, “Oh Henry. I am so happy for you. For both of you.”

“Thank you, Bea.”

I let him go and sit back down, “So, you flew thousands of miles just to tell me this?”

“Yes…” Henry says slowly.

“... and?” I prompt.

Henry gulps, “I have to tell Gran before word gets out. We don’t plan on saying anything public until at least the summer but, well, we’ve all seen what can happen when the press catches wind or something.” 

It’s true. We have. 

Henry lets out a shaky exhale, “I’m not sure I can face her on my own, Bea. Not again. Not after everything that’s happened.” Something inside me shifts and sits up straighter at the memory of that day, at how close he came to losing everything. Henry doesn’t ask, exactly, but I know what he needs in this moment. It’s a quiet battle cry, but a cry nonetheless. 

Ever since Alex and Henry were outed, Gran has doubled down on her position regarding their relationship. What we had hoped would be a step in the right direction for the monarchy has completely backfired. The Queen viewed Henry’s coming out, and our acceptance of it, as a betrayal by her family and an attack on the crown. As a result, she tightened her hold on the throne and tensions have been steadily rising in our family, as well as in Parliament, ever since. It got to the point that Mum tried to force through a vote to oust her from the throne, but Gran managed to hang onto her title. Barely. 

In the eyes of the world, The Royal Family is more fractured now than it has ever been before, and our country is suffering as a result. Gran has not agreed to a single request in the last two years and there is no arguing with the fact that half the country is still resolutely on her side. On top of all that, The Daily Mail has succeeded in their seemingly never-ending quest to make this situation worse for everyone. Especially Henry. 

Telling Gran about Henry’s engagement now is a big risk. We don’t know how she will react or what she will try to do to retaliate. However, not telling her would be a fatal mistake. 

“You know we will support you, Henry. All of us; Mum and Phillip and me. But It would have been better if Alex could have been here too,” I tell him. Not so much from an optics perspective, but for Henry’s sake. They’re stronger together. 

To my surprise, Henry blushes at this, “Yes, well... That is probably my fault. I had planned to wait until the summer to propose to him, when his classes were over, but… I sort of got caught up in the moment the other day and blurted it out.”

I can’t help but laugh at this. It is rather fitting that Henry, who at one point was so overly cautious about everything he did that I was concerned he was developing a complex, would propose to his boyfriend on impulse. Something settles around my heart, seeing the proof of the person he is allowed to be now. 

“Well then, I suppose it’s time to rally the troops,” I tell him cheerfully. We call Phillip and Mum when they’re free and get everyone on board. We discuss the different options and many possible outcomes and it feels like we’re planning a coup. Which, in all fairness, might be exactly what we’re doing. 

Once everything is settled, we send an official request for a meeting with the Queen. She accepts immediately and less than an hour later, we are convened in the formal Dining Room. This is another of her tactics these days; while sometimes she will ignore our requests for a meeting altogether, at other times (like this one) the meeting is arranged too quickly for us to have adequate time to prepare. Or that’s the idea anyway. 

The meeting starts in the same way all others do- with an exaggerated show of making tea. As far as power moves go, it’s rather tired, to be honest. But, well, you know that adage about old dogs. 

“Henry. How good of you to return home,” Gran says icily after her first sip, “I was beginning to think you were going to humiliate your family even further by becoming an American citizen.”

Henry is shaking slightly next to me, but his voice is strong. Stronger than it’s been in years, “No. That is not why I am here.”

“Then what exactly is the point of this meeting?” She asks, taking another delicate sip of her tea. 

“To start with, we wanted to address the current state of the monarchy,” Henry says to her, “Our family is fractured to the point that we are becoming a laughingstock on the world stage. We need to put aside our differences to present a united front.”

“It seems that, for once, we are in agreement,” Gran says, looking smug, “I take it this means you have finally come to your senses and decided to return to London?”  

“Quite the opposite actually. I have no intention of leaving America. I am happy where I am, especially now,” Henry takes a breath, “Alex and I are engaged.”

Without warning, the Queen bangs a fist on the table, causing the silver teapot to rattle on its tray, “You most certainly are not.”

“I assure you, we are,” Henry says firmly, “I proposed, and he said yes. Alex and I are going to be married.” 

“Absolutely not,” the Queen says, “I forbid it.” 

“Hear us out, Mum,” Catherine begins.

“No,” Gran’s voice is ice cold and furious in a way I’ve never heard before. I want to recoil, but I sit firm as she continues, “I made this clear two years ago Henry, when I was harangued into acquiescing to your first outlandish request, that it will not happen again. If you choose to continue living out this destructive fantasy, It seems I cannot stop you. But I will not have the sanctity of marriage trampled upon. Not while I am still Queen.”

Fucking simple majority, I think bitterly.

Gran fixes Henry with a glare so severe, I shift subtly closer to him, as though that might deflect some of her anger. She continues, “I do not take kindly to the fact that you have lured me here under false pretenses, with all your talk of uniting the family, only to then turn around and announce that you intend to fragment it even further! I do not understand how you can continue to tear the family apart in this way, Henry.”

With considerable effort, I bite back my rage, as well as a diatribe that will only make the situation worse. I clear my throat and say calmly, “We understand your position and your views on the matter, Gran, and I believe we have found a solution that will greatly benefit everyone.”

The Queen huffs out a breath and turns her attention to me, “And what is that, Beatrice?” 

“Henry should abdicate.” 

Gran is the only one in that room who is shocked by this suggestion. The rest of our family have had extensive discussions on the subject already, not just today, but for months now. We always saw this as a potential outcome. We have planned accordingly. 

Once Gran recovers, she nearly shrieks, “Henry? Abdicate? Not while I am still on this earth. The monarchy needs an Heir and a Spare. That is the only way to preserve our legacy. Or what is left of it, anyway,” she places her hands on the armrests of her chair as though she’s about to stand, “I will not hear another word on the matter.” 

Beside me, I can feel Henry shaking. 

“The monarchy will still have a spare,” I say quickly, in that same even tone. I lay a placating hand on the table in her direction, imploring her. Surprisingly, she hesitates, “Henry is not the only option we have.”

She sits back down again, “And who exactly do you propose take Henry’s place.”

“Me.”

The Queen nearly sputters for what is most likely the first time in her life, “Beatrice, have you completely lost your sense of reason? A young, unmarried woman in line for the throne? That is simply unheard of.”

“It would hardly be the first time a woman has taken the throne,” I say to The Queen of England.

“Yes, however the circumstances were completely different. Your grandfather and I were married nearly four years when I took the throne,” she huffs out a breath and holds her nose a little higher in the air, “There are appearances to maintain here, Beatrice. There are extensive protocols which have existed far longer than anyone in this room, and they must be adhered to. No young, unmarried woman can ever be allowed a place in the line of succession.”  

There it was: a loophole. A chance to end this madness. I jump on it, “So the problem here lies in the fact that I am not a married woman?”

“It is simply not done,” the Queen says. 

“Then if I were married, would you allow Henry to abdicate? If I were married, would I be permitted to be the next in line for the throne, behind Phillip and his children?”

In the following silence, the air around the room is so thick it’s settled over us like a fog. I can see Gran’s mind working furiously, trying to find a way out of this. I take advantage of her silence to plead my case; “This is the best possible solution for our family, Gran. Phillip and I will provide a solidified front as the heir and the spare, and Henry will continue to live his life in America. This arrangement will not only show the press - and our country - that there is peace in our family, but it will improve our international relations, with Henry acting as a liaison to the US. This arrangement will ensure our legacy for generations to come.”

Gran is staring me down, waiting for me to crack. Trying to find her own loophole out of this situation. I meet her gaze. Steadily. 

“Well, I see you have thought this through,” she says, her icy demeanor faltering for the first time. No one else speaks.  At that moment, as I stare down the Queen, no one else exists, “very well. After you are married, and only after, you may take Henry’s place in the line of succession.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” I say, in an effort to appease her. It does not work.

“We are not done,” she snaps, “I have ignored many of your more offensive behaviors before now. However, if I am to agree to this, then all that is to end. I expect only the best from you from this moment onward, Beatrice. You must adhere to all protocols without question or dissension. You must agree to whatever is asked of you. And you must make a public statement supporting the Crown. If we are to be unified, then we must be unified entirely. And-" She looks like a snake, coiled, ready to strike, “You must publicly speak out against Henry,” she says. 

Fuck off, you old hag! 

I keep my composure, but barely. I take a deep breath, “I will abide by your protocols. However, assigning blame to one person, especially someone as universally loved as Henry, will only reflect poorly upon The Crown. It would undermine any efforts to unify and, what is more, our reputation on the world stage will continue to crumble to the point that the British Royal Family will become obsolete. If things continue to progress in this manner, with all of us as divided as we are, then the reign of our family is doomed. The only choice we have is to present this as an opportunity to do what is best for our entire family and for the country. To do anything else would bring about a swift end to the monarchy.”

Gran looks so outraged that I worry, for a brief second, if the stress of it all will give her heart failure. 

“It seems that, yet again, I am left without a choice,” she eventually says. No one in the room dares to breathe. She continues, “very well,” she says, and I can tell she’s fighting to keep some semblance of control over the situation, “you have one year, Beatrice. If you are married within one year, then you can take Henry’s place in the line of succession. But let me make one thing perfectly clear,” she turns to Henry again, “if you really wish to leave this family, then you leave it entirely. From the moment Beatrice joins the line of succession, you will be stripped of all your titles and cast out of this family. Permanently. I will not speak to you again from that moment onward. Nor will I permit you within these palace walls. If you choose this life, Henry, you choose it completely.”

We knew it was coming; Mum, my brothers and I. We knew Gran would have some ultimatum, some final say in the matter. We knew that bringing her the suggestion of abdication would destroy forever a bridge that she had long since corroded. We prepared for it. Henry said he was ready. But the words still feel like a slap in the face. 

The Queen stands up, “You are all dismissed. Do not expect this kindness again.”

And with that, the matter is dropped, the meeting is adjourned, and Henry follows me out of the door and back upstairs to the sanctuary of our music room.

When I hear the door close behind me, I turn around, “Before you say anything-”

But the rest of the sentence is drowned in a tight hug. Henry says in my ear, “thank you, Bea. Thank you,” and I hold him tighter.

“Are you sure about this though?” Henry asks when he lets me go, “You are essentially throwing yourself to the wolves here. There will be more scrutiny against you than there ever has been before. There will be more people with more say in everything you do and everywhere you go. It will be even more of a fishbowl existence than you’ve ever known. The constant pressure… It is not easy, Bea, this life. And it’s not fair. No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you will always be seen as second best.” 

I raise my eyebrows, then recognize it as one of Gran’s gestures, and relax my face again, “Henry, I am a woman living in a patriarchal power structure. I’m very familiar with a second class life,” It’s meant to be a quip, but we both feel the sting. I reach for his hand and try again, “you have been carrying the weight of this family for far too long. I can take it from here.”

“You won’t be doing it alone,” Henry promises, “I will help you in any way you need.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” I say, attempting a light tone. It doesn't last long, “Gran is going to be coming after you for this, you know. Even more so than she did before. She won’t forgive you for this embarrassment. The Daily Mail is going to post all sorts of stories about you now.”

“Well that would be hardly any different from the last two years, would it?” Henry says with a bitter smile, “I’m sorry to say that I’m getting used to it.”

Before I can say anything else, there’s a knock on the door and I open it to find Phillip and Mum on the other side. We usher them in, and Mum immediately pulls Henry into a hug, “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs in his ear, “I’m so sorry, Henry. She should not have said any of that to you.” 

“I think that went about as well as we expected, honestly,” Phillip says rationally, swinging his arms a little awkwardly and bouncing on the balls of his feet. When Mum releases Henry, Phillip claps him on the shoulder, “You alright, mate?” 

Henry nods, and he does look okay. Shaken, obviously, but okay, somehow.

“We all knew it was coming,” Henry says. Mum makes a noise of disgust and we all turn to her.

“Well, I’ll say this much,” she tells us, “none of what she said today will make any difference once I am Queen,” she folds her arms across her chest and looks resolutely at her youngest son, “I promise you, Henry. Whatever she does, whatever titles she takes from you or rights she strips you of, all of it will be undone the moment I am on that throne. You are and always will be a part of this family. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, Mum,” Henry says, “I do. I know that.” 

“Good,” Mum says curtly. Then she sighs and mutters, “If only I could have voted her out. Simple majority, my arse.” 

We spend the rest of the day at Anmer Hall, with Martha and baby William. He’s so close to walking now. We take turns holding his hands as he manages wobbly step after wobbly step and it almost feels normal. This. Being a family again. We fell out of practice for so long, there was a time when I honestly believed that was it for us, that there was no hope at all. But here we are again. It’s nice to see that change is possible. At least in some corners of London.

Chapter Text

Princess Beatrice is officially on the market

Who will be the next Prince Charming? 

Sources claim the Queen will hold a royal ball to find the Princess a husband 

As the Queen’s birthday approaches, The Crown begins preparations 

I roll my eyes and mute notifications, then I open my text thread with Henry. He left almost as soon as the meeting was over and landed in New York late last night. I send him a text but he doesn’t answer. Then I see a text from Alex, sent hours earlier.

Alex : Holy shit Bea. Henry just told me everything. You went toe-to-toe with the queen. And won. I will now only refer to you as “Your Majesty.” 

Alex : 👸🐝. 

Bea : Flattery will get you everywhere. 

Alex : It's not flattery if it’s true. You took on the crown. And you fucking won. 

Bea : Did you not also take on the crown and win two years ago? Perhaps we should form a club. 

Alex : Hey, I’ll follow you into battle anytime.

Bea : Let's hope it doesn’t come to that.  

Alex : The real question is- how do we convince Phillip to abdicate, thereby ensuring your future reign?

Bea : Are you suggesting a coup, Alexander? How very American of you. 

Alex : Hey you said it not me.  

Bea : Honestly I’m surprised you haven’t suggested offing Phillip entirely. 

Alex : He gets a pass. For now. 

Bea : Really??

Alex : He’s…. Growing on me 

Bea : 😱

Alex : A) shut up. B) I know. 

Alex : I’m not saying I like the guy or anything, but he was crucial in getting parliament to pass the Equal Rights Act last year. Generations of queer kids in England are now going to be protected under the law because of him. That means something. 

There was a time when I felt certain that if looks could kill, Alex would have incinerated Phillip on the spot. There was so much animosity between them that I never would have dreamed of Alex coming to the point where he could say something positive about my older brother. But he was right, Phillip has changed. He not only apologized to both Henry and myself, but he proved time and again over the last two years that he meant what he said. 

The Equal Rights Act was not the only time he has spoken up for marginalized people, both in parliament and to the public. He has gone out of his way to include Alex in family gatherings, and whenever we all attend functions, he introduces Alex to everyone as “Henry’s partner.” 

It hasn’t been easy for him. I can tell how uncomfortable he is. I can hear the half step of hesitation any time he addresses someone with pronouns that are not what he was expecting, but he is respectful. He corrects himself when necessary. Above all, he is trying, and Alex is right, that means something. 

__________________________________

Angela Jacobson has been my best friend since Uni. She’s one of the very few people that I stayed in contact with after I got sober. Angie used to be my party friend. We were photographed at clubs nearly every night and I felt certain that once I stopped going out, I would lose her too. 

After rehab, she started visiting me at Kensington a few times a week. She supported me on the tough days and celebrated the good ones. She introduced me to meditation and pulled together a list of reputable therapists before I even had to ask. I didn’t expect her to stick by me through my recovery or my sobriety, but she did, and I don’t know where I would be now without her. 

We switch on the lights in the kitchen and she sets up the playlist while I pull out ingredients and we debate over possible recipes. 

I always find it funny to stand in the same space as Angie. She’s nearly a foot taller than I am, and whenever we are in close proximity, she positively towers over me. Angie lives in Notting Hill with her wife Isolde, the French supermodel. Everything about her life is too glamorous and gorgeous to be real, but she’s worked hard to get where she is today and she never takes any of it for granted. 

Angie works as a solicitor at a prestigious firm on the other side of London. Before her current career, she worked a number of odd office jobs. She also worked as a cake decorator at a local bakery, an assistant hair stylist, and she spent a very memorable summer working at a dog groomer’s. Not to mention, she has done some light modeling work herself. 

Her resume is impressive, but she doesn’t let herself get swayed by that, or by what people say to her. Like me, she has her own touchstone moments in life. Things that keep her grounded and remind her what she’s fighting for.

Angie hooks her phone up to the sound system and ‘90s hip hop fills the space as I begin to measure out flour and baking powder.  

For all its struggles, there were some unexpected benefits to sobriety. I learned that if my hands are busy, my mind is clear, and it’s much easier to focus on what is truly important. Music, of course, always helps. But some days I bring out the oil paints I was gifted years ago and spend hours focusing on one section of a canvas. On other days, like this one, I bake. There’s something soothing about kneading dough or mixing brownie batter. Angie says there are many different ways to meditate. I think perhaps she’s right about that. 

Every now and then I have to stop and laugh at myself. Cooking, cross stitching, painting tiny flowers on a blank white canvas. Ironically, all of the tasks that were once seen as the markings of an accomplished woman in high society, and therefore should hold no intrinsic value to me, are the very same hobbies that help me keep my head on straight when the world gets to be too much.  

Angie pours two glasses of the sparkling lemonade she brought with her and hands me one.

“A toast,” she proclaims, “to the future Queen of England.”

I can’t help it, I shudder at the phrase. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I say as we take a sip and she grins at me cheekily. “If this works, and only if, I will still be fourth in line, and likely further down, depending on how many more nieces and nephews I have in the future. And that’s only if I can find a husband in a year.” 

“Right,” Angie sets her glass down on the counter and claps her hands together, “Any ideas how to do that?” 

I shake my head, “not one. But I need to do something. Honestly, if the circumstances were different, Gran would probably want to hold an actual royal ball to find me a suitor.”

Angie takes a grape out of a nearby fruit bowl and pops it in her mouth, “You know, that’s not actually a bad idea.”

“What? A royal ball?”

“No, not exactly. You should join Raya.”

I flinch on instinct, “The dating app?”

She nods, “It’s basically the royal ball of the 21st-century.” 

I pull out my phone and look up the app. It seems straightforward enough. I pass the phone to Angie and get back to work on the cookie dough. She asks me questions and reads back the answers she’s come up with and we laugh at the absurdity of it all. An hour later, we have three dozen chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and a completed dating profile (pending official approval). 

__________________________________

I don’t believe it’s revelatory in any way to say that I do not have the best relationship with my mother. We were close when I was younger, but after my father died, when I was going through the very worst time of my life and I needed my mum, she was too lost in her own grief to see mine. She has made significant strides in recent years, it’s true, but I’ll never forget the moment I realized I was truly alone in the world. 

Millions of people around the world watched as my father, their James Bond, was laid to rest. The day was hard enough on its own, but what made matters so much worse was the fact that I couldn’t really experience it. I couldn’t let in the full weight of the fact that I would never see my father again. Never hear his beautiful, musical laugh. There would be no more big breakfasts, no more hours long conversations about philosophy and music and the state of the world. So much had been taken from me in so short a time, and I couldn’t let any of that resonate.

If I sobbed or collapsed or lost control in any way, my face would be all over the news for weeks. I would be considered a disgrace to my family, or be seen as emotionally unstable, or worse. So I kept it together, as best I could, for the cameras. As did the rest of my family. 

But as terrible as that entire day was, I took comfort in my mother’s presence. She kept her arm around my shoulders throughout the procession and held my hand for the entire ceremony. Under all the flashbulbs and the veritable sea of emotional fans, Mum was there. Holding me up. Keeping our family together. It was the only thing that allowed me to put one foot in front of the other. Mum even held my hand as we got to the car. And she held it as we walked back into Kensington.

However, as soon as we got inside, the very moment the doors were closed, she dropped her hand, and her pretenses. She left me standing by the overly large front door and floated away, back to her corner of the world. There were no words of comfort, no concern for my feelings or even my presence. She didn’t even look back. Mum held herself together only as long as absolutely necessary, and then she disappeared entirely. 

There were so many times after that when I tried to talk to her. I would go see her in her rooms and we would chat about meaningless things, but the whole time she would stare blankly at the wall behind me. She never answered my questions or seemed to notice I was even there. At best she made placid, meaningless comments and If I so much as mentioned Dad, she would get up and leave the room. After each meeting, I left feeling more alone than I was before. Eventually, I stopped visiting her. 

She would come out of her rooms only when it was absolutely necessary; when there was some function or appearance she couldn't get out of. During those times she would smile and chat and appear in every way a whole and happy person. Then the cameras turned off. And she did too. 

When the emails leaked, I decided enough was enough. If Henry and I were to take on the reigning monarch and her (at the time) sycophantic second-in-command, we needed help. 

The morning after the leak, I walked right into her room and yelled at her in a way I hadn’t since I was a small child. Though she seemed genuinely shocked by my outburst, she was still reluctant to help. Then I said the one thing I swore I would never say to her:

“Arthur would be ashamed of you. The woman he married would never abandon her children the way you have.”

She looked like I slapped her in the face, but something seemed to switch on behind her eyes. I pressed my advantage, “If you don’t get up, if you don’t pull yourself together right now, Henry will lose the love of his life. I’m sure you remember what that's like?”

It was a low blow. One l knew would strike her heart and despite everything, I felt incredible guilt for what I had said. I never wanted to cause her pain, but I was scared and desperate and I needed her to wake up. Surprisingly, it worked. 

Mum has spent the last two years working her way back to who she used to be. She stands up for us now, constantly. She fights back against Gran at every opportunity. She is vocal about her stances on everything with both Parliament and the papers. What is more, she’s owned up to her shortcomings and is working on becoming a better person. As an addict and a human, I can empathize with that. I can see that she’s trying now. Really. And that counts for something.

Still, despite all the good she’s done and the effort she’s put in, two years on I still feel like I have this wall up between us. There’s so much in my life that I don’t feel like I can share with her anymore because the truth is, I don’t trust her. She left me alone at the worst moment of my life, and I haven’t been able to let her back in yet. I know it hurts her and it hurts me as well, but too much has happened that can’t be ignored.

Mum and I spend part of the day together, after she’s done with some appearance or other. We talk about our usual nonsense things; the books she’s currently reading. The music I’m working on. Everything is light and breezy. Until. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?“ she asks, seemingly out of nowhere, “I didn’t think you ever wanted to get married.”

Already, my teeth are on edge, “I don’t have much of a choice here, do I?” I stop myself and take a deep breath. 

“Sweetheart, you always have a choice,” she says kindly. It sounds so much like the person she used to be that it physically hurts to hear it now.  There are so many things I want to say in response, but I bite my tongue on all of them. She’s trying, I remind myself again. 

Catherine continues, “I remember a time when you were maybe… nine? You told me that the whole idea of marriage was antiquated and dumb.”

I still believe that, “I was younger then,” is all I say. 

“Even so,” she gives it a beat and then continues, “I’m sure we can find another solution here. You know, I’ve been lobbying some members of Parliament and I think they’re getting close to shifting sides. If we just give it a little more time…”

I can hear, underneath everything, the note of desperation in her voice. She wants everything to be okay between us. She needs it to be. As much as she’s come around, and as much as she’s fighting now, her fear and anxiety are still there, underneath it all. 

But She’s trying. She is. Surely, I can try too.  

“Really, it’s not all bad, mum,” I say to her, my voice light and breezy again, but we can both tell it’s forced, “dating isn’t exactly… fun, but I don’t think it’s fun for anyone! This is how these things go, I suppose.”

“But surely there must be some other way to do this, Bea. It's not your job to save us.”

“I agree.”

My tone has gone cool as something inside of me shutters again. I know she can feel it too. The wall is back, brought out again by all the things we don’t say: That I was on my own for most of my adult life. That I’ll never stop missing my dad. That I needed my mum but I wasn’t enough of a reason for her to fight. 

Mum leaves not long after that and I find Mr. Wobbles and bring him into the music studio with me. 

__________________________________

My profile is approved on Raya and almost immediately I receive a flood of messages from eligible bachelors all over the world. I scroll through dozens of profiles of men who all look more or less the same, until my vision blurs and I have to put my phone down. That’s when it occurs to me that there might be another way to handle this.

My current equerry is Sonja Tkachuk. She’s the last in a long line of personal assistants to the Princess. I’ve always had an equerry, even though I’ve never really had a need for one before, as my presence wasn’t often required at state functions and other such pageantry, so it never took long for the highly qualified candidates to find better, more fulfilling jobs elsewhere. Needless to say, the turnover rate was high. 

I guess that’s all going to change now. 

Though this isn’t exactly in her job description, Sonja gamely agrees to take on the task of weeding through the hundreds of potential matches to find a few who might be willing to play the role of future Prince Consort. 

With Sonja’s help, I start dating. Multiple times a week I have perfectly lovely meals with perfectly lovely men and I couldn’t tell you one thing about any of them. The meals are almost always photographed, if not by Gran’s photographers, than by someone’s cell phone. 

I try to stay positive. I take each date as an opportunity to get to know another person. While no, I’ve never been remotely interested in a romantic relationship, that's not what this is. Nor is this process exactly groundbreaking. After all, my family has a long history with the concept of arranged marriages, especially if that marriage could provide political and financial gain. 

I begin to look at this process not as dating, but as a series of job interviews. I’m looking for a husband in name only. What I really need is a business partner. Someone to help me convince the world (and in particular, my Grandmother) that the future of the monarchy is in good hands. 

Despite my outlook on the situation, the dating process is still difficult. Though each potential match is thoroughly vetted, at some point on the first date, there is some glaring red flag, some reason not to continue seeing this person. Far too many men I encounter show a great deal of interest at what their new title will be, and a few are rather aggressive about what they are looking for, when it comes to marrying a Princess. 

As one month becomes two and then three, I start to grow uneasy. Underneath all of these dates is a ticking time clock. I have nine more months to meet and marry a man, or the Queen will almost certainly render our deal null and void. I can’t do that to Henry. Not when he’s so close to finally having the life he always wanted. So I carry on. I smile and listen and laugh when prompted. And after each date, I walk away with more or less the same feeling as I did the day before. 

I take on my other roles with much more ease. I start attending more functions and regular meetings with public figures and heads of state. I make more frequent appearances, shake hands, smile for the camera. I find I’m pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoy the work. Well, aspects of it. I could do without all the cameras and pageantry, but I do genuinely love meeting people (at least, in a non-romantic sense). 

And my new role has a positive effect with The Beatrice Fund. Mainly in the realm of more funding and resources. We regularly hold benefit concerts featuring members of our community. We have an active social media presence, and we start a scholarship program for children whose lives were affected by adults with substance abuse disorder. 

This is work that I believe in, and work I’m proud to do. I meet with people at the worst moments of their lives, or some who don’t even realize that’s where they are. I remember back to what I needed in those moments and it’s reaffirming, on the other side, to know that things can get better. Knowing that there is still hope. 

However, some days are harder than others. Everything the monarchy stands for goes directly against who I am as a person and how I choose to live my life. I like messy. I like real. The role of a Princess is to be anything but. So much emphasis is placed upon appearances, that anything substantive never even enters the equation. 

There are very few aspects of a Royal’s life that are allowed to be made public. The best parts, the true parts, are meant to stay hidden in the shadows. On days like that, when it all feels too dishonest, I’m reminded of something my dad used to say to me: 

“It’s just acting, Honeybee. The same as I do every day on set. You hit your mark, say your lines, and go home. It’s all make believe. It’s not who you really are.”

I take his words to heart. They become a mantra for me. I’m determined, in this process, to somehow find a way to hold both truths at once. I am determined to find a way to be myself, while also satisfying my role enough not to give the Queen a reason to back out of our agreement. It’s the only way through. 

Maintaining that equilibrium proves harder than I thought. Just weeks into my new role, I already worry that I’m starting to lose sight of what’s really important. So much emphasis is placed on external things. Optics. Nothing is ever done without extensive conversation about the pros and cons of it all. I find the whole thing quite draining.

At the end of the tough days, I take refuge in one of my many rooms. This room would look just like any of the dozens of others, if not for the fact that it is filled with boxes and boxes of letters from all over England. Some are from those who have been helped by The Beatrice Fund. Some are from those who haven’t. And in all of them there is the throughline of people who have struggled with addiction. Like me. 

These letters are my touchstone. Especially now that Henry is overseas. I read these letters to remind myself of who I am, what I’ve been through, and all the good there is left to do in the world.

I spend hours reading those letters. As I do, I think about my own life and remind myself, again, why I’m here. Why all of this matters. 

My father’s death was devastating, make no mistake, but losing him wasn’t the only reason I became an addict. The older I got, the more aware I was of all of the demands and restrictions that come with the HRH title. I watched with a critical eye as the pressures of our position in life bit and scratched at my family. It sometimes felt like the five of us were sitting in a nest, getting picked apart by giant birds. But all the same, I wasn’t scared. Because I had Dad. And I had Mum. And they kept the vultures away. 

And then Dad died. And Mum did too, in her own way. In the span of a few months I lost the only two people in the world who could protect me. I was utterly alone and at the mercy of all of those razor-sharp beaks.

I turned to substances in the desperate hope that maybe they would somehow protect me from everything. Or at the very least, that I wouldn’t notice the pecking anymore. I knew it was foolish. I knew I was spiraling. But what did it matter? Dad was gone. Mum was gone. Gran was the antithesis of a refuge and Phillip was a carbon copy of the Queen. There was no one left to save me from myself. Or so I thought. 

In the end, someone did rescue me. The one person who never should have had to. 

I will never forget that night: Henry sitting on the curb beside me, sobbing in a way I hadn’t seen in years, if ever. I remember that look on his face and the broken way he begged me for help. I’ve never been so scared as I was that night and I never want to be there again. Even now, that memory alone is enough to pull me back from whatever brink I’m dancing toward.

I read through the letters for a while, and then I call Henry. I pace the dusty old hallways and listen to him talk. Miles and miles I pace through the corridors as he tells me all about his new life and the kids at the shelter and all of the things he’s learning about himself now. And I’m jealous. 

Henry has a real, full life far away from this godforsaken place and I only have the walls for company anymore. I don’t regret my decision. And I don't resent Henry for his freedom. I don’t. He deserves happiness more than anyone, myself included. I don’t resent him, but as I walk around this silent, stuffy palace, I'm jealous of him. 

The fact of the matter is in order for the monarchy to survive, someone has to be sacrificed. Someone has to pay that price. And it’s my turn now. 

However, sitting alongside that jealousy is an overwhelming sense of happiness.  Henry tells a story of something Alex did the other day and I double over with laughter, wiping the tears from my face. I’m laughing, Henry’s laughing, and Alex is squawking indignantly in the background, attempting to tell his side of the story. It is so good to hear Henry like this: happy and whole. It acts as a balm. 

When I hang up the phone, the silence around me is deafening. I retreat again to the music studio. I pick one of the acoustic guitars and get comfortable on a chaise. I play Joni Mitchell and Tracy Chapman. Sometimes I sing. Sometimes I don’t. I offer my gratitude and loneliness up to the palace walls and I am met with only silence. 

__________________________________

My grandmother’s birthday is toward the end of spring and this year and, as she’s turning eighty-five, she’s decided to make it an especially lavish affair. She has ordered a full seven course meal, a string quintet, and an entire team of photographers to document the event. No less than five hundred people are invited. 

As ridiculous as it all is, I find that I am actually looking forward to it. Despite my contentious relationship with my grandmother and the monarchy in general, I am determined to find the moments of joy where I can. And wearing a beautiful gown and spending the evening with the people I love most, that is reason enough to celebrate. 

The biggest bright spot in all of this is that Henry will be there too. Gran has made it very clear that, as Henry has not abdicated yet, all of his expectations and obligations remain, and that very much includes attending birthday celebrations for the reigning monarch. 

Alex, Nora, June, Pez and Angie will be there too. Everyone I love, all in one room. The rest of the “Super Six” as we are known, arrived last night, and they’ve all been hosted in mine and Henry’s section of Kensington. We spent the evening before Gran’s birthday out in London, stopping at a few choice takeaway spots, a number of clubs, and at least one drag show. 

In the morning, I make breakfast while the others nurse hangovers and we spend the day lazing about, watching TV in strange and shifting configurations on the couches in our largest living room. At one point, Henry’s head is on June’s lap, Nora and Alex bicker over a loveseat before calling a truce, and Pez is sitting on the floor between my knees. We order up from the kitchens for lunch and by late afternoon, everyone breaks apart to go get ready for the event. 

I have a small team of stylists whom I’ve worked with for years. Before every major royal event, the four of us sit and chat together in a cloud of various powders and sprays. I haven’t seen them in a few months and there is a lot to catch up on. Carina’s son just finished Year 2 at Eton. James went on the most ridiculous disaster of a date with a man he met through work, and we all cringe and groan on cue. Per my request, they keep their “your highnesses” to a minimum, but etiquette always wins out in the end. Sometimes it bothers me. Other times I barely notice. 

Once I’m declared ready, I step into my dress and Carina helps with the zipper. After they all leave, I take a moment to breathe in the quiet. I ground myself using one of my favorite techniques: Five things I can see. Four I can hear. And so on. This is the last moment of peace I’ll likely have this evening and I want to take advantage of that. 

I check my reflection in the mirror. My dress truly is lovely. Pale blue with a tight bodice and a wide skirt. Gran approved of it weeks ago. She also picked out a tiara and a necklace from her personal collection for me to wear tonight. The tiara is a bit much but I must say, the necklace pairs nicely with the sobriety chip hanging around my neck.

 I have worn a chip for more than eight years now and I’m not taking it off, especially not for something as meaningless as aesthetic. Besides, the knowledge that Gran will despise seeing it on full display like this gives me a little thrill.

As I said, I’m finding the little moments of joy where I can. 

Our group meets back up in the hallways and we pile into cars and head to Buckingham. When we arrive, Pez takes my arm and we follow the others into the palace. Our presence is announced (I catch Alex’s eye and we both fight not to laugh at the absurdity of it) and then we break off in different directions. 

There’s a dinner. Various speeches and tributes to the Queen. At the end of the night, there is dancing. 

Many of the men I swiped left on (so to speak) are here, and nearly all ask me to dance. I oblige. Reluctantly. Pez dances with me a fair few times, and Alex dances with me twice. At the end of his second dance, we bow as usual and I watch him gesture toward Henry (not at all subtly) before the two of them sneak out of the room. I bite down on a laugh and turn to bow to the next partner, and the dancing continues. 

About halfway through this dance, I notice that my partner seems familiar. He’s tall (but then, everyone is from my perspective), with black hair and blue eyes. but there’s something more… there’s some kind of understanding between us. Evident from the almost irreverent way he said “your highness,” before we started dancing, as though it’s a joke we’re both in on. 

I find myself staring at him. “Forgive me,” I say with all the propriety that is expected of a Princess, “have we met before?”

His eyes nearly sparkle, “Mrs. Collins’s class. Year six. Science fair.”

I gasp, “Peter? Oh my goodness!” I would hug him if I wasn’t aware of my grandmother’s constant gaze, even on a night celebrating herself, “it’s so good to see you!”

Peter and I were lab partners in year six, and we won the science fair together. We spent a lot of time together in school and we always got on well. In year nine, his family moved to Switzerland and we lost contact. 

We’ve barely started catching up by the time the dance ends. 

“Champagne?” He asks. 

“Oh, I don’t drink.”

“Club soda?” He says without missing a step. 

“And lime. Please.” 

We find seats off to the side of the dance floor and proceed to spend the better part of the next hour in deep conversation. We wax nostalgic about our time together in school. He tells me about the years he spent in Switzerland; how he graduated secondary school out there and came back to England for Uni. He now teaches Art History at the Royal College of Art here in London and volunteers by teaching ESL at a local community center. 

I always liked Peter. He had a kind heart, a sharp wit, and he was a fantastic study partner. Nearly twenty years later, it seems that not all that much had changed about the boy who helped explain mitosis and meiosis to me in the back of a science classroom. 

In turn, I catch him up about everything that has happened here. Or at least, I give him the reader’s digest version.

“I’m… taking a more active role in the monarchy these days,” I tell him, managing to sound almost cheerful about it. 

He looks at me as though he’s not fooled for a second, “Oh? And what does that entail exactly? Besides attending functions like this one, of course.”

I hum in agreement, “oh yes, it’s not all birthday parties and charity concerts, you know. I have a far more demanding social life now as well. It turns out there are countless eligible bachelors just waiting for the chance to share an awkward meal with a Princess.”

Peter laughs at my sarcastically cheery tone. “I didn’t realize you were interested in dating,” he says.

I bite back my snarky comment. This is an act, I remind myself again. An act. I am a Princess and this is my job. I rein it in and say, “Yes, well… it seems I’ve had a change of heart in that regard.”

We continue to chat idly for a while and then Peter asks, “How is Henry?” 

It’s only then that I remember there are other people here in the room. I look around and catch Nora’s eye where she’s dancing with June. She winks at me and spins her girlfriend around the floor. 

“I heard about what was done to him,” Peter continues, “It’s absolutely appalling.”

There’s something about his tone as he says it. Something cold, with a hint of fury. I am touched by his concern for Henry, but it seemed like there is more to it than that. 

“He’s doing so well,” I tell him, with a mix of relief and joy, “he’s living in New York with his boyfriend now. He just opened three more youth shelters across North America and he and Alex are talking about getting another dog.”

We continue to talk for the rest of the evening, and dance again as well. We end the night with a hug and an exchange of numbers. 

__________________________________

A few days later, after yet another date with the CEO of something or other, I curl up in front of the TV, check my phone and see a text from Peter.

Peter: you still owe me five pounds, btw. 

Mr. Wobbles snuggles next to me as I text him back. 

Bea: is that right?

Peter: yes. In Year 9 I gave you five pounds for a packet of crisps (which was clearly extortion as they’ve never cost that much) and you said you’d pay me back but you never did. 

I laugh so loudly that it offends Mr. Wobbles. I placate him with ear scratches and text back:

Bea : because you moved to bloody Switzerland!

Peter : That wasn’t my fault! 

I don’t remember that CEO’s name but when I finally crawl into bed later that night I feel that maybe, for once, the night isn’t a total loss. 

In the following week I go on three more dates, attend a black tie charity event, and start planning my next concert for The Beatrice Fund. The one throughline in all of it is Peter. He commiserates with me after each bad date and even offers his service as a roadie for my concert.

Bea: Why a roadie?

Peter: It’s the only possible service I can offer, as I have no musical talent to speak of.

Bea: I doubt that’s true.

Peter: I assure you, it is. 

Things continue in this way for the next month. We call and text and talk about everything: our work, his family, the Crown, life in general. I am as frank and honest with him as I want to be, and he matches me at every turn. It’s refreshing, not having to monitor or filter myself with him. 

Very quickly, talking to Peter becomes a bright spot for me. He’s equal parts sincere and ridiculous. His laugh is rich and full and I always feel lighter after talking to him. The castle doesn’t feel so empty and the monarchy doesn’t loom quite as large when his voice is in my ear. 

And then, on an oddly sunny Thursday, Peter stops by to see me. 

I immediately stand up and hug him, like I wanted to at Gran’s celebration, “What are you doing here?” I ask. 

“I was hoping to speak to you about a business matter. May I?” I gesture to an empty chair and we sit across from each other. 

He clears his throat, “I have a proposition I think you’ll be interested in.”

His tone throws me and it takes a moment to readjust. It’s so different from the way we have spoken all month. Not unkind, but formal. This is clearly not a friendly meeting. 

“Alright,” I say, adopting his same clipped tone. 

“I have an idea, well, it’s more of a proposal, if you will,” Peter says. He shifts in his seat and adjusts his suit jacket. It’s then that I realize- he’s nervous. I was not expecting that. He goes on, “I know you are looking for a potential partner and while I don’t know the specifics of your situation, it’s not hard to make an intuitive leap. I am here because you are not the only person thinking about their future.” He shifts again and clears his throat, “what I propose is just that: a proposal. I would like to be your husband. I believe that a marriage, even on paper, would benefit us both greatly.”

I’m completely stunned, “Oh?” Is all I manage to say. 

“I think we could be good friends,” he’s speaking faster now, his nerves getting the better of him, “we come from similar backgrounds, we have some shared history and we work well together. After all, we did win that science fair,” 

I laugh and I can tell it eases some of his anxiety, “yes we did,” I say.

“Well,” he says, “If you are looking for a partner, I would like to be that person.”

I take a beat before responding, “You are right in that a marriage would improve my situation greatly, but what could you possibly get out of this kind of arrangement?”

“Image rehabilitation,” Peter says, a sour hint to his usual cheery tone. He looks away from me as he continues, “I’m sure you know this already, but about five years ago I got my heart broken. Quite publicly. It was devastating.” 

I do remember. The papers were not kind. 

“I loved Nathalie more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I wanted to marry her, but she left me for someone else and I… lost myself for a while. There was a period of time when I was photographed at a different club with a different woman every night. I made headlines in the Mail for months. Though that time in my life has long since passed, even now, that reputation still lingers. A respectable marriage would, I think, do wonders to help with that reputation,” he clears his throat, “or at the very least, it would change the headlines.”

He looks at me again, his tone returned to businesslike and his face pleasantly neutral, “I want to be very clear about my intentions here: I can’t offer you a great love, but I can offer you companionship and someone to lean on in difficult  moments. I know what you’re facing, Beatrice, and I am familiar with the expectations that come with being a member of the Royal Family. I will stand beside you, smile for the cameras, play my part convincingly, and you can continue to live your life as you see fit.”

I consider what he said. He’s right, after all. A marriage has to happen, one way or another, and despite how little we know each other, I do feel a sort of kinship with him. 

“It sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought,” I say. 

He sighs, and I see some of that crisp professionalism dissipate. What’s left is more like my old friend, now grown up, “To be honest, this idea has been on my mind for a while, or at least something similar to it. My parents have certainly been hinting about marriage for quite some time. I was reluctant at first, because I have no desire for a romantic relationship and didn’t really know how to go about finding someone who would be willing to enter into that kind of arrangement. But the more we have talked over the last few weeks, the more I felt that we would work well together.”

“You do realize what you’re offering here, though, right? The life of a Prince consort is not an easy one. And not one many would choose.”

“Oh yes,” he says, “well, as you know, my family is technically nobility. We had many of the same expectations and family pressures growing up. I’m aware of all that this role would entail.”

It sounds like a good plan, and it is certainly the best offer I’ve heard in months. Yet, I still feel hesitant. This is not how any of this was supposed to go. I assumed I would find a man I could barely tolerate and have to fight to convince him to agree to this arrangement. I didn’t expect to be approached with more or less the same sales pitch I had prepared myself. 

That said, I feel I have to push back again. Peter has to know, with certainty, what he is throwing himself into, “to be clear- you are prepared to enter into a marriage with someone who is more or less a stranger to you, who does not love you and might never love you?” 

Peter nods, “this would not be about love. This would simply be two friends making the best of uncomfortable circumstances. We could consider it a marriage of convenience, if you will.”

I continue to watch him for another moment. He appears clear-eyed and honest and he is speaking plainly. He said he’s been thinking about this for a while. And he’s right, we do like each other. If his family hadn’t moved away, perhaps we would have remained friends all these years. 

“Well,” I say with a grin, “You present a very compelling argument. And I do need a husband, after all.”

He’s smiling now, “How about a partner in crime?”

I laugh, “I quite like the sound of that.”

“Good,” he says. His smile is warm, and more than a little relieved. 

We sit in silence for another minute. I want to break it. I want to break all this pointless formality and chat with him like we were doing just the day before. But that’s not what this is. 

Eventually I stand, and so does he, “we can discuss the details before we make any official announcement, but I accept your proposal.” 

I hold my hand out and we shake on it and then he leaves, giving us both time to think through what we’re about to do. 

Over the next two weeks, we continue to talk on the phone for hours each day, but now we are discussing the logistics and boundaries of our impending marriage. Where would we live? What do we tell the press? We discuss royal engagement and wedding protocols and create a rough timeline of what to expect. We solidify the details of our story: we were friends in school, lost contact, reunited at my grandmother’s birthday celebration and began dating shortly after. We discuss possible roadblocks with Parliament or the public and come up with contingency plans for each scenario.

It feels less like planning a marriage, and more like starting a business venture together which, I reason, is exactly what we’re doing. 

We venture beyond the practical and speak openly and honestly with each other about more personal matters, just as we have all month. We discuss my sobriety and past substance use. I tell him it’s fine if he drinks around me. In fact I prefer it. I don’t like people changing their behavior on my behalf. 

The topic eventually moves to sex. I’ve never explicitly come out as Aromantic and Asexual before. I am not ashamed of it, but with so much of my life on public display, whenever I can have something that is mine and mine alone, I try to keep it that way. The people I am closest to know, and that’s enough for me. 

That said, I now have an arrangement with a future partner and he needs to know where I stand on these matters. Even though we touched on it during our initial conversation, he needs to know the full story now, while there is still time to change his mind, should he so choose. 

However, Peter brings it up first, “to the world, I am straight. I have spent the night with men before, but it is not something I’ve ever been publicly open about. Not because I’m ashamed! Not at all. But in my opinion, who I slept with was never anyone else’s business. I know how hypocritical that sounds, considering I was photographed leaving clubs with a variety of women-”

“You did not ask for or want those pictures taken,” I cut in, my heart racing with indignation on his behalf and excitement on my own. Again, it seems, we are coming from the same place, “I am in complete agreement with you. I believe there are aspects of our lives that are meant only for us. Not everything needs to be shared with the entire world.”

“Yes!” He says, sounding as excited as I feel, “yes, that’s exactly it.”

“For the record,” I tell him, “I’m Asexual. And Aromantic.”

“Oh,” his voice is warm on the phone, “I've heard that term but to be honest with you, I’m not sure I know what that means. Can you tell me more about that, specifically what that means for you?”

I feel my body relax into the couch cushions. I hear Mr. Wobbles’ bell as he comes trotting by and I call him over. He hops up the little staircase I placed next to the couch for him and he curls up next to me as I answer Peter’s question. 

It took me a long time to realize I was Asexual. I was never repulsed by the idea of having sex, it was just never something that interested me. When I’ve had sex in the past, I honestly just found the whole thing to be overrated at best. I had no idea what that meant at the time.  

Peter listens attentively and asks several follow up questions. By the end of our conversation, we have a clear-eyed understanding of what the physical aspects of this arranged relationship will be. 

“Are you sure,” I say again when we are about to end for the night, “are you absolutely sure you would be okay with a wife who will never be intimate with you? Are you positive that is what you want?”

“Yes,” he says with full confidence, “I meant what I said, Bea. I think this is a beneficial arrangement for both of us. I’d very much like to be your friend, and I’m not seeking anything more from you than that.”

Later, when I hang up the phone, I have to laugh. Peter Benton-James. My year six lab partner. Of all the ways I saw this whole scenario play out, marrying my old schoolmate was not one of them. 

Peter and I were close when we were in school. We sat together at lunch nearly every day and partnered together in lessons whenever we could. Sometimes we studied together after school (usually on campus, as I was reluctant to bring friends home for obvious reasons, and visits to others’ homes were even more complicated). If I was ever struggling with a lesson, Peter was l able to explain it to me in a way that made sense. Of all the recent surprises in my life, the fact that Peter Benton-James grew up to be an Art History professor is not one of them. 

It makes sense, really, that he would suggest something like this. Peter was always good at problem solving and he seemed to genuinely enjoy working as a team. People naturally gravitated toward him, especially for group projects. He had this uncanny ability for figuring out what someone else needed and finding a way to make it happen. 

As I turn off my phone and climb into bed, I find myself hoping, somehow, that I can find a way to do the same for him. 

Chapter Text

Prince Henry looks grim as he returns to the United States

From Powder to Proper: Princess Beatrice has changed her ways, but is this change a good thing?

Princess Beatrice spent most of the Queen’s birthday cozying up the Camden Cassanova 

Peter Benton-Jones seen publicly for the first time in years. Where has he been hiding?

Two weeks after his proposal, we’re ready to go public. Before any official statement is released, however, Gran requests an official introduction. For the first time in my life, I’m actually nervous to meet with her. If this does not go well, if Gran doesn’t approve of him, then I am back to square one with a little less than six months to find and marry a suitable match. If I fail… 

Beside me, Peter can sense my panic. He takes my hand, “It’s going to be fine.”

It’s the first physical contact we’ve had since Gran’s birthday celebration. His hand is warm and fits well in mine. He gives my hand a slow squeeze. And another. He keeps a steady pace, like a metronome, and it calms my nerves. A little. 

“You don’t know my grandmother,” I tell him darkly.

“No,” he says, “but I know you,” I raise my eyebrows at him, “I’m starting to, anyway,” he concedes. 

We enter the throne room (Gran really went all out with the intimidation tactics) and Peter walks up to the Queen of England on her actual fucking throne, and bows low.

“Your Majesty,” he says, “It’s an honor to meet you.”

She’s gazing at him critically but says nothing. She gives nothing. No hint of emotion, one way or the other. Despite years of studying her mannerisms, I cannot tell what is going on inside her head.

She starts asking Peter questions. At first, they are simple, ice-breaker style questions, but the longer they talk, the more invasive her questions become. Peter, for his part, never falters. His voice is calm and his face remains pleasantly neutral. The Queen interrogates him for nearly three quarters of an hour and Peter just stands there, calm as ever, and answers all her questions honestly and succinctly. 

At the end of her questioning, she turns to me. It’s subtle. I doubt anyone who didn’t grow up with her would notice, but she gives me the tiniest hint of approval. In response, I give a very slight nod. 

“You are dismissed,” she says with a regal wave of her wizened old arm. Peter and I bow and curtsey in turn and walk out of there as quickly as we can.

As soon as the door is closed behind us, I slump against the wall. That’s one more hurdle down. I close my eyes and my head thunks back against the cool surface. I hear Peter say, “are you hungry?” 

“Starving.” 

He takes me to a posh downtown restaurant. Before our entrees arrive, I see three people sneaking photos and at least a dozen people stop near our table and openly stare. I honestly don’t think much about it. People have been watching me eat my entire life. 

I look over at Peter, knowing that all this attention can take some getting used to, especially after so many years out of the public eye. However, Peter seems quite at his ease. In between bites, he asks me routine, polite questions, so unlike our usual conversation. Over the course of our meal, he doesn’t say anything that he wouldn’t say in front of a camera. And I understand immediately. 

He’s acting too. It’s the same role he’s always had. Because like me, he grew up in the public eye. And while yes, the press was not kind after his break up with Nathalie, this whole experience is hardly anything new to him. 

By the end of our meal, I feel more confident about this arrangement than ever. I expected there to be a learning curve here. I expected articles about my random suitor and all the ways he’s not fit to be royalty. But after the meeting with Gran and this perfectly presentable meal, I feel certain that this was the right decision. Peter understands his role here, just as he said he did. He understands what is expected of both of us and he’s holding up his end of our agreement. 

The second the car doors shut behind us, however, all of his crisp professionalism drops. Peter loosens his tie, leans back against his seat and within minutes he has me laughing about something utterly ridiculous. I recognize this move for what it is too: a clear delineation between who he has to be out there, and who he really is. 

When we reach Kensington, I walk him to his car. Once there, I hug him. 

“Thank you for dinner,” I say. 

“It was a pleasure. Truly. Goodnight, Bea,” he says, as he opens his car door. 

“Goodnight, Peter.” 

__________________________________

In an official statement from the palace: 

HRH Princess Beatrice Elizabeth Fox Mountchristen Windsor announces courtship with Peter Christoff Benton-James. 

“Peter and I have known each other for years. We attended the same secondary school and we were dear friends. We recently reunited at my Grandmother’s birthday celebrations and we are together now. We are very happy.”

Peter texts me after the statement is released. 

Peter: I suppose an official statement is not the moment to discuss the time we ditched form to see the poisonous toad that Greg Bowinger swore he found in that old abandoned shed just outside school grounds 

Bea: 🤣

Bea : I can’t believe we all fell for it. 

Peter: We were an impressionable lot. 

Bea: It was actually a tree frog though, wasn’t it? I’ve forgotten. 

Peter : Yes. Sadly, I never will, because he brought the blasted thing with him to PE and it died. The locker rooms smelled terrible for a week. 

Bea: oh no! RIP Mortimer. 

Peter: you named him? 

Bea: Posthumously.

Peter: 🤣

Bea: I am sorry you had to suffer through the aftermath of that incident. 

Peter: Thank you. Your support means the world to me.

Bea: What is a future wife for? 

Peter: Truly the question for the ages.

At least once a week, we are either seen together at some event or we go on out for a classic dinner-and-a-show date. Peter holds my hand and gazes at me adoringly and I lean in close when I speak to him. It’s all very believable. There are almost daily articles about our burgeoning, whirlwind romance. 

As our public courtship progresses, I start to notice something. Acting aside, I am truly enjoying myself. Dating, which always felt forced and awkward and weird has now become… fun. Like me, Peter seems to be of the opinion that, if we’re going to be doing this, we might as well have a good time. 

We make a game out of every date. We try a different restaurant every week and only order menu items that have the letter “U.” We walk through Hyde park and try to step in alternate patterns to mimic the melodies of our favorite songs (this one always ends with us dissolving into laughter. Peter has no sense of rhythm). We take bets about what the headlines will be the next day and send each other the most outlandish ones. The ridiculousness of these games not only adds a level of enjoyment to our evenings, but it helps us both keep perspective of how ridiculous this entire situation is. Because on every date, with every interaction, there is the constant looming presence of the Crown and the reminder that there will always be some part of me on display for the entire world. Though I fight to keep my life my own whenever and wherever I can, in some ways that will never be possible. 

One evening, as we leave a restaurant after another well-publicized date, Peter gently swings our clasped hand and tells me a story from his Uni days and I'm forced to confront the fact that I really do like him. Not in the way others like a romantic partner perhaps, but I do like him. Peter is considerate, generous, and fun to be around. I laugh more in an evening with him than I do in a week without him. In all the stress and pressure at the very idea of a relationship like this, I never considered the possibility that I might also enjoy myself. For all the mess that this situation has become I feel lucky, really, to be going through it with Peter.

__________________________________

About a month into our official courtship, Alex joins Henry on his next trip to London for some function or other and on that trip, they get to officially meet Peter. 

Henry quickly draws Peter into a long conversation about 17th century European artists. Alex asks a mildly inappropriate question that makes Peter laugh and they banter until Henry and I eventually have to bring a stop to it. 

After Peter leaves for the night, I turn to the other two. 

“Okay, let’s have it,” I tell them. 

“What?” Alex asks, as innocently as he can manage. 

“Peter,” I say, “what are your honest opinions?”

Alex thinks for a moment, before he smiles and shrugs, “you could do worse.”

I turn to Henry, who smiles too, “you seem happy,” is all he says. 

I hug them both and head to my room. As I wash my face I pause and look in the mirror. Henry was right, of course. I do look happier. Admittedly, the bar was quite low, but still. It’s good to see.

I text Peter. 

Bea : you can stop worrying 

Peter : pray tell, whatever could you possibly mean. 

Bea : Henry and Alex both love you, as I’m sure you already know. 

Peter: I’m glad to hear that. I know how important they are to you. 

Peter : I’ll admit, I was far more anxious about this meeting than I was to meet your Gran

Bea: DO NOT tell Alex that. We will never hear the end of it.

Peter: Duly noted 🤣

Peter: Alex is quite a dish, isn’t he? 

Bea: He’s taken, Peter. 

__________________________________

A quail hunting trip is planned for the next day, as a way to welcome Peter into the family. Peter, his father, and his uncles are joining Phillip, some of his mates from Uni, and (surprisingly) Mum. Apparently she learned to quail hunt in recent years in an effort to get closer to her eldest son.

They’re all convened by the front door when I come downstairs with Henry and Alex.

Phillip almost immediately steps forward and extends his hand, “Alex,” he says, “ good to see you, mate.”

“Same to you,” Alex says, a note of surprise in his voice, as if he can't quite believe this reaction. 

“I apologize, I didn’t realize you would be here today, or I would have extended the invite earlier; we are going to spend the morning quail hunting. Care to join us?” 

Alex barks out a laugh as he says, “FUCK no.” He clears his throat, “I mean, I’m good, but thanks man. I appreciate the invite.”

Phillip looks amused, “alright,” he says.

“I can join y’all for lunch though,” Alex offers. 

“Yes. Right. Well, we shall see you then,” Phillip says. 

They all leave for their hunting trip and Henry, Alex and I spend the morning out in London. Once we’re away from the castle, Henry’s shoulders drop and there’s more of an overall ease about him. He’s not exactly comfortable, but he’s closer than he ever gets in the palace. As we walk around the city, some people openly stare (though admittedly, most go about their business) and Henry smiles when Alex takes his hand. 

__________________________________

Peter begins to join me in many of my new royal duties and international trips, when he doesn’t have class. These trips are a great way to get to know my future husband. One of the first things I learn is that Peter is that he is just as oddly intuitive now as he was when we were children. He seems to know when to crack a joke, and when I need a few minutes to myself, and he always makes a point of commenting on some of the truly strange aspects of the job. That helps me keep my head on straight. Best of all, it’s nearly impossible to feel lonely when he is around. 

I also learn that he’s fluent in Italian and Polish. He doesn’t like pickles and he can fall asleep literally anywhere. He takes his tea black, no cream or sugar, and he loves football and supports Liverpool. The only time I ever see him truly agitated is when his team makes an error on the field. 

Perhaps the biggest surprise of all comes during the next benefit concert for The Beatrice Fund. After sound check, I exit the stage to find Peter following a crew member around back, carrying an amp in each hand. 

“What are you doing here?” I stutter at him. 

“Offering my assistance. As a roadie,” he adds, when all I can do is stare at him. 

“You were serious about that?”

“Yes,” he says, obviously delighted by my reaction. 

I somehow get past my shock enough to say, “well then, don’t let me keep you.”

He winks at me and continues on after the crew member who is now far ahead of him. 

I watch him walk away, and then I peek out from behind the wings to get a good look at the crowd bunched around the stage. Over the steady hum of conversation I can hear shrieks of laughter and at least two crying toddlers. It’s loud and messy and everything I love.  

As always, this is a dry event. Bags are checked at the door and we have a number of mixologists providing a long list of alcohol-free drink options set up at tables in the corner. One of the added benefits of this is that it is an all ages show. The doors are open to everyone. 

From my spot in the wings, I watch the opening act: an older woman I’ve gotten to know through The Beatrice Fund. She has a story, like the rest of us, and like so many of us, she found music to be a healing outlet for her. Stylistically, she’s more Ed Sheeran than Eddie Van Halen (no house band needed), just her and her guitar, but I like to showcase variety at these events. Barely a minute into her first song, the audience sits up a little straighter in their seats. By the end of her first song, they’re hanging onto her every word. 

She’s in her element now; playing original songs borne from lived experiences. There is truth in every word she sings, and the audience knows it. As I watch, I see that familiar symbiosis between the performer and the audience. One of the best things about live music is that it’s not only about who is playing on stage. The audience is as much of an active participant as the performer, and when both come together in the right way, when there’s a give and take between the two elements, the result is magical. 

The crowd roars as she exits the stage some twenty minutes later. Then the house lights drop again and the stage lights come back up. I step out onto stage and feel warmed by the sound of their cheers and the heat from the lights. I slide the guitar strap around my neck and feel the reassuring weight of the instrument in front of me. I check in with my band and we start to play.  

By the first chorus of the first song, I let go of my stiff royal posture and bend my body around the instrument in my arms. My hands shift around chords that I know in my very bones. I leave my metaphorical crown offstage and focus only on the instrument in my hands, and the words I sing. 

I want to live here, in this moment, where nothing else exists. On stage, I don’t have to think about anything; not about the monarchy, the press, my impending marriage, or the immense pressure I’ve now found myself under. I just play. In between songs I banter with the audience, and even take a request or two. By the end of the night, I feel impossibly light, and almost free. I feel like myself again.

When I get off stage, I find Peter standing in the wings; a wide, blissful smile on his face. He pulls me into a hug, “you were brilliant up there, Bea! Absolutely brilliant.”

If it were someone else, I’d feel certain they were shining me on, but Peter’s not the type. I hug him back, thank him, and we both get to work packing up. 

__________________________________

As the weeks and months progress, our lives become more and more entwined, to the point where we see each other almost daily. Peter joins Mum, Phillip and myself at the unveiling of a new hospital in London and a charity event in the same week. The week after, he joins us on a trip to Balmoral. 

At the same time, I get to know more about the people in Peter’s life. He invites me to a football match with his best mates. He’s been friends with the same four men since Uni and it’s easy to see how close they are. They regularly take the piss out of Peter, but he gives as good as he gets. I pick up their vibe immediately and it’s not long before I’m bantering with the rest. Much to their surprise. 

I get to meet Peter’s family as well. His parents are polite and formal, if not a bit cold. They remind me a great deal of my Grandmother. Many of their comments about their son are seemingly innocuous, but they have that touch of disapproval to them. It’s all very subtle, but it says so much. By the end of our meeting, I have a newfound appreciation for Peter’s unwavering kindness. 

The one person Peter is most excited for me to meet is his beloved grandfather, who is now in his early nineties and is somehow still in good health, all things considered. We visit him in his home together. There are no cameras here. No public announcement to make. It is just the three of us. The PPOs and his grandfather’s home health aid wait outside. 

I sit next to his bed and take his extended hand. He beckons me closer with the other, and I oblige. He scans my face, and then he pats my hand and I sit back in my seat. 

He turns to Peter and speaks to him in Polish. Peter blushes and stutters out a response and my heart melts a little, watching the two of them. I don’t have to understand the language to understand what is being said. 

I hug his grandfather before we leave and his arms are surprisingly strong. 

We return to Peter’s flat for lunch and he tells me stories about his childhood, and in particular about his grandfather. Much like the man himself, Peter’s stories vary. Some are somber, some gentle. Still others have me laughing so hard it’s impossible for me to keep eating. 

“Thank you for coming with me today,” he says as I clear our plates and put them in the sink. 

“I’m glad to have met him.”

At this, he laughs, “trust me. The feeling is mutual.”

We move to the couch, “He seems very proud of you,” I say as we sit side by side, our bodies turned toward each other.

Peter’s smile falters, “he was not always.” 

“Oh?”

“My grandfather and I fought a lot after Nathalie left me,” he says, “He was very vocal about his disapproval of my behavior at the time. He didn’t care who I was with, or what we did together, but he didn’t approve of the way I treated them.”

“What do you mean?” 

Peter chews on his lip for a minute and I lay my hand over his where it rests on the back of the couch. He smiles softly at the gesture and says, “I have not always been a good person. There were times when I knew that the women I was seeing were attracted to me and invested in a future with me, and while I knew that I didn’t feel the same way, I continued to see them anyway. I made promises I had no intention of keeping. I let my grief over Nathalie cloud my judgment and change who I was. My parents spoke to me about it but, well, they were more concerned about optics than anything else. It was my grandfather who finally snapped me out of it.”

“How so?”

“For months, he tried to talk to me and I continued to brush him off until one day he ended up yelling at me. I’ve never heard him raise his voice before, but that day he told me that I was not acting like the man he knew I was. He was ashamed of the person I was choosing to be. Others had said as much. Many times in fact. But hearing my soft-spoken grandfather say it, that was the wake up call I needed.”

“I know how that feels,” I tell him quietly in the silence that follows. 

“Really?”

“Yes.”

I tell Peter about the night Henry came out to me. About how scared I was, and the shame I felt for what I had let myself and my life become. As he listens, I watch a subtle change in his expression. It’s not excitement but… understanding. I can see the moment he realizes he’s not alone in this shame. After I finish speaking, we sit quietly together. In the stillness, I flip his hand over and lace our fingers.

“Thank you,” I say, “for telling me all that.” 

“You aren’t upset by what I’ve said?” he asks. 

“No,” I answer honestly, “I’m glad you told me about it.”

“Why? 

I shrug, “I want to know more about you.”

“Even the unflattering parts?”

“Especially those parts,” I say, somewhat emphatically, “The messy bits make you who you are, far more than any accolades.” 

Peter smiles softly, “you really believe that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

Peter exhales and it’s like a weight was lifted off his shoulders. He tells me more about growing up an only child, surrounded by aunts and uncles and a smattering of much older cousins, but never really feeling at home with any of them. We reminisce again about our time at school together and some of the more bizarre things that happened there. And, it should be noted, we do also gossip about a few of our old schoolmates: where they are now, what they are doing. 

I tell him about Mum: about her distance after Dad’s death and how lonely it was without her. I tell him about her fierce desire to make up for it in recent years, and the wall I can’t seem to let go of. He listens, and he seems to understand. 

I tell him more about Dad: everything he taught me about acting, and the way he taught me to drive, and how to use sign language. There were so many times I wished I could talk to him, especially now. But talking to Peter about him helps ease the pain of losing him, if only a little.

Peter tells me about his icy relationship with his parents. How their sense of duty to their country impacted the relationship they had with their son. It’s one of the reasons he fell so hard for Nathalie. She was warm and open and caring and showed him all the ways he could be loved. Her betrayal hurt worse than anything he’d ever experienced. It’s a hurt he still carries with him, somehow. Peter told me how even now, that was the part that scared him the most: just how hard he fell for her. And how much it cost him in the end. Love like that scared him. 

At the end of the night, I feel reluctant to leave. I have no desire to return to that ancient palace, so cold and quiet. Everything about Peter’s flat is lived in and well loved. There’s a warmth about the place, just like the man himself. It feels like a real home. Somewhere you could build a life with someone. 

However, it wouldn’t do for a princess to be caught leaving the home of a paramour in the wee hours of the morning, so inevitably I gather my things and pull Peter into a hug. We don’t let go for quite some time. 

Eventually, I let my hands drop and open his front door. After it closes behind me, I take just a moment to lean against the frame before standing and following the PPO out to the waiting car. 

__________________________________

A few days later, Angie comes over again. We sit down to watch TV and I bring out my crochet hook. I’m currently working on a sweater for William, who is obsessed with all things superhero. It took a few tries, but the spider pattern on the back is really coming together. As I work, Angie asks me about Peter and I tell her everything. I talk more than I have in months, if not ever, as old episodes of Doctor Who play in the background. At one point, Angie gets this look on her face that stops me mid-stitch, “What?” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this before,” she says. 

“What do you mean?” 

Angie’s smile feels wiser than it has any right to be, “You like him.”

“I like a lot of people,” I say dismissively, resuming my yarn work. 

“Not like this,” she says. 

The smile on my face feels warm, “I suppose it does feel good to finally have someone in my corner for all of this madness. And I never dreamed that I’d reunite with an old friend in the midst of everything else. Did I tell you that he still dog-ears his pages on the bottom and not the top, just like he did when we were young?”

“Yes. You have. Five times now.”

“Oh,” this pulls me up short, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“I know,” she says shrewdly, turning her attention back to the screen in front of us. I watch her face for a moment. 

“What?”

She doesn’t look away from the TV as she says, “Twenty pounds says you end up falling for him.”

“I’ll take that bet. Have you forgotten, Angie? I’m Aromantic.”

“Sexuality is a spectrum, darling. We both know those two things are not mutually exclusive.”

Angie’s words rattle around in my brain over the course of the next week. I think about them when Peter stops by with breakfast on his way to work (which is quite a feat, given the levels of security he has to pass through just to hand me the bag). I think about them when he texts me at the end of another long day. I think about them when I walk into the music room and find Mr. Wobbles curled up on a chaise beside him.

I won’t deny that I like Peter. I do. He’s a good man; sweet and gentle, and he makes me laugh. While I recognize those are also criteria for a romantic partner, that’s not what this is. I don’t feel giddy when I see him. There are no butterflies. I don’t have any desire to see him naked. But I like him. I like being around him. And I want to know everything I can about him.

__________________________________

After we officially announce our engagement, Gran arranges an engagement party for us. It's as opulent and archaic as anything else in the monarchy. I don’t question anything this time. I don’t bother. I have no real investment in the event anyway. Instead, I stand and smile and parade around in the gown and large tiara Gran picked out. She gets her pretty Princess for the evening and I get one less thing to worry about. 

Partway through the night, I look around for my future husband and find him talking to one of the many odious old men affiliated with our government. From my vantage point on the other side of the room, I can see the clear signs of someone trapped in a conversation who very much doesn’t want to be there. 

“Do excuse me,” I say to the person I’m speaking with and casually walk over to Peter. I lay a hand on his back to announce my presence, and then slip my arm around his. 

“I beg your pardon,” I say to our guest, before turning to Peter, “Darling, I forgot my shawl back in my room. Would you mind terribly running and fetching it for me?”

He gives me a private, grateful smile before quickly excusing himself and I, ever the gracious host, pick up the conversation. 

*

That night, after the party, Peter finds me in my wing of the palace. His tie is off, his collar is loose, and most importantly; he’s holding a cupcake from that bakery I like around the corner. 

“Hello,” I say, looking from him to the cupcake and back, “What’s all this?” 

Peter holds the desert out to me, “I never got the chance to properly thank you for the rescue earlier.”

“Of course,” I say, taking the box, “What are future wives for?”

We head down to the kitchen to split the cupcake and we talk. About our lives, about us, about the latest episode of Broadchurch. It amazes me still, how easy this is. We discuss the engagement at length and postulate about the many metaphorical hoops we still have to jump through in the coming months. At the end of the night, we sit together on the couch and watch a movie. We’re sitting close, far closer than we ever have before. My legs are against his and our arms are pinned together until Peter lifts one and lays it over the back of the couch. I relax against him and I can feel his body, warm and solid, against mine.

At one point, I turn my head and look over at him. And he looks back. And in that moment, I want to kiss him. I’ve never really wanted to kiss anyone before, but right now I do. I lean in, and so does he. 

It’s a good kiss. Sweet and gentle, and I enjoy it immensely. When we break apart, I rest my head on his shoulder. I can feel his heartbeat beneath my ear, steady and sure. 

When the movie is done we start another and end up falling asleep there on the couch, which I regret the next morning, when I wake with a stiff neck and an aching hip. But Peter rubs my neck and that helps. He manages to sneak out of the palace, and one of our cars drives him through the gates, past the clueless paparazzi that camp out for a glimpse of a hint of a scandal just like this. 

__________________________________

I start spending more time at Peter’s house, which is a reprieve I didn’t realize I needed, but which I’m grateful for. I feel like I can truly breathe when I’m not surrounded by the byproduct of hundreds of years of oppression.

Shortly after our courtship was announced, Peter gave me a key to his house and invited me to use it whenever I’d like. I hesitated at first. 

“Are you sure we’re ready for that step?” I ask, and he offers me a teasing smile. 

“I’m sure the PPOs could pick my lock in seconds, but this is the way normal couples do it.”

I actually side-eye him, “Are we a normal couple?”

Peter laughs, “in the most traditional and archaic sense of the word, an arrangement like ours is as real as it gets.”

I still felt reluctant to use the key but when I finally did, he looked so delighted that I resolved to use it at least once a week. 

It’s Friday. The end of a week that went on for far too long. Gran hired a private etiquette tutor for me in an effort to finally stomp out the last shred of my personality. After a week of full-day  sessions, it is not going well for any of us. Beyond that, there were a number of appearances and almost daily meetings with Gran about an upcoming trip to Asia. 

When I get to Peter’s house, I let myself in and find him sitting on his couch, reading a book, with his feet propped up on the ottoman in front of him. His eyes are narrowed behind his eyeglasses as they scan across the page, as though he’s suspicious of the author. It’s adorable. He smiles when he sees me and sets the book aside. He lifts his arms and I sink gratefully into them.

 As I said, it’s been a very long week. 

Peter holds me and I feel myself relax one bit at a time. Like slowly walking down the steps into a pool. We sit together, curled on the couch, and chat lightly about the week we both had. We talk about his classes, and my upcoming trip (Peter has to stay behind for work. It’s the main reason I’m not looking particularly forward to it). I tell him how worn down I feel and he sympathizes, kissing the top of my head and running a hand up and down my arm.  

At one point, Peter hums and says, “I have an idea.” He taps my arm and I shift away from him. He leaves the room and comes back a few minutes later, holding two heavy helmets. 

“I was actually thinking of going for a ride tonight. I thought the fresh air might clear my head a bit. Care to join me?”

I stare at him, “You have a motorbike?”

“Yes…” he sees the look on my face, “I’m sorry, is that not appropriate?”

“Not remotely.”

“Oh. I didn’t mean to offend-.”

“No, not at all! That’s the problem. I want to go.”

Peter smiles, “Sorry, what’s wrong, exactly?” 

I groan, “A rebel princess joyriding around on a motorcycle with a cute boy? It’s all unbearably cliche.”

“You think I’m cute?” He says with a grin. I blush. 

“You are… objectively attractive to the vast majority of the population.”

“Wow. That was either a compliment or a very cleverly disguised insult.”

I shrug, “Possibly both.”

“What do you say?” He asks, holding out the helmet. I take it and follow him out, zipping up my leather jacket as I go. 

He unlocks the bike and we sneak it out of his house and past the one PPO who I know will look the other way for me. I wink at him as we pass and Peter stops the bike once it’s on the road. He hops on, starts it, and I slide on behind him, holding tight. 

It’s immediately evident that Peter knows what he’s doing. He smoothly navigates around the potholes and random objects in our path, changing the speed as necessary, and counterbalancing with every turn. I feel a leap of joy in my heart as the bike speeds up. The world is a blur around us, the hum of the motor is soothing, and Peter’s body feels strong and warm in my arms. 

It’s barely nine and the streets of London are packed. But no one looks twice as we idle at a red light. Our helmets make it impossible for anyone to recognize us. We could be anyone out here. Just a regular, normal couple out for an evening ride. As we slip down one road and then another, I start to feel hopeful, like maybe this new position in life hasn’t changed all of me. Like maybe, through all of this, I am still Bea. Not the princess or the addict or whatever other title people ascribe to me. 

Just Bea.

We return an hour or so later. Peter parks the bike and before I follow the PPOs to our waiting car, he kisses my cheek, “good night, Bea,” he says with a wink. 

__________________________________

For someone who seemed hell-bent against this idea at the start, Gran has quite a few opinions about our engagement photos. She picked the location, date, and time of the photoshoot. She chose my outfit, down to the bracelet on my arm, and I believe she had some sway on Peter’s attire as well. The one thing she didn’t even try to fight me on this time was my sobriety chip and I wear that victory like the badge of honor it is, setting the chain on top of the dress she picked out, to ensure that it is on full display in every photo her personal photographer takes of us. 

It’s hard not to feel like a puppet most days, but that is especially true now. The photographer shouts various commands at me like: “Arm up a little higher, Your Highness. Excellent. Take a half step back with your left foot, if you please, Your Grace. Thank you.”

I would lose my mind completely if Peter wasn’t here. Though he follows every direction, in between photos he pulls faces and rattles off bizarre facts he’s picked up from god knows where, until I feel my shoulders drop and I unclench my jaw.  

“I feel like a rag doll,” I say between shots. 

Peter hums and says quietly, out of earshot of the photographer, “I’m surprised they haven’t made a limited edition teddy bear or something in your likeness. That feels on brand for the monarchy. Especially these days.”

“Are you about to launch into a diatribe about the evils of consumerism?”

“Why?” he asks, his voice light and teasing, “I wouldn’t say anything you didn’t know already.”

I laugh as we change positions, “you haven’t even seen the worst of it yet. Soon our photos will be featured together on gift shop items. We will forever be enshrined on teaspoons and coffee mugs.” 

“And, if I remember right from Phillip’s wedding, thongs as well.”

We spin around and reposition ourselves for the 27th time.  

“I don’t know how the Queen agreed to that,” I say. 

“Perhaps she didn’t know.”

“Oh, she knew. She knows everything. Nothing is done without her express permission, especially when it comes to a Royal Wedding,” I trill the “R” for effect. 

We change positions again and I gaze up at him in what I hope is a lovesick way, as the camera clicks incessantly. Peter’s arms are around my waist now and mine are lying flat on his chest. 

 “Can the term “bridezilla” apply to the grandmother of the bride as well?” He asks when we change positions again. 

“It feels applicable,” I say over my shoulder, “if my Gran is this invested in the details of a photoshoot, I shudder to think what our wedding will be like.”

While the photographer moves around to get a different angle, Peter snickers. 

“What?” 

He bends down and leans in close to my ear, “perhaps the minister will pronounce us “husband, wife and monarch,” he says. I bite my lip and turn away from the camera, but it’s useless. I let out a very undignified snort of laughter. 

“Maybe she’ll even join us for the wedding night,” he whispers. My entire body shudders in horror. 

“Why would you say something like that?” I hiss back at him. He gives me a moment to recover before we’re repositioned again. “Well, if I had any sex drive before, it’s gone now!” I mutter, and he throws his head back and laughs. 

__________________________________

The legal agreement Gran’s lawyers wrote, which I signed, specifically said I was to be married within one year. Technically, the wedding will be held in four months, which is outside Gran’s official time limit, but Peter and I schedule a time to legally file papers before then, thereby making it official. Nothing was said in our agreement about when the actual wedding needed to be held, so legally, there’s nothing she can do about it. It’s another loophole, but one that feels more like a lifeline at this point. And for once, strangely, Gran doesn’t argue. 

After our engagement is announced, we are scheduled to sit down for an extended on-camera interview. It’s a routine part of the courtship process. Peter and I spend weeks discussing the interview with the press team. It was made clear to everyone what would and would not be discussed. Honestly, of all the many things I have to worry about, this is not one of them. The same, however, could not be said of my fiancée. 

Peter paces in front of me while we wait in the green room. 

“Are you all right?” I ask, mostly just to get him talking. 

“No,” he says honestly, “Honestly, I was fine this morning, but as soon as we got here I realized I’m about to do my first on-screen interview since Nathalie left me and they will most certainly ask about her. I have no idea what I’m going to say when they do.”

I step in front of him and he almost runs into me. I take his hands in mine, “listen to me,” I say gently. He nods, but the panic is still very evident on his face, “they know not to bring it up. We told them we weren’t going to talk about her.”

“But if they do-“

“Then I’ll deflect,” I say with an easy shrug, “I’ll start going on about the monarchy and England and God Save The Queen and all that. Okay?”

He exhales and nods, “okay,” he says. But he doesn’t look convinced. 

“Hey,” I tell him, holding his gaze, “we’re together on this. Partners in crime, right?”

That gets a smile from him, “yeah,”

“Good. Then I got your back, partner.”

Now he outright laughs, “that is the most American thing I have ever heard you say.”

I shrug, “I’ve said far worse.”

A few minutes later, we sit down together on the prop couch and face the interviewer. Annabelle Stevens is young, maybe mid-twenties, with a pencil skirt and a tight bun. We chat genially for a few minutes before getting down to it. The questions are rudimentary at first: how did we meet, where was our first date, etc. Peter and I ironed out all the details beforehand and added some banter, for the flair of it all. 

“We went a less traditional route, I suppose,” I tell her with a little laugh, my hand intertwined with his, “I asked him out first.”

On cue, Peter scoffs in mock indignation, “you most certainly did not.” 

I playfully swat his arm with my free hand, “Yes I did. I asked if you were free on Saturday.”

“I thought you were genuinely asking!” 

“I was. I was genuinely asking you out.”

He heaves a sigh and looks at me all doe-eyes, “alright, I concede. You did in fact ask me first.”

The interviewer laughs and we join in, and that eases some of that awkward tension that is present at the beginning of any interview. I start to feel hopeful that this will all go well.  And then. 

“Now, Peter, you’ve had quite a salacious history in recent years. Would it be fair to say that the Camden-”

“Is that an Alhambra pendant from Van Cleef?” I immediately cut in.

Annabelle looks momentarily flustered, but she touches the chain around her neck, “it is, in fact. How did you know?”

“Oh I just love Alhambra,” I say, “their design is so elegant, yet modern. It’s so hard to blend the two, but they make it look effortless.” I proceed to gush about the necklace and artist for a few more minutes, and then Annabelle moves on to another line of questioning. 

After the interview, Peter stops me before we get to the car and pulls me into a hug, “thank you, Bea. Truly.”

“I told you,” my voice is muffled by his chest, “we’re a team.” 

__________________________________

A month before the wedding, we meet with our lawyers to draw up the prenup. 

Peter and I had already discussed everything in the weeks after his initial proposal. It was all fairly straightforward. All money and property would be kept separate, nothing shared. In the event of divorce, we had plans in place for all of our assets. 

The only aspect we really disagreed on was the spousal compensation. Every royal spouse receives a monthly stipend (for untold pain and suffering). Peter originally rejected the very notion of this, insisting he was comfortable enough as is, but we talked through it and worked out a compromise. 

We lay everything out for our lawyers and the whole process goes quite smoothly, but I feel a twinge of discomfort when the subject of children is brought up. In another of our many initial conversations, Peter and I agreed not to have children, knowing full well that that is going to be a substantial hurdle to contend with in the future. But that’s a conversation for later. 

About halfway through the prenup are pages and pages of litigation surrounding future heirs to the throne and any and all rights that they have. There are further pages detailing exactly how Peter’s role would change depending on the specific ages of the children. 

As the solicitor goes on and on, Peter takes my hand under the table. He squeezes it reassuringly, and that helps. I’m reminded that he’s on my side. We’re in this together. This is just another hurdle to clear. Another day at work. 

The appointment is over in only a few hours. The legal teams will draft all the paperwork and we’ll meet later to sign it. As we all get up from the table, my solicitor says, “If I may say, Your Highness, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prenuptial agreement get resolved this quickly, or this dispassionately.”

There are general noises of agreement from the others in the room. 

“Really?” I ask, honestly surprised. 

“To be quite frank,” Peter’s solicitor chimes in, “I usually prepare for more bloodshed.”

“You’re speaking figuratively, I hope,“ I say.

“Not necessarily,” he replies darkly. 

__________________________________

When Henry opens the door to the brownstone, I pass him the large box of Jaffa cakes that I brought with me (as a bribe) and bend down to scoop up David. I cradle the pup in my arms like a small toddler and he licks my face. I settle myself on their overstuffed couch, with David curled up on my lap. Henry deposits the box in the kitchen and joins us, flopping down on the opposite side. 

Without missing a beat, he launches into a story of something that happened while he was out in the city the other day, which segues into a story of my own. We chat back and forth for hours and then I bring up the real reason for my visit. 

“I’m sure you’re aware of the wedding coming up,” I tell him. In response, Henry points to the refrigerator. From this distance I can just make out a very familiar invitation. 

“I’m aware,” he says, “how are you feeling?”

“Like any other bride, I supposed. Stressed about the event, overwhelmed by the details. Though of course that has to do more with Gran than anything else. She has single handedly planned about 87% of the ceremony.” 

“That is horrifying.” 

I shrug, “I’m not fussed, to be honest. This wedding is not about me, or about Peter. I was never that invested in it.”  

Henry hums, “How is Peter doing with all of this?” 

“He’s doing well! Surprisingly, he hasn’t yet been scared off by any of the sheer ridiculousness that has been this past year. I felt certain something would by now.” 

Henry’s smiling at me in a way I don’t like, “No, I don’t think he’s going anywhere any time soon.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Henry shrugs, “He seems quite happy with the arrangement, if you ask me.”

I bypass the clear subtext in that line. I have more important things to discuss than whatever seems to have been sparked by this mundane conversation, “Speaking of the wedding,” I tell him, “I wanted to ask you something. A favor, actually.”

“What is it?” 

“Will you walk me down the aisle?”

Henry smiles, but then he hesitates. I think I know what is holding him back, “you’re allowed,” I assure him, “Gran isn’t going to ban you from London until after the wedding. The optics are too important. The whole family has to unite for the event. My little brother walking me down the aisle is too good to pass up. Think of the headlines.”

“Actually,” Henry says slowly, “I have an idea. What about Phillip?”

“What about him?”

“Well, I know we have a complicated history with Phillip, myself more so than anyone, but I rather think he’s proven he’s changed. Why not ask him to walk you down the aisle? Extend him the olive branch, as it were?” 

I stare at him. In awe. How can someone so young, who has been hurt so deeply, still be so good?

“Okay,” I tell him, “I'll think about it.” And I do. 

I return to London the next day and within hours I’m at the front door of Anmer Hall. Martha welcomes me in and I follow her to the sitting room, William hot on our heels. He brings out his toy dinosaurs (his most prized possessions) and we play with them until Phillip arrives. 

“Bea,” he says, and there is surprise in his voice. He checks his watch, “Did I forget a meeting?”

“No,” I say pleasantly, “this is not a scheduled visit.” 

“Oh,” he says, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I see him recalibrate and then say, “well, is there something I can do for you?” 

At that, Martha picks up William and the two leave us to chat in private, “I’m here about the wedding,” I say. 

“Is everything all right? Is Gran interfering again?”

“No, nothing like that,” he looks at me expectantly, so I continue, “There is something I wanted to ask you. As you know, it is tradition for the father to walk the bride down the aisle.”

‘Yes?” He looks hesitant, and possibly even a little scared. 

I cut right to it: “Phillip, would you walk me down the aisle?”

He stares at me, mouth open wide, for a full five seconds. To my utter amazement, I can see tears gathering in his eyes, “Excuse me,” he says quietly, and leaves the room. 

When he returns a few minutes later, he’s smiling in a way I haven’t seen him do in years. He clears his throat, stands up a little straighter (if possible) and says, “it would be an honor, Bea.”

I walk over and hug him. He places his hands on my shoulders and pats one of them. I let go quickly. He invites me to stay for dinner, so I do. And when Martha leaves to put William down for the evening, I follow Phillip to his study. He pours me soda with lime, and a brandy for himself.  

We talk about Dad and he asked me questions about my life. About my views on things. I can tell he is uncomfortable. He is still adjusting to the idea of a personal conversation with his little sister. This is not something that has ever come naturally to him. It is something he is working on. I can feel his discomfort and I love him for it.

He asks about Peter, how things are going with us. He asks if I feel this is a suitable match. I don’t take offense to the question because I understand what he’s trying to say: are you happy?

“I am,” I tell him.

__________________________________

It’s hard not to feel like Cinderella when you climb out of the 21st century equivalent of a horse-drawn carriage and walk into Westminster Abbey surrounded by a crowd of thousands. Some hold signs, some are crying. I smile and wave at everyone and my heart actually feels light as I watch them all. The joy around me is infectious. For all the many evils that plague an institution such as a monarchy, who doesn’t love a good wedding?

I meet Phillip in the side hallway and as we stand together waiting for the ceremony to start, he looks at me with overly bright eyes. 

“You look beautiful, Bea,” he says. His face is warm and full of pride and for a moment, I see Dad in his features. I have to remind myself to breathe. 

“Thank you, Phillip,” I manage, and pull him into a hug. Just as our arms start to relax around one another, the music changes and we’re told to get ready. I loop my hand around his arm and, right on cue, we step forward together. 

The walk takes forever, but there at the end of it is Peter: A man I still know so little about and yet am about to bind myself to forever. It should be scary. And it is, in a way. But then he shoots me a cheeky grin and a wink and I find solid footing again. Because the truth is, I do know what I’m doing. I do know who I’m marrying. Peter has already shown me many times, we’re in this together. For all the bullshit this farce has brought with it, through it all, remarkably, I have found a true friend in him. 

When we get to the end of the aisle, Peter reaches for my hand and squeezes it. Together, we turn toward the minister and the ceremony starts. 

*

At our wedding reception, all sense of formality is dropped. Gran has retired to her rooms, and all official Palace business is over. I change into a different dress (also white, but far fewer layers to contend with). Peter and I smile at each other as he takes my hand again. The doors open on the reception and the cheer that goes up when we enter the room rivals that of any of the concerts I have played in. 

We hired a local band for the event. They were playing an open mic Peter and I went to months ago. We enjoyed the night so much that at the end of it, I took their card and we called them a few days later to set it up. 

The next few hours are a warm, hazy blur of dancing, dinner and unmitigated joy. At one point in the evening, Pez asks me to dance. As he spins me around the dance floor, he says, “you truly are stunning, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you,” I say as he spins me around, “it took the efforts of no less than six people to make this happen. Two for my hair alone.”

Pez shakes his head, “no, I don’t mean it like that. Though of course, yes, you are gorgeous, darling, as always. But I meant this. All of this. What you have pulled off here is nothing short of remarkable.”

Pez leans in close and whispers in my ear as we slowly spin around the crowded dance floor, “Henry is free, because of you. The monarchy will endure, because of you. Whether you believe it or not, Bea, future generations will feel the ripples of what you have done here.” 

He pulls back and kisses my forehead, “You truly are Arthur Fox’s daughter.”

He passes me a handkerchief, because how could I not need one after hearing that? He hugs me and I pull myself together enough to get out a “thank you.” 

We leave the dance floor for a table around which are seated the rest of the Super Six, Angie and Peter, and a few of Peter’s mates. All my favorite people, all in one place. Alex and Angie are seated next to each other at the table, which I now realize might have been a mistake. Their heads are bent toward each other conspiratorially, and there’s a familiar gleam in Alex’s eye.

“Should we be worried?” I ask Henry as I take a seat beside him , “They could be plotting a revolution. Or a flashmob.”

Henry hums, “I can’t say I’d be opposed to either, to be honest.”

“It would certainly be an interesting way to end a wedding,” I tell him. Henry nods and clinks his glass against mine. 

__________________________________

As wonderful as the day is, it’s a relief when Peter and I finally leave for Frogmore Cottage, our new home. 

When we get there, Peter unzips my dress and finds my cozy socks beside a recently unpacked box. We go our separate ways for a bit and reconvene in the living room and we watch TV as he takes out my 1,287 bobby-pins. 

Not long after, I take his hand and he follows me to our bedroom. We’ve never shared a bed before. Technically we don’t have to now. Or ever, really. But it’s kind of nice. I lie on one side, and he lies on the other. We turn to face each other. 

“We did it.” I say, my voice is barely above a whisper. 

“Yes, we did.”

“How does it feel?” I ask him, “to be married to a princess?”

He reaches out and finds my hand, intertwining the fingers, “It feels like this might have been one of my better ideas.”

“I should hope so.”

He laughs quietly, “how are you feeling?”

I hadn’t really thought about that before. "Honestly? I’m relieved that it’s all over. We’re married. Henry can abdícate now. All is right in the world.”

He smiles and scoots closer to me, “you’re truly remarkable, Bea. Do you know that?”

His voice is sincere. More so than I’ve ever heard it before. I can’t help it, I respond with a quip, “well, we are newlyweds. Let’s see how you feel after a few years.”

I can just make out Peter’s soft smile in the moonlight coming in from the large window nearby. His eyes are half open, “can’t wait,” he says, and yawns. 

I slide closer and kiss him. Just a soft press of lips, “Goodnight, husband,” I say. 

Peter chuckles, “goodnight, wife.” 

Chapter Text

Photo Exclusive: Princess Beatrice is pregnant. WITH TWINS! 

As their first anniversary approaches, Daily Mail looks back on Beatrice and Peter’s whirlwind romance  

Five times Beatrice and Peter were #relationshipgoals 

Prince Henry’s abdication is a dreadful stain on our country’s history  

I scoff at the headlines and toss my phone on the bed. I’m supposed to be getting ready for an interview tonight but I’m still wrapped in a towel after my shower. I need to blow dry my hair. I need to feed Mr. Wobbles. The full list is actually quite lengthy.  Instead, I pace the bedroom and drip water on the area rug. 

I'm feeling buzzy. Agitated. I used to be so good at letting the press coverage roll off me. In fact, it was a point of pride for me, but these days it’s getting harder to do. For at least two years now, the deluge of coverage has been constant, not to mention wildly inaccurate, and it’s all really starting to get to me. 

That's not to say that any of this is unexpected, really. I knew that by taking a more active role in the monarchy, I was opening myself up to more criticism and speculation. It’s the very thing that Henry always warned me about. Still, I wasn’t prepared for just how invasive and inappropriate the questions would become after I got married. 

People ask if I’m pregnant. All. The. Bloody. Time. It started within a month of the wedding and has only gotten more insistent over time. 

Peter makes a game out of it, and that helps. Before each interview or appearance, he takes my hand and kisses it and says something to the effect of; “Every time someone asks if you’re pregnant, let’s donate one hundred pounds to Henry’s shelters, in the name of Her Majesty the Queen.” 

I usually laugh and squeeze his hand, “Deal,” I say. 

However, tonight things are going to be a little different. 

A lot has happened in the year since our wedding, and a lengthy sit down interview has been scheduled to address all of it. In a few short hours I will be sitting in front of cameras and pushing an agenda carefully crafted not only by my Grandmother, but the entire press team as well as many other royal advisors. It is an agenda I disagree with on several significant points, but my opinions are not what matter here. 

I’ve been preparing for weeks, but I’m still nervous. So instead of changing into the outfit that was selected for me, I throw on sweats, curl up with Mr. Wobbles, and FaceTime Henry. 

He answers on the fourth ring and promptly drops the phone. 

“Wait. Sorry. Fuck. Just a moment.” 

I laugh at the swirling, blurry picture on the screen. Eventually the motion stops and I see Henry standing at his kitchen counter with flour covering his bright rainbow apron. There’s a smudge of flour on his cheek and a dusting of it in his hair. He looks so much like Dad it’s almost unnerving. 

“What’s going on over there?” Mr. Wobbles starts purring as I scratch behind his ears. 

“Well, I er… I attempted to make bread this morning,” Henry begins, and my smile grows wide. We’ve had this conversation before, “It was a very simple recipe! Water, flour, yeast, hardly anything else. It was nearly impossible to mess up. And yet...” 

He holds up a blackened, odd-shaped, vaguely bread-looking object. I bite my lip and he taps the lump on the counter. The resounding knock echoes across his kitchen. 

“It looks a bit… overcooked,” I tell him. 

Henry groans, “The dough didn’t rise like it was supposed to, so I thought more time in the oven would fix it, but…”

“I don’t think that would have helped, H. If the yeast didn’t proof, it was never going to rise,” I tell him, fighting a laugh.

“That’s what I said!” Alex exclaims as he walks into the kitchen. He opens the fridge and takes out a bottle of Shiner, which he gets shipped regularly from Texas. 

“Fine,” Henry admits, somewhat dramatically, “I guess it’s time to face the truth: I’m a terrible cook.”

“Aw, that’s okay babe!” Alex says, placing a consoling hand on his back, “you’re a Royal. No one expects you to actually be good at anything.”

Alex kisses his cheek and we all laugh. I melt a little as I stare at the screen. Henry is so happy, there in his kitchen with his fiancée. He blushes as Alex teases him and throws his head back when he laughs. 

It’s all worth it, in that moment, to see him like this. To see him so happy. 

“How are things there with you?” Henry asks me, “you’ve got that interview tonight, right?”

I hesitate. This is the perfect opening to talk about everything I’ve been feeling; the constant, insurmountable pressure, not just from Gran, but from the entire country. The fear I’m going to somehow screw this all up. So much depends on tonight going well. 

I almost tell him, but looking at Henry now, happy and carefree, I don’t want to be the one to take that away from him again. 

“Yes, that’s tonight,” I say nonchalantly, “but it’s really not that important, all things considered.  It’s just another day at work. You know how it is.” 

Henry slips the bottle of Shiner from Alex’s hand and takes a large pull before handing it back. Alex shakes the nearly empty bottle, gives him a look of mock exasperation, and goes to get another one out of the fridge.

“Who is conducting the interview?” Henry asks.

“Meredith Broderick.” 

“Hmm,” Henry says, “I’m not familiar with her.”

“She’s been around for a while, I think. There was some chatter about who would do it, but the press team chose her specifically for a wide array of reasons I do not remember right now.”

Henry gives me a look and my heart sinks. It seems that even when we’re thousands of miles apart, he can still see right through me, “Is there anything I can do?” he asks gently. Because that’s all he can say. Because as much as I know he wants to right now, he can’t fly to London and do the interview for me. Not only because he is Persona Non Grata with our witch of a grandmother, but because it’s not his job to rescue us anymore. 

“Really H, you’ve done more than enough already. You posted that public statement about abdicating and you’ve defended us many times to the press since then. You’ve done all you can.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking guilty, “this isn’t fair to you. I’m the one who abdicated. You shouldn’t have to face the fallout.”

“Oh yes I should,” I snap at him, “I’ve already told you, you’ve done your job. I can take it from here,” I sigh and continue in a more calm tone, “It’s just an interview, H. And anyway, I won’t be alone. Peter is coming with me.”

That fact alone is the only thing currently keeping me together. Whatever else happens, knowing Peter will be there is a comfort I didn’t know I needed. Somehow, if Peter is with me, I know I’ll be okay. I look back at the screen in my hand to find Henry openly staring at me. 

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says loftily, breaking eye contact, “nothing at all. I’m simply glad you have someone in your corner to help you through this,” Henry’s hand gravitates to Alex’s back, “it makes all the difference, having someone by your side.”

I’m touched by their show of affection, but I still have to tease him for it, “you know, you two have gotten unbearably sappy since your engagement was made public.”

“Yes, well,” Henry says as Alex kisses his cheek, “love will do that to a person.” 

And well, my heart can’t do much other than melt at that. Alex gazes lovingly at him and they share a brief kiss, before Alex wanders away again. 

Sometime later, I hang up the phone in a much better headspace than I was in before. No matter what happens tonight, or in the future, no matter how the press twists my words or tries to drag me, somewhere, on the other side of the world, Henry is happy. And that is enough. 

__________________________________

The interview is worse than I anticipated. Meredith Broderick is relentless. She questions not only the validity of my relationship with Peter, but my feelings toward the Queen. She brings up my father’s death, my addiction, every horrible thing that I have ever done or has ever happened to me. More than once he tries to trap me into speaking out publicly against Henry. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess and every royal etiquette lesson I’ve ever had to keep my composure. 

It feels less like an interview and more like an interrogation. Peter is watching from behind the camera line. I can feel the anger radiating off of him. The press team spent weeks debating over whether or not to have him join me on camera for this interview. In the end, they decided it was best if I did it on my own. They didn’t want Peter stepping in and answering questions on my behalf, as I can tell he wants to right now. They decided that he would seem domineering and I would appear weak, which is not how a future Queen is supposed to look. 

The interview ends eventually. I stand and shake Meredith’s hand and leave the room as quickly as possible. Every part of me feels unbearably heavy and the only thing keeping me from sinking to the floor is sheer adrenaline. As we make our way out of the studio, through the building, and to the car, I smile the way I was taught, step lightly, and wave genially at the small crowd gathered outside. Peter holds the door for me and the second it closes, I lean forward and put my head in my hands.

My body is shaking. I can feel the tears coming. Peter places a hand on my knee but otherwise gives me the space I need. I bring myself back down to center, take his hand off my knee and put it instead in my own hand, and slump back against the rich leather seat. Peter hands me a tissue and a bottle of water, which I finish in one go, and then slump back again. 

I feel wrung out in a way I didn’t think possible. As we get closer to Frogmore, I stare out the window like a zombie, trying to process everything that just happened, but every painful moment of my life sits fresh and real behind my eyes. That an old familiar burn is back, but I don’t have the mental capacity to give it more than the most passing thought. 

Eventually, Peter kisses my hand and says, “so that’s a solid grand for homeless youth.”

I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes, “she only asked twice,” I say. 

“Oh no, she asked at least eight times.”

I close my eyes and yawn, “You just said it was ten,” even my voice is weary. 

“I’m negotiating.” 

 I let out a hollow laugh with my eyes still closed, “wait, what are we negotiating right now?”

“How many times she asked invasive, inappropriate questions.”

“I thought we were tracking how often she asked if I was pregnant.” 

“Same thing.” 

I feel strange. Open and raw and vulnerable in a way I never have before and there, in the back of my exhausted brain, is a terrible idea. Since I’m so close to the edge already, why not push? If another terrible thing is going to happen, why not let it happen now, while I’m already so low? 

When Peter first came to Kensington with his proposal, he said he knew what he was signing up for. But surely by now he’s having doubts? Surely after what he just witnessed, with my entire life laid out before him on camera, he must be looking for an escape hatch. And why shouldn’t he? Who would willingly go out of their way to choose a life like this? It’s not the same for me, obviously. I’m stuck here. But he could still leave. And he should leave, before this takes anything else from him. Or from me. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with all this?” I open my eyes and swing my head around to look at him, “I know we’ve been joking about it, but are you sure you’re okay with not having children? Because these questions are only going to get worse as the years go by.” He doesn’t respond immediately, so I push my luck, “it’s not too late, you know. You could find someone else. Someone who wants all of that with you; a family, a sex life,” I yawn, long and wide, “Your job is done here. I’m officially In the line of succession. You can still leave, if you wanted to.”

I can feel him sitting rigid next to me and I vaguely register something that might be fear in his eyes, but I’m honestly too exhausted to think straight, “You’d be a great father, you know,” I mutter.

He watches me for a minute. Then he lifts my hand and kisses it, “I’m not going anywhere, Bea.”

I nod. I don't believe him, but I accept his answer. 

When we get home, I kiss his cheek as a peace offering, and immediately fall into bed, fully clothed. I need to sleep. That’s all. I’ll feel better in the morning. I vaguely register Peter closing the bedroom door quietly behind him and the next thing I know, I’m opening my eyes to a well-lit room. I can tell by how bright it is that it must be around midday. 

Last night comes back to me in a great rush and I clap my hands over my face. I should have just kept my mouth shut, but instead I barrelled straight on through and possibly ruined the best thing that ever happened to me. I have to make this right. Even if it’s already too late, I have to at least try. 

I find Peter on a couch in one of the living rooms. He sets aside the paper he was grading as I sit next to him and turn my body toward his. He lifts my socked feet and sets them on his lap, rubbing one, then the other. 

“Hi,” I say. 

“Hi,” he says.

The silence between us is awkward. It’s never been awkward before. I hate it. “I thought you had plans today.” 

“I cleared my schedule,” he tells me, “feeling better?”

“Yes. Much better, thank you.” We sound formal. And stiff. This is terrible, “I’m sorry for last night.”

“You did nothing wrong,” he says gently, working through a spot in the arch of my foot, “That interviewer was a bastard.”

I sigh, “She really was. Still, that’s no excuse. I know better than to broach a subject like that when I’m in a mentally compromised state. That wasn’t fair to you.” 

He gives my foot an affectionate squeeze, “I understand, but thank you. I think we should talk about it, though.”

“Okay,” I pull my feet back and shift closer to him on the couch. He turns his body to mirror mine. He leans in and I kiss him. He takes my hand in his and I start talking. 

“I think yesterday was difficult in many ways. It brought up a lot of painful memories. It was as if my entire life was laid out on display. And then I started thinking about all of this speculation around pregnancy and children... I know we haven’t made any public comments about it yet, but we will have to say something eventually. The world will not rest until they know who the next British monarch might be. And Gran might actually have a heart attack if I tell her I’m not willing to “produce heirs.”  Or worse, she might somehow revoke Henry’s abdication. I'm not fully aware of the extent of her wrath but I can only imagine it’s far-reaching. Logically, I know she has already guessed that I do not plan to ever have children, but I’ll have to make it official at one point and I don’t know what she will do to retaliate.”

“This has been really weighing on you.” Peter states, his voice is as kind and his touch is as gentle as ever. I nod and my throat feels tight. 

“Last night, after the interview, I hit a wall and I thought…” I take a deep breath, “I thought maybe if I gave you an out, and maybe if you took it, then I wouldn’t have to deal with any of it anymore. Which then made me think of my mother, and how she avoided difficult conversations for years, and then I began to slowly panic that I’m becoming her.”

Peter pulls me toward him and I fall into his arms.  He gives me a minute just to breathe, before saying, “that is a massive burden to bear on your own.”

I nod, “but I’m not alone.”

“No,” he says firmly, “you’re not.”

We take another minute, there on the couch, and I’m hit suddenly by just how steady and strong he has been through all of this. None of this has been particularly easy on him either, but he’s never wavered in his commitment to this life, or to me. He’s continuously thinking about my needs, and too often putting them above his own. I turn my head and kiss him with more intention, more fire than I ever have before. My heart is full in a way I never expected, and I need him to know how I feel. 

“Thank you, Peter,” I tell him, “ I honestly do not know how I would have made it through any of this without you.”

Peter looks a bit flustered by the kiss, but pulls himself together, “Frankly, I’m impressed you made it so long on your own. Very few people would have. You truly are remarkable, Bea.”

“Thank you,” I clear my throat and sit up. I want to move on, but we’re not done yet, “tell me honestly though: are you really okay with never having children? I heard what you said before, but I know that feelings can change. So,” I take a deep breath, “Are you sure you don’t want to be a father?”

Peter smiles and presses another quick kiss to my lips, “you know. I never seriously considered fatherhood before you. Not even with Nathalie. At best, I felt ambivalent to the idea of having kids with her. I just wanted Nathalie, and I was willing to agree to anything to be with her, but I felt no strong pull toward parenthood. In all honesty, that most likely means I should not be a father. That is not something to pursue if your heart is not truly in it.” 

He pauses, gathering his thoughts, then he sweeps a stray bit of hair away from my face, “I’m very happy with you, Bea. I want you to know that. This hasn’t been a business arrangement for me in a long time. I care for you deeply, and I’m so happy that I am with you.”

His face is so open, so honest, that I finally believe him. 

“I’m happy with you too,” I tell him, “I’m surprised how much, to be honest. I never expected any of this would go so well.”

He laughs quietly and squeezes my hand, “me neither,” He says. 

We lapse into much more comfortable silence for a few minutes, but there’s still more to discuss. 

“What are we going to do about this, Peter?” I ask him, “What do we tell the press? You know they’re only going to keep asking.”

He’s quiet for a minute. Then he says, “There are a few things we can do.”

“Like what?”

“We could release an official statement saying that we want to spend time together as a couple first, before starting a family. That could potentially give us a five year window."

“But that only delays the inevitable. In a few years the questions will start back up again and we’ll be right back here.”

He considers for another moment and then says, “We can say I’m infertile. We can tell the press that there is no possible way for us to have children. That would certainly put a stop to those questions.”

I feel my mouth drop open. Peter, who was tormented by the press for years after his breakup is now openly volunteering to present himself up on a platter for the sake of protecting me. 

I’m at a loss for how to respond, “we… we don’t have to do anything like that now. Let us just wait and see. Maybe something will happen that will take the attention away from us for a while.”

“Okay,” 

As though an answer to my prayers, two days later, at a previously scheduled meeting with Phillip, he tells me Martha is expecting again. They announce it to the press and just like that, the focus shifts away from me. For now. 

__________________________________

My sponsor is a woman named Charlie, who prefers to go by Chuck. She moved here from Boston ten years ago for work and never left. When we met, she had no idea who I was. She was vaguely aware there was a Queen and that was about it. Regardless of my status in this country, it made no difference to her. In Chuck’s eyes, we are both addicts. More than that, we are two people who are making the best out of some shitty circumstances. She doesn’t give a fuck about anything else. It’s my favorite thing about her.

My other favorite thing is that she is completely and utterly unflappable. We once met up in Trafalgar square for lunch a few years ago and there was a security threat. The PPOs whisked us both away and Chuck didn’t seem remotely concerned about any of it. She just went with us, placid as anything. Didn’t even pause in eating her burrito. 

When I told her I was starting The Beatrice Fund, she immediately offered to help. She now gives regular talks and teaches computer classes. She also helps our clients with job searching and interview prep. 

In the beginning, when all of this was very new to me, not just having a sponsor but sobriety in general, I remember calling her once around midnight because I didn’t know what else to do. I started the call by apologizing profusely, and then she interrupted and said, “do you have ice cream?”

“What?” I responded.

“Ice cream. Whenever I need to come up with one fucking reason not to take a shot, I break out the Ben and Jerry’s. Or whatever the fuck brand exists over here. It’s not the pint I want, but it’s the pint I get.”

“I think I have some in the kitchen.” 

“Cool. Want company?” 

“Yes,” I said before I realized it. Twenty minutes later, Chuck and I were standing in the kitchen of Kensington Palace, each with a pint of ice cream (Chuck does not share food). She brought over an entire bag from a nearby shop. It looked like she picked one of every kind they had.

“Gotta have an emergency stash,” she said.  

I let out a small laugh and brought out spoons. 

“So look,” she said into her pint of ice cream, “I get that there are cultural differences going on here, and everyone in England is way too fucking polite for their own good, but stop apologizing. You need me, you call me. It’s as simple as that.” 

She looked up and I was struck by the intensity of her gaze. For someone who usually keeps things close to the vest, I could see so much in her face in that moment, “You did the right thing tonight, calling me,” she went on, “Call me next time too. Because there will be a next time.”

I didn’t realize I was crying until she fished a napkin out of the shopping bag and passed it to me. I let out a wet laugh and wiped my face. Chuck, unfazed, kept working on her ice cream.

It was the first of many midnight store runs. I never apologized again.

*

Tonight, as usual, Peter falls asleep almost instantly, but I’m up for hours. Eleven o’clock. Midnight. One. Around two am, that old itch is back. I feel it under my skin. The desire to run. To escape. If only for a little while. 

The strangest part of these moments is that all these years later, I can still remember the taste of vodka. I haven’t had a drink in nearly a decade and I can still taste it in the back of my throat. How is that possible? 

I slip out of bed and go call Chuck. And that helps. A lot. But then I’m awake and still left with that familiar itch. Talking to Chuck brought me back from the edge, but I still have that itch to do something wild and reckless. It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning, and I have too much energy for too small a body. 

I pad down the hall in my fuzzy socks. I turn on the light in the music room and shut the door quietly behind me. I married a man who can somehow sleep through anything but still, I don’t want to wake him. One of us should get a decent night’s sleep. 

Back in Kensington, Henry and I had recording equipment in our music studio. When Peter and I moved here, we had a great deal of renovations done, some of which included installing a similar set up here.  

I’m not much of a songwriter. I’ve tried, but never been able to create anything new. Mostly I record covers. Pop, classic rock, Irish folk songs. Even some classical selections sprinkled in. Whatever sparks my interest at the time. 

I lay as many of the tracks myself if I can, and sample what I can’t. 

I have a massive catalog of sampled and recorded tracks on the computer in this room.  I have hundreds of piano tracks Henry has recorded for me over the years. I have some old vocal and guitar tracks from Dad. Vocal tracks from Angie, who at one point considered studying to become an opera singer.  

Pez has been by a few times and recorded some of the songs his mother taught him. Whenever June visits, we inevitably record something together. And the first time Nora came along, she overhauled my entire sound system and created a search feature so advanced it takes next to nothing to find what I’m looking for. 

I like to come in here late at night when I can’t sleep, or when I feel like I might slip, and whenever I do, I know I’m not alone. In this room with my headphones on, I am surrounded by the people who love me and they give me a reason to keep going. 

Tonight, I’m antsy. I need to move. I need loud and chaotic and I need to stop thinking. I plug a Strat and a set of headphones into one of the amps in the corner. 

With the volume on low I test out a few chords to make sure the headphones are working. Then I test it again. There is silence in the room. 

I turn the volume up, put my headphones back on, and get to work. Shinedown, The Who, Metallica. I play whatever comes to mind, repeating sections at will and switching up the tempo. I close my eyes and let my body move and my face breaks out into the first real smile I’ve had in days. Before long, I’m sweating and my fingers are starting to ache. I play until I don’t need to anymore. Until my mind is blank, my body is calm, and I’m back to a place where I can function. 

I open my eyes again. Catch my breath. I put everything back the way it was and turn the lights off again. 

I take a long, hot shower in the ensuite and make a list in my head of all the good things in my life, all the reasons why sobriety is a good idea. And the only idea. Why it’s not negotiable for me. 

The music and the shower do wonders. I feel refreshed and happy and sane again. When I lift the covers on my side of the bed, Peter stirs and rolls over. In the half-light of the bedroom, I can see his eyes crack open. 

“Hi, love,” he says, laying an arm around me, “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not really.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

My gut reaction is to say “no,” but I hesitate. We’re in this for the long haul, he and I. And he’s proven I can trust him. I can share this part of myself with him.

“I’m having a rough night.”

Peter opens his eyes fully now, “What’s wrong?” 

I shrug. An act of self-defense. “I wanted a drink.” 

Peter doesn’t react. He doesn’t freak out. He simply strokes my back and says, “did you call Chuck?”

I nod. Though I keep Chuck’s identity and her involvement in my life as much of a secret as possible (out of respect for her as much as anything else) since Peter and I live together, their paths have crossed on a number of occasions. 

“Good,” Peter says, He kisses the tip of my nose and I scoot in closer to him. 

“You know,” he says, and he sounds fully awake now, “you can always wake me if you ever need someone else to talk to. I know I sleep like the dead, but I am here. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

My heart warms at that. He’s right, of course. I can rely on him. He’s shown that time and time again. He’s seen all my less flattering parts. He’s dealt with my family, with the public and the pressure and somehow he’s still here. Two years on. How remarkable is that?

“I do know. Thank you.”

Peter smiles softly at me and rubs my back and this time, I fall asleep first. 

After that, if there are nights I can't sleep, for whatever reason, I don’t have to deal with them alone anymore. I can roll over. Wake Peter (sometimes it takes him a minute). I can talk to him. About anything. Just as I always have. And he listens. Just as he always has. 

There’s no judgment here, no false words of comfort or unhelpful suggestions. He just listens. And that alone makes the long nights not so hard to deal with. I have someone in my corner now. In every sense of the word.  I’m a little scared by how much I want to grow accustomed to it. 

__________________________________

The next week is rough. And the one after that. The interview is released and is picked apart by the entire world. Every frame slowed down, zoomed in, analyzed by body language experts and tiktok influencers. People circulate news of Dad’s death again. Photos of my party days are re-released. Accusations are made, speculations regarding whether or not I am fit to be in the line of succession. The press makes horrible speculations about what my “checkered past” means for my future children.

The interview fuels fires started by more than a few old men who proclaim that this is the problem with progressive attitudes, and suggest again that maybe this “new generation of women” is too emotionally unstable to lead a country. 

It feels impossible to go out in public, knowing that now more than ever people will be watching each move I make, more so now than ever before. I want to stay in and hide from the world, but that is impossible. I venture outside when necessary, and always smile for the cameras. I hold Peter's hand. I think of Dad. I try to act, just like he taught me.

After a while, I stop feeling like myself. Despite all my efforts, I become little more than a puppet for the crown. I call Chuck more frequently than usual, almost daily during the week of the interview release. In that same week, I knit two sweaters and bake dozens of cookies, a couple pies and three loaves of bread. I feel like I’m starting to crack from the inside out.

Peter suggests we get away for a few days. He says it’s for our anniversary, but we both know better. We retreat to one of his family’s estates in Scotland. 

I turn off my phone and bury it in one of my bags. Peter keeps his phone on, just in case. Sonja knows his number by now. She’ll contact him if there is something urgent. But she doesn’t. No one does. Peter updated our families and everyone in our mutual group chats that we’re going dark for the week, and unlike the rest of the world, the people who love us respect our request for space. 

The week could not be more different from the ones before, or more welcome. Peter and I have long, luxurious breakfasts on the patio every morning. We spend our afternoons putting together puzzles on the coffee table, playing “never have I ever”, and dancing to the many different playlists I’ve put together over the years. We make dinner together every evening. And late one night, we end up making out on the couch. 

At one point, as he’s kissing me, I stop and realize that I actually really like this. I like being with Peter like this. His lips feel good against mine and I feel safe when his body is lying on top of me. It’s intimate in a new and wonderful way. 

Peter doesn't ask for more. I can tell by the way his body responds that he’s interested, but he insists that he’s happy with the way things are. He says he likes kissing me. It’s enough for him. 

I wonder, sometimes, what things would be like if I were different. If I felt differently. I love who I am. I love being Ace. But I also wonder what all this feels like for Peter. I wonder what it would be like to feel the kind of pleasure he does. To feel desire for another person the way he does. It can’t feel better than this, can it? It can’t feel better than knowing you have someone beside you, someone to fight for you. Someone who tells you in so many ways “you are enough.”

We return to real life far too quickly, but I’m better now. The time away revived me and I feel ready to take on the press, which still has yet to move on from the interview. 

Peter sets down his bag, kisses my head and as he heads for a shower I watch him walk away. For more than two years now, Peter has been a bright spot in my life. It seems impossible to me that a business arrangement could develop into something more, but it has. Whatever we are now is so much more than I ever saw happening for myself. We are partners in this life. Truly. In every sense of the word. And I couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone else. 

__________________________________

Gran calls a meeting with me a few weeks after our vacation, and I am immediately set on edge. She hasn’t asked for a meeting since the day that interview was released, the aftermath of which has only just settled down. I have no idea what this meeting could be about, but if Gran is involved, it can’t be good. 

We meet in her more casual sitting room, which is a surprise. It’s been years since anyone in the family has met with her in a less than formal setting. 

We sit across from each other on separate couches, backs straight and eyes forward. I wait for her to speak. It doesn’t take long. 

“I called you here today to discuss your performance in recent years, and the impact you have had upon the monarchy.”

I feel my body lock up. I’m not sure where she’s going with this because, despite everything, despite all the work I have done to convince her that this arrangement was a good idea, she still holds all the power. Contract or not, she is the Queen of England. She could change her mind at any time, and we both know it. As I wait for her to continue, Gran smiles at me, and that alone is more alarming than anything else she has done, especially in recent years. 

“I must say Beatrice, I was highly skeptical of this little scheme of yours when you first brought it up. I was certain this was all some elaborate and underhanded attempt to destroy the reputation of the Monarchy. However, your behavior over the last two years has been a remarkable improvement. I never thought I would see you become anything other than that stubborn and rebellious child you were, but look at you now.”

I don’t know how to respond to this. Gran goes on, “You have found a worthy husband,” she says, “your marriage is free of scandal, and as soon as you produce an heir, you will forever solidify your place in our family’s legacy. Not only that, you have rehabilitated the reputation of the Crown after your truly unfortunate brother did all he could to destroy it. I am proud of you, Beatrice. More so than I ever thought possible. You have become the princess I always wanted you to be.”

I’m too stunned to speak. Luckily for me, I don’t have to, “from this point onward,” Gran continues, “You will play even more of a role in the future of our family. I will not be around forever, as you know, and your mother proved long ago that she is hardly capable of handling this job on her own. She needs a firm hand to guide her, and I believe you can be just that.”

I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry, “What do you mean?”

“You are the future of the monarchy now, Beatrice. The fate of this family rests with you. Phillip will be a great leader, yes, but he is often seen as cold and distant. In two short years, you have overtaken him in the polls in regards to popularity, and you have successfully pushed the Crown’s agenda at every turn. You and you alone will assure that the people of this country continue to support the Royal Family.”

My head is spinning. I fight down the urge to be sick, “thank you, Your Majesty,” I manage to say, bowing my head as I do so, “it is an honor. One I do not take lightly.” 

There is more to be said. Perfunctory things. Schedules to review and appearances to arrange, all in the name of upholding this ridiculous institution. I continue to play my part and, despite my strong desire to run from the room, I leave only when told to do so. 

You have become the princess I always wanted you to be.

I never thought I would see you become anything other than that stubborn, rebellious child you were.

This was only ever meant to be a job. An act. It was never supposed to be real. But as her words play in a loop in my head, I’m faced with an awful truth: she won. She outsmarted me after all. What I thought was my own brilliant scheme has now been twisted around. I have indeed become her puppet. I played my part too well and I have now lost myself completely. 

that stubborn, rebellious child you were.

Were . 

Were . 

For two years I fought to remain in that infinitesimal space between who I am and who I needed to be. When did that stop? When did I fall too far to one side? The wrong side. 

Gran approves of the work I have done. She never liked the person I was before, I knew that. I was proud of that, in fact. I never wanted to be anything like her. But now... Not only have I fooled the Queen of England, but I have fooled myself. Bea no longer exists. I’m HRH Princess Beatrice of Cambridge, the shining jewel of a backwards institution. 

“What’s wrong?” Peter asks as soon as I walk in. I don’t remember how I got home. I don’t know how to tell him what’s going on, but I know that I don’t have to. Everything is there in my expression and even if it wasn’t, Peter would know anyway. He can always tell when something is wrong. 

The old familiar itch is back. I want to run. I want to undo everything I’ve worked so hard to build, just to spite that old crone. I want to go back to who I was, in whatever way that means. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to have this conversation I know I’m about to have. I don’t want to confront any of this. I need to go. I need to leave. I need to do something. I feel like I’m going to vibrate out of my skin. 

I should call Chuck.  

“Can we go for a ride?” my voice is shaking. Shit. 

Peter stands in front of me and looks at me critically. I can’t meet the eyes I know are taking in every little part of my face. I can practically feel him clocking every little tell he’s spent the last two years cataloging. 

“Okay,” he says softly. 

I clutch him as we ride through London, harder than is strictly necessary. It takes a while for me to realize I’m sobbing. I’m fairly certain Peter can hear me. He doesn’t say anything, but at every red light, he lays his hand over mine. 

We ride for longer than usual and by the time we get back, I feel somewhat better. Emotionally wrung out, exhausted beyond reason, but more centered. The itch is gone. That’s something. 

Peter puts an arm around me and leads me inside. I touch my head to his shoulder as a gesture of gratitude and leave to call Chuck. 

When I get back, Peter is waiting on the couch with sparkling water and a box of tissues. When I raise my eyebrows at him, he shrugs. 

“Just in case.” 

He sits beside me on the couch and takes my feet. Peter lays them in his lap and squeezes them gently and waits for me to speak. Patient as always. I take a deep breath. And another. 

“I used to be the very antithesis of everything the monarchy stood for, and I was proud of that. Too often, I was the lone voice of reason in my family. I was confident in who I was and what I believed. I had principles and strong morals and I never questioned them. I worked hard to become that person and I was so proud of her. But now…”

I take my feet back and wrap my arms around my knees. I shrink myself down, as far as I can go, “Gran told me she approves of me. She approves of the job I’ve done and the person I’ve become,” I’m crying now, but my voice stays steady, “Despite everything I’ve done to stay true to myself these last two years, I’ve been reduced to little more than a pretty, pretty princess who helps uphold a broken system. I feel like I’ve betrayed who I am. I feel like the very heart and soul of me is gone and all that's left is a carbon copy of my grandmother. I don’t know how to handle that."

“You are still you, Bea,” Peter says quietly, laying a hand over my arms, “You are still the same person you’ve always been. You haven’t changed.”  

“Really? because I spend my days organizing parties and defending the fucking monarchy. Bea of two years ago would never dream of doing that.” 

“That’s your job, Bea. It’s not who you are.”

It’s so similar to what Dad used to say that it hits me like a physical weight and the smallest sob escapes from my throat. Peter slides over and wraps his arms around me. I let go of my legs and hold Peter instead. I breathe. I cry. When I can, I keep going, “I’m worried I’m disappearing. Like my mother.” I pull away from him and find his hand again. He passes me a tissue and I take a shaky breath, “She and I used to be so similar. Then she lost herself and I took up the cause all on my own. Now she’s trying to fight her way back and I’m… not. It feels like somehow we have switched places.” 

“Who’s to say you’re not still on the same side?”

“I’m not that girl anymore, Peter. I’m nothing more than the Queen’s puppet.”

“Or is that just what she wants you to think?”

His supportive tone is starting to grate at my already frayed nerves, “Of course it’s what she wants! Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

Peter looks at me and I know that expression, “You are not your grandmother,” he says.

“Not yet,” I mutter. 

“Not ever,” he says with such certainty that I envy him. 

“I’m honestly not sure I even remember who that person was,” I tell him, “I don’t remember that Bea.” 

Peter squeezes my hand, “Then I’ll remind you who you are.”

That wasn’t something I had considered before, “Who am I, Peter?” I ask him, “you and I have an agreement, in more ways than one. We are honest with each other, right?” he nods, “I need that now more than ever. Who I am, really?”

He looks straight into my eyes and says, “you are every bit the rebellious princess now, as you were when we met.” Peter lets go of my hand and leans back against the couch. I slide toward him and lean my body against his. I rest my head on his shoulder and he runs a hand through my long hair. 

“Honestly, Bea, I think this is the most badass thing you’ve ever done,” he says, and his low voice is soothing against my ear, “It's not something many are capable of. You’ve gone behind enemy lines and you’ve played the part so well, you’ve convinced the Queen you’re on her side.”

“ She was never the problem. I was always going to convince her. My concern is that I’ve convinced myself as well.”

 “Well, You haven’t convinced me,” Peter says, kissing the top of my head, “I know you, Bea, better than I’ve ever known anyone. I can see, clearly, the difference between who you are for them and who you are for you. There’s no denying it.”

I shake my head and try not to sound defeated, “I don’t think I can see it anymore.”

Peter taps my arm and when I move away, he stands up from the couch, “Wait here,” he says. 

He leaves the room and returns a few minutes later with a large box in his hands. He sets it down on the couch in front of me. 

“What’s this?”

“It was going to be a birthday present, but I think you may need it now.”

He gestures toward the box, but I hesitate. I have no idea what he’s doing or where he’s going with this. 

Inside is a large book, similar to a scrapbook. I open the cover and immediately start crying again. Inside are a hundred or so letters from people all over the country. The very letters that I once told him keep me grounded. The letters that remind me of who I am and why I’m doing this. 

He took some of those letters out of those boxes and bound them, forever, in a book. 

I put my face in my hands, and Peter rubs my back. When I’m ready again, we look through the letters together until I feel warmed in a way I can’t describe. Until I feel whole. Until I feel like myself again. 

These were all written in the last two years, since I joined the line of succession, and since I began parroting the beliefs of the monarchy. While I smiled for the cameras and praised the Queen, none of the writers of these letters were fooled. They talked about how I inspired them, even now. How I helped them. They reminded me of my story, and why it matters. 

This is who I am. This is where I am from, and what I have been through. This is the work that matters. Playing princess didn’t change that. 

“Thank you,” I tell him, as I close the book. 

“Playing a part, and doing it well, doesn’t change who you are, Bea,” he says, “You took on this huge burden to protect the people you love, and you have remained true to yourself through it all. The very fact that even the idea of betraying yourself makes you feel this strongly is proof that you are still the same person you were then. You are the strongest and bravest person I have ever met and it has been an honor to be with you. Your sense of self is unlike anyone else I’ve ever met. In fact, it’s what I love most about you.”

“You love me?”

“Yes.”

It was one of the many things we talked about, back when all of this started. Love. I’ve always known it’s something he’s capable of, but it was something he wasn’t ready for, after what he had gone through. I knew all of that, but I’m not prepared for how good it feels to hear him say it now. 

“Say it again.”

Peter smiles, “I love you, Bea. I always have.”

I kiss him then. His lips feel as soft and warm and comforting as they always have been. 

“Thank you,” I tell him again. And I’ve never meant it more. 

He kisses my cheek and holds me as we look through the letters again. When we close the book, I take a large drink of sparkling water and wipe my face. Then I turn to my husband, “what am I going to do about all this?”

“About what?” he asks. And that’s when I realized I haven’t told him everything else about the meeting. So I do. I tell him everything Gran said, and everything I didn’t. When I’m done speaking, Peter smiles again. A slow, wide, mischievous grin. The kind I haven’t seen since we were kids. 

“What?” I ask.

“Bea, I’m not sure you realize how much power you hold here,” Peter tells me. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says, “the Queen wants you to be more prominently featured in the public sphere, right?”

“Yes…”

“Because you have proven you are an asset to the crown. Because polls place you as the peoples’ favorite royal.”

“Yes.” 

“Well, that kind of status comes with a lot of clout.”

“I guess that’s true,” I watch him closely, “what are you getting at?”

“You have leverage now that you didn’t before. You are an asset to the Queen. One that could be taken away at any moment, should you so choose.”

“I could never do that to Henry,” I say at once, shocked and more than a little outraged, “The entire purpose of this was to protect him!” 

“I know,” Peter says evenly, still grinning, “But she doesn’t.”

That’s when it all clicks, “Oh.” 

I always saw this whole thing as a job. Something that must be done. But if what Peter says is true (and I’m sure it is) then maybe I could actually do something with this newfound power. Maybe I really can shift the needle in a more progressive way. 

I text my mum and she agrees to meet me for lunch.

Chapter Text

The Honeymoon is Over: Sources report hearing regular shouting matches between Princess Beatrice and her husband  

A distraught Princess Beatrice spotted alone in Barcelona after Peter tells her “it’s over”

What a Royal divorce means for international relations

The Camden Cassanova is at it again: Peter Benton-James seen out in London with a stunning blonde

After Mum came back to us, she and her therapist decided that it would be best for her mental health to get some space from the Palace, so she bought a flat in a highly secure building not far from Kensington. To say this was a unique choice is an understatement. My mother, the first Princess with a doctorate, also became the first future monarch to live somewhere other than in one of our family’s many castles. The biggest surprise of all of this, however, was Gran’s reaction. In that she didn’t react. At all. Mum told her one day that she was moving out, and Gran didn’t say anything about it. She just let it happen. It was almost as if Gran finally accepted that Mum was always going to be that headstrong girl who led with her heart. Or perhaps Gran just stopped caring. 

It’s only the two of us in the flat today. Mum says she’s grown so accustomed to spending most of her time alone that she didn’t see the need for attendants anymore. And anyway, she never cared for having people wait on her. She found the whole tradition bizarre and it made her uncomfortable. She’s happier now, she says, cooking her own food and making her own bed. And, she tells me pointedly, this arrangement is particularly beneficial for sensitive conversations. 

Mum makes tea. I’m honestly surprised, and rather touched, that she remembers how I take mine. Especially considering it’s changed a few times over the years. She hands me my cup and we sit down at the table.

“You said there was something important you wanted to discuss with me?” 

That is one thing I’ve always really loved about my Mum. She doesn’t waste time. I take a sip of tea. It’s perfect. I feel the warmth of it reach my stomach and then say, “yes."

“Is Henry alright?”

“He’s doing so well, Mum. Truly. I’ve never seen him so happy.” 

I can hear the relief in her voice when she says, “good.” 

“And everything is alright with Peter?” she says.

I nod at once, “Oh yes.” 

“Good,” she says again.

“No, the reason I came here today is far more… political.”

Mum slowly sets her tea cup down, “Oh?”

“Gran asked to see me the other day.” 

I tell mum everything about that conversation; The way she praised me for falling in line, the comments she made about Henry, and the request Gran made of me; to keep an eye on her daughter. Mum says nothing, just lets me speak, but as I do, I watch her mouth draw in on itself. Tighter and tighter until it almost disappears entirely. 

“Well,” she says when I am done, “I can hardly say I’m surprised. This is not the first time she’s tried some level of covert monitoring. At this point, I half expect her to have me followed.” She ends in a mutter. Then she clears her throat and looks at me, “I am sorry she said that to you. It was not fair of her to ask you to look after me. I am not your responsibility.” 

“I know.” 

It’s so similar to conversations we had before but now there’s no bite behind my words. Mum has been showing up for us consistently for nearly five years now. She has not stumbled, has not faltered, in her support of her children. All that time, and all that continued effort, has meant something to me. Though we still aren’t as close as we once were, those old familiar walls are not standing very strong these days.

“Really, Mum, it's not all that surprising.” 

It’s true. Once I got over the initial shock of the conversation, I saw that Gran had been working toward this point for quite some time. Possibly since this whole thing started. This was always her eventual goal.

“She’s worked hard to turn me into her little puppet,” I say. 

“Pity,” Mum says loftily, “that was obviously a waste of her time.” 

She takes another sip of her tea, and the cup does very little to hide her proud smile. A smile that proves she knows me better than I thought. A smile that says the daughter she raised would never be so easily swayed. The sight of it warms me more than the tea. 

“What surprises me the most is that she would believe me capable of anything at all after that disastrous interview,” I say, “I felt certain that would be another “powder princess” moment for her.”

Oh. Oh no. I know that look on her face. She is warning me to brace myself. So I do. 

“What?” 

“That interview was a set up,” Mum says, "My sources tell me that Gran signed off on the list of questions and personally instructed the interviewer not to relent, no matter what. The Queen was testing you to see if you would crack, and you didn’t. That is how you earned her favor as the future monarch.”

I’m speechless, though I really shouldn’t be. Of course Gran orchestrated it. There’s nothing she doesn’t seem to control these days. Really, I should have known. I shake off my sense of betrayal, and feel something solidify in the pit of my stomach.  

“Then let’s use that to our advantage,” I say. 

“What do you mean?”

Despite the fact we’re alone, I lower my voice anyway, “I think it’s about time we try for another vote,” I say, knowing that she will catch my meaning immediately, and she does. “We failed before because we didn’t take the timing of it all into account. You had only just come back into the public eye, Henry had just been outed and Gran was very vocal about her disapproval of him. Our family seemed to be in disarray. It was not the right time to try to dethrone the reigning Queen. But things are different now. Our family is once again on solid footing in the eyes of the world. We’ve waited long enough. We need to try another vote.”

Mum looks stunned for a moment and then she smiles; bigger and brighter than she has in years, “my darling,” she says, “that’s a wonderful idea.”

That’s when I learn that since she’s come back to us, Mum has been planning to do just that. For almost five years, she’s been giving speeches and taking meetings, all in an effort to sway each member of Parliament and, she says, it seems to be working.  

My mother, ever the academic, shows me her proof. She opens a locked drawer of her desk and pulls out a large stack of papers. She sets them down on the table in front of me and I begin to leaf through them: handwritten lists and charts and graphs (all cleverly disguised, in case they fell into the wrong hands). Proof of her long campaign, and the effects it’s had already. I stare at them: pages and pages of carefully handwritten plans to overthrow a reigning monarch. They are…. Well… they’re something out of a James Bond movie. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” My voice is not accusatory. If anything, it’s reverent. The research in front of me is extensive. 

“It was too risky, especially as I’ve failed before. If people found out I was trying to vote my mother off of the throne for a second time, things could very quickly dissolve into chaos. You’re the only person I have shown any of this to.”

Toward the end is a stack of papers that looks considerably older than the rest. Intrigued, I thumb through and see… my father’s handwriting. 

I look over at Mum, who is gazing down at the page. She runs a hand gently over it, tracing the words. 

“What is all this?”

She hesitates, “After I met Arthur, I seriously considered abdicating. I wanted to live my own life. I wanted to be free to fall in love and start a family. At one point, I almost went through with it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Your father,” she says, her smile far away and beautiful, “he convinced me to stay. He said we could make more of an impact if we fought the institution from the inside. God, we had so many plans,” she ends in a whisper and wipes a hand across her cheek. 

“What kind of plans?”

Mum clears her throat and turns to a specific page. I gape at the paper in front of me. 

“We were going to end the monarchy,” Mum says, “We were going to bring true democracy to Britain. God, we had so many plans, Arthur and I, when we were younger. But it was just an idealistic fantasy. We had no idea if we could actually pull it off. Back then, the country was still quite pro-monarchy. It would have been an uphill battle. And then Phillip came along, and you, and Henry and we got caught up in our own lives, and our grand revolutionary plans were shuffled to the wayside and forgotten. I only recently found these again.”

I turn another page to find highly detailed, step-by-step plans for abolishing a monarchy. None of it is coded, as the more recent documents are, but these pages are clearly aged enough that if they fell into the wrong hands now, a case could be made for the innocence of youth. 

“We wanted our children to have a normal life,” Mum continues, and for the first time, her voice sounds close to tears, “We never wanted any of this for you or your brothers. We wanted you to be free of all of this.” 

“Do you want that still?” I ask her. 

“Yes,” she says at once. Then she takes a deep breath, “but it’s just not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because even now, there are still too many people who are clinging to the ways of old. There is still such a romantic idea of Princes and Princesses, and all the trappings of wealth, that people continue to support a monarchy that does nothing to benefit them. It’s hard enough to change the mind of one person, but an entire country? Initiating a change on that scale could throw Britain into absolute chaos. The fallout could take years to repair.” 

I take a minute to read through a few more pages, “maybe it doesn’t have to be chaotic.”

“What do you mean?”

“I concede your point- changing something as fundamental as a country’s power structure in one fell swoop would cause massive confusion and be detrimental for everyone. But what if we were to take a more gradual approach; dismantle the institution brick by brick, rather than all at once? If we took the time to do this right, I think people would be far more likely to adapt to it.”

Mum nods slowly, “how do you propose we do that?”

“Well, obviously, the first thing to do is vote Gran out. Once you’re Queen, then you’ll finally have the power to enact real change. We can start small: first, we will return the art our family stole centuries ago, like you always wanted. Then we cut the Sovereign tax by increments until we get rid of it completely and return that money to the citizens, where it belongs. If we do this right, if we take our time, then by the time we push to officially abolish the monarchy, there won’t be much of a monarchy left.” 

Mum stares at me, “That could work.”

“Really?” 

“Yes,” Mum sets her teacup aside and pulls out a new yellow legal pad and a pen. For the next three hours, we plan. We go through all the steps, talk about exactly what it would look like.  We come up with a timeline. Mum makes a list of old statues and laws to check for reference. We plan media appearances and interviews, everything we would need to get the majority of England to agree to this. 

We also go over who we need to discuss this plan with beforehand (the list is very short). At the end of our very long lunch meeting, we have a clear plan, and a detailed timeline to put it into action. If all goes well, in a few short years, our titles will carry no more weight than those of any other citizen in our country. 

When I return home, I don’t tell Peter what we discussed. Not yet. The risk to him is too great. For all our hopes for the future, it is still a monarchy. And if a citizen learns of a plot to overthrow the monarch and doesn’t act to stop it, the consequences for them are severe. While I trust Peter implicitly and I know I will share the news with him eventually, for now, I say nothing. 

Nor do I say anything to Henry when he calls later to go over plans for my visit the following week. 

______________________

I love visiting Henry in New York. The brownstone feels more and more like my second home. It might take a plane to get there, but whenever I walk through the doors, I feel as if no time has passed. As if it’s only been days since I was last here, not weeks or months. 

Somehow, Henry and Alex’s house is a perfect blend of the two of them. Both Texas and London are represented in the artwork and the decor, and there are hints of Henry on the living room bookshelves, and Alex shows up in the corners of their kitchen. But it’s more than that. The place feels well-lived in. It feels loved. It feels like a home. 

The three of us sit and chat for a while and then Alex leaves to “catch up on some things for the office.” As flimsy as the excuse is, I’m grateful. 

Over tea and the Jaffa cakes I brought over, I tell Henry (almost) everything that’s been weighing on me. I tell him that the press is still hounding me after that interview (Henry doesn’t follow the news anymore, especially not the UK news. And he never watched the interview). I tell him about all the rumors and speculation regarding the current status of my reproductive system, and most of all I tell him about my most recent conversation with Gran. He is justifiably appalled by all of it, especially by what Gran said about Mum. 

Despite my initial instinct, I don’t downplay any of it this time, because as much as I feel the need to protect him, he is still my brother. And I need his help. And also, there’s something magical about being thousands of miles away, in this seemingly nondescript townhouse with a state-of-the-art security system and bulletproof glass on the windows. I feel safe here, in every way. 

Henry listens as I rant and hands me another Jaffa cake. He sympathizes and offers me his take on the situation and already the tight knot of anxiety ever present in my chest begins to loosen its chokehold on me. I need Henry’s perspective more than anything; more so than Angie’s or Chuck’s or even Peter’s. Henry is the only other person who understands what our childhood was like, and who understands what I’m up against as “the spare”. Talking with him reminds me that I’m not, in fact, crazy. That this is, in fact, an insane way to live. 

In turn, Henry tells me about his work at the shelter. He tells me that Alex has been volunteering there, providing legal representation pro bono for any of the kids who need it. He also pops by the shelter regularly to give talks about what their legal rights are, and how to stand up to law enforcement in as safe a manner as possible. 

I feel a rush of affection for Alex. He and Henry are so different in a lot of ways, like opposite sides of a coin, but their hearts are one and the same. They have so much love to give, and so much drive to genuinely improve the world around them. I’m so happy they found each other.

Henry asks about Mum. And Phillip and Martha. I know he talks to them both regularly, and I know that Mum flies to New York a few times a year to see him, and Phillip has even made it out here once or twice, but he likes to hear it all from me. 

I don’t tell him about my meeting with mum. Abdication notwithstanding, this is not his fight anymore. If things somehow go awry, I don’t want him mixed up in all of it. Plausible deniability and all that. 

So when Henry asks how things are really going, because of course he does, I tell him the truth. Or as much of it as I can. 

“They’re okay. Truly. Some days they’re even wonderful!  Well, you know how I feel about smiling for the cameras and all that, but it feels good to at least be a proactive member of society. There were so many years where I honestly felt a bit useless; trotted out for appearances and otherwise left alone. That’s certainly not the case anymore,” Henry hums in agreement, “And of course, The Beatrice Fund is absolutely thriving now. Our funding has been steadily increasing over the past few years and our benefit concerts have expanded into all sorts of art programs, all of which feature artists and musicians who have worked with our organization.”

“Is Peter still lending a hand with the concerts?”

I nod, “he was even made an official roadie at our last event.” 

Henry laughs, bright and unguarded, “so things with Peter are going well then?”

I can’t fight the soft smile on my face at the very thought of him, “He’s been amazing. Honestly, H, I don’t know how I would have gotten through the last two years without him.”

Henry looks at me: an odd, searching look I’m all too familiar with. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, and we both know he’s lying, “it’s just nice to know you have someone on your side in all this mess.”

“No. I know that face,” he quickly changes his expression, “Really. What is it?”

I can see Henry weighing his options. After another moment he says, “It sounds like you’re in love with him.”

I laugh, “That’s not possible. In case you have forgotten, I’m aromantic.”

“So?”

“What do you mean, “so?” It’s not possible, H.” 

Henry takes a bite of Jaffa cake, then he says, “Sexuality and sexual identity are spectrums, Bea. It’s not all black and white. Ask most straight men out there and they’ll tell you that they are 100%, without a doubt, straight. But if pressed, they’ll admit that there’s one man they’d make an exception for. And strangely that man is often Ryan Reynolds.” 

I laugh at this. He continues; “Just because you’ve never felt something before doesn’t mean that you will never feel it in your life. And just because you might feel something now, that doesn’t have to change who you are or how you define yourself. You are not betraying your identity by not completely fitting one singular perception of it.”

I gape at him. Henry’s always had this uncanny ability of cutting straight through everything I say, and the many things I don’t, and offering the honest perspective I need in that moment. Even so, I shake my head, “Love was never supposed to be a part of this, H. This was only ever meant to be a business arrangement.”

“You and I both know there are many kinds of love, Bea. And the fact of the matter is, business or not, you and Peter have a genuine relationship built on respect and trust. If that has turned into something more like love, that’s valid, and your asexual and aromantic identities are no less valid if some aspect of your life doesn’t perfectly align with the idea of them, or if they change over time. The labels we give ourselves are supposed to help us, not cause us pain and suffering. 

I gape at him, “where the hell did all that come from?”

Henry shrugs in that bashful way he does sometimes, “I’ve learned a lot working with queer youths.”

“youths?” I mock, “you sound like a grandfather. You do know you’re only twenty-six, right?” 

He tosses his empty Jaffa cake wrapper at me, “My point, Bea, is that you should do what makes you happy, regardless of how you identify.”

“You really believe that?”

“Yes I do.” 

We eat in silence for a minute before I ask, “What makes you happy?” I put a finger up when he opens his mouth, “Other than your fiancée, you helpless romantic.” 

Henry laughs and fills me in on his life, even though most of it I’ve already heard over the phone. We talk about everything. We talk about Phillip, and Dad. I tell him Mr. Wobbles misses David. He tells me that unfortunately the feeling seems to be mutual. Henry updates me on their wedding plans and he finally tells me their big news- they’re leaving New York. They’re moving to Texas. 

There was a time this would have shocked me, perhaps, but as he tells me about the house they found and the stables for the horses they want to have one day, it all makes sense. Henry was never meant to live in a palace. He was always meant to live his own, quiet life with the man he loves. And with the appropriate amount of sunscreen, I know that he can truly make a life for himself there. 

___________________________________

I think about what Henry said over the next few days in Brooklyn, and on the plane ride home. I think of his words when I see Peter again and he holds me and everything feels right, somehow. I’m still thinking about them a few days later, when I visit Angie. We chat about nothing and everything, and her wife Isolde joins us for dinner. At the end of the night, I bring out my handbag and hand her a twenty pound note. Angie looks at it, knowing exactly what it means.

She pulls me into a hug, which is hilarious given the height difference. As I hold her midsection I can feel her bouncing on the balls of her feet. 

“I had no idea you were so interested in my love life,” I say as she starts to laugh. 

“I’m not,” she says, letting me go, “I just like seeing you happy. You’ve been through so much, Bea. You deserve a little happiness.” 

Then I start crying and she hugs me tighter. Isolde is momentarily confused by the exchange, but then decides to go with whatever is happening and makes it a group hug. 

*

When I get home that night, I find Peter in the living room. He’s lying on a couch with a book propped open on his chest. He has that same skeptical look on his face he always gets when he’s reading. It’s a look I’ve grown to love over the last two years. I walk over to him and he smiles when he sees me. I take hold of the book.

“May I?”

Peter nods. I set the book down on the table and lay my body over his. As he holds me I’m amazed, still, by how comfortable I am here. I’ve always felt comfortable with him. That is the strangest part of this entire experience. I’ve never felt this sense of contentment around someone before. Everything is okay, when I’m in his arms. The world can’t get to me here. We breathe together for a minute. Then another. He places a tender kiss on my forehead and there it is. Something that has been growing for some time, since long before he was my husband.

“I love you,” I tell him. 

I feel his lips stretch into a smile where they rest against my head, “I love you, too.”

*

In the following weeks, our lives continue in more or less the same way as they always have. I’m not overly effusive about my declarations of love for my husband, but I won’t lie that hearing those words and saying them in return brings me a joy I haven’t felt before, especially whenever I see the soft look on Peter’s face afterward. An “I love you” and a kiss on his cheek on our way out the door in the morning is all he’ll ever need in this life. Or so he often tells me. 

True to her word, Gran begins placing me in the forefront of the monarchy. I greet heads of state in her stead, and even address Parliament on a few occasions. I also begin to perform many of her typical duties. The press notices (because of course they do) but surprisingly they seem to be on our side. The Royal family, somehow, is once again seen as a net positive by the majority of the country. The swinging back and forth in the court of public opinion is not something I feel I will ever adjust to. 

Phillip notices this shift too. In one weekly meeting, Gran very ostentatiously delegates a few of his usual tasks to me. And though he does have a small, knee-jerk reaction in the moment, he does not harbor any resentment toward me for it. We have our own debrief after the meeting and he can see, just as I can, all the ways she’s attempting to sow discord between us. 

It won’t work. 

Phillip is a strange sort, to be sure. But after working closely with him for a few years, I can see all the ways our upbringing, and the loss of Dad, affected him too. Phillip likes his routine, to a fault. Deviations from any plan do not sit well with him, and they never have, but he’s worked hard to try and push past that initial gut reaction. Our relationship has grown and changed so much in recent years. We will certainly never be close (our personalities are far too different) but there’s a mutual respect there now. We may not be friends, exactly, but we are certainly allies. 

Time moves forward. I continue to make appearances. Continue to speak on behalf of the monarchy. Martha has their second child. A little girl named Cecilia. Phillip seems slightly more relaxed (or a little less wound) this time around. He still gives off a perpetually uncomfortable energy, but his arms around his daughter are a little more certain, his movements a little more practiced. And the looks I catch him giving his wife certainly have something more closely resembling love than any I’ve ever seen from him. 

Alex and Henry get married in Austin, and the whole family (excluding Gran) flies in for the occasion. Martha also chooses to stay behind with the children, as they are still quite little, but we FaceTime with her at the reception. 

Through it all I’m grateful for Peter. In the months since I’ve entered those three significant words into my vocabulary, things between us flow like water. It’s as though there’s been some great seismic shift in our relationship. Though outwardly, things continue as they always have, something has solidified between us. We’re more intune with each other than we were before, somehow. Our mutual admissions of love brought with them the knowledge that what we have is in fact real. Regardless of what brought us here, there is a deep and lasting love between us now. 

Physical intimacy is also something that seems to come more easily these days. We’ve almost always had some degree of contact, but things have certainly changed. As with the other areas of our relationship, what started as kissing has slowly become something more. Some nights we get to the point where he’s gripping my hips as I suck a bruise on his neck. There’s more we can do together, I know that. And for the first time in my life, I want it. I want everything with him. 

I know Peter Benton-James better than I’ve ever known anyone, but I don’t know all of him yet. And as we spend our evenings tangled together, I want to know the rest of him. I hear the sounds he makes when I kiss that particular spot behind his ear, I feel him shiver when I lightly run my fingernails down his spine and I want more. 

We’re making out one night when I bring it up. 

“Can I touch you?” I say, my lips next to his. 

“What do you mean?” He asks and kisses me again. 

I trace a hand along his hips, pausing right above his waistband in the very center of him. I dip one finger just below the fabric there. His breathing hitches. I can hear him swallow, “Can we talk about that first?” He asks. 

“Of course,” I withdraw my hand and we sit up, legs crossed, facing each other. He runs a hand through his hair and takes a minute to catch his breath. I like seeing him like this; flushed, and a bit disheveled. It’s a good look. 

Peter kisses me and takes my hand in his. 

“You know I am happy with you, right?” He begins, and I nod, “it was never my intention to have any sort of physical relationship with you. That’s not why I proposed.”

“I know,” I squeeze his hand in reassurance, “Do you want it though? More of a physical relationship?”

He takes a moment before answering, “I honestly hadn’t considered it,” he says, “That was never part of the plan.”

“Neither was love,” I say fairly, “but here we are.”

He laughs a little, and that eases some of his tension. He pauses again and rests one hand on my knee. 

“You are beautiful, Bea,” he says, “my hesitation here has nothing to do with whether or not I find you attractive.”

I lean forward and kiss him again. I hadn’t really considered that as a factor, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same. I wait while he gathers his thoughts. 

“I suppose…  I don’t understand why you would want to have sex with me, if you do not have any desire to do so. Why would you want to do something that holds no interest to you?”

“Because I want to know you,” I say.

“In the biblical sense?” He jokes, before I can say it, and we both laugh. 

“If you want to call it that.”

His smile shifts into something more serious. “I would be open to exploring this with you, as long as it’s something you actually want. I never want to be seen as an obligation to you, or an item to check off your to-do list.”

“That’s a boundary for you?”

“Yes,” he says firmly. 

And in that moment I love him even more. I kiss him again.

“You know, It’s interesting,” I say, “Before I met you, I never really saw the point of sex. I never understood the appeal. Whenever I have slept with people in the past, it was fine. Not good or bad, just fine. In general, I feel about sex the way most do about seeing a film or driving a car. It’s a perfectly fine experience overall, but I’m honestly just as happy without it.”

“But you want to have sex with me?”

“Very much,” I say, “I want that with you.”

Peter smiles, “I want it too.”

I kiss him again and he runs his hand lightly across my cheek. We kiss for a few minutes and then I lay back on the bed and bring him down with me. He kisses my neck and I tug on the bottom of his shirt. 

“Is this okay?” I ask. He nods and kisses me again and I can feel his heart beating. He sits up and pulls his shirt off. I shift around on the bed to do the same. He lays his body down again and when I feel his skin, soft and warm against mine, I’m reminded suddenly of something we learned in science class, back when he and I were lab partners.

The very concept of touch is an illusion. A fantasy. What we know of as touch is really just electrons pushing against each other, pushing us away from one another and making it impossible to ever truly connect with anyone. In our entire lifetimes, we never touch any other person or surface. Our electrons touch other electrons. It’s as though there’s a force field keeping anyone or anything from getting too close. 

For once, I question science. Because here, lying on the bed with Peter on top of me, it feels like we’re touching. It feels like this man that I’ve grown to know and love can see and feel all the parts of me and I want him to see them. I want him to know all of me too. 

We undress fully. I roll us over and squeeze out a little lotion from a bottle on the side table. I slide my hand down to touch him and watch his face, the look of wonder and awe at the simple flick of my wrist. I can tell he feels, as I do, that this is more than a simple touch. 

He holds my gaze as I move my hand steadily up and down the length of him. He turns his body toward me, leaning into our next kiss. I feel his leg slide along mine, and his arms wrap around me, one hand tracing patterns across my back. 

He pulls away slightly to look at me and the love on his face is nearly overwhelming. I lay a gentle kiss on his forehead and he closes his eyes. 

“I love you,” he whispers, and I kiss him again. His body tenses and his breathing becomes more rapid. I move my hand faster and lean down to suck a bruise on his neck. 

He grips my arm and gasps and I can feel him pulse in my hand. I watch his face as he spills over my fingers still wrapped around him. He’s so beautiful, lying here with his eyes shut, mouth wide, body trembling slightly. It feels like a gift, seeing him come undone like this.

When his body is still, I gently clean him and we lay together again. My head rests beside his on the pillows. He’s still breathing hard, and the expression on his face could only be described as giddy. He lays a hand over his eyes. 

“That was… intense,” he says, laughing a little.

“Isn’t it usually?”

“No,” Peter admits, rolling back over to face me, “it’s never felt like that before.” Peter kisses me again, “how was it for you?”

“Wonderful,” I tell him honestly, “I loved seeing you like that.”

I kiss his cheek and snuggle in closer to him. I don’t like resting my head on his shoulder, as the difference in our sizes makes my neck sit at a very awkward angle, so he lays an arm across my waist and I rest one of mine against his chest. There’s maybe an inch of space between us. We’re close enough to kiss again, which we do, but I still have room to shift around as needed. 

As usual, he falls asleep quickly. His chest rises and falls, like a metronome, which is quite welcome for my overly active brain. His hand is still resting on my waist. Every exhale warms my bare skin. He’s beautiful like this. Peaceful. Content. Safe, here in the bed next to me. 

I lie awake for a while, watching my husband sleep and thinking through everything that just happened. 

I remember the first time I had sex. And the time after. And the time after that. All those times in my life where I tried to convince myself; maybe this time I’ll feel something. Maybe this time. And then, always, the unnamed anxiety when I felt nothing. 

Before I ever heard the term “asexual,” I blamed my lack of desire on a great number of things: grief, drugs, the subsequent lack of drugs, my dysfunctional upbringing, some Internal flaw in my wiring. Discovering the term “asexual” changed everything for me. 

It was freeing, yes, to finally have a label for what I felt and didn’t feel, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t also feel a sense of loss. I thought that I would go my entire life without knowing how it felt to be with someone and want to be with them. I thought I would never experience this. Not just sex, but everything around it; that intimate connection with someone. Laying yourself bare in every way with another person who does the same for you. 

This is what it’s supposed to feel like. 

I study Peter in the low light.  The slight movement of his eyelids. The way his mouth hangs slack. I loop my arm around him as he snores softly beside me. I get it, now. What people search for. What we long for. It might not have happened through the most traditional sense, but I finally understand what people call “making love”. 

*

Sex never becomes a focus of our relationship, but it does give me a deep sense of satisfaction any time I get to see him blissed out. It thrills me to know I can make him feel like that. He never pushes me, he never asks for more than I’m ready to give him, but we explore together. We find out what works for us. What doesn’t. We talk through everything, just as we always have, from those very first conversations about landholdings and trust funds. 

We’re still a team. In every way. I anchor him on the tough days. He makes me laugh when it feels impossible. It’s funny, actually. This started as a marriage of necessity: two people making the best of a bad situation, and it still is a marriage of necessity, but the meaning behind it has changed. I need Peter in my life. I need his patience, his kindness. I need everything that is him. Maybe that should feel scary, but it doesn’t. It makes sense, in a way. Peter was always meant to be in my life, it simply took us a while to realize that. 

__________________________

Six months after we begin our hushed campaign, Mum and I decide to tell Phillip. Our hesitation had nothing to do with Phillip himself; Mum and I both trust him now, but we agreed that the fewer people who knew about our plan, the better. That said, if any of this is going to work, we’re going to need to have as much of the family on our side as possible. 

I still haven’t told Henry. I hate lying to him, but that’s how it has to be for now. Honestly though, I think I’m most excited to tell Alex one day. I cannot wait to see his reaction when he realizes we have ended the monarchy. Though he will certainly be put out that he wasn’t a more active participant in the second British revolution. 

Phillip is initially quite shocked by our announcement, which is fair. He stands and paces quickly in front of us, trying to take it all in. Then he stops and places a hand on his hip and runs his other through his hair. 

“What you are talking about here is the destruction of an institution nearly as old as this country itself. This is… this is a dissolution of everything our family spent hundreds of years building. An entire fucking legacy. A monarchy. Ended. Just like that.”

“It wouldn’t end immediately,” Mum tries to assure him, “but slowly, over time.” 

“Yes, you said that,” Phillip nearly snaps, “This is insane,” he mutters, and resumes pacing. 

I try next, “Imagine what your life would be like without the monarchy, Phillip. Imagine the freedoms we could have when we’re not bound by protocol.”

“What is so wrong with protocol?” Phillip asks, a hint of hysteria in his voice, “what is so impossibly wrong with the life we have now?”

“Because it’s not ours,” Mum says, “Our livelihoods are bought and paid for by British citizens. There is nothing in our lives that was built by our own hands. Where is the pride in that?” 

Phillip doesn’t say anything. As he continues to pace, I try again. 

“Our country could flourish, Phillip, without a monarchy. Think of how our peoples’ lives would improve without the sovereign tax. The added income would boost the economy and ease the financial strain so many people are currently facing.” 

Phillip pauses in his pacing, “I don’t want people to suffer,” he says, looking me fully in the face. 

“I know you don’t, Phillip.” I tell him, “and it wouldn’t only benefit them! Think of what this could also mean for us. We could go outside, walk down the street, without it being a whole production. We could even have some modicum of privacy for the first time in our lives. And your children, Phillip! Do you really want your children to grow up as we did? The screaming crowds and aggressive photographers, and those bizarre nicknames the press used to give us? They’ve already started doing that to William and Cece.”

Phillip nods and continues pacing. I walk over to him and place a hand on his arm, “It isn’t the end, Phillip. Our family will endure. But we could give power back to the citizens of this country and then we would be free to live our own lives as we see fit; either in the public eye or out of it. And what is more, we would go down in history for righting centuries of wrongs. That can be our legacy.” 

He’s looking at me again, and I know I’ve caught his attention, “If we do this, Phillip, if we, as a Royal Family, abolish the monarchy, then we will go down in history as the only Royals who put their country and their people above all else. And most importantly, William and Cecilia will be free from the life we were forced into.” 

Phillip nods. He still seems uncertain, but I know he is on our side with this. Mum and I just lit a fuse and upended his entire world. He needs some time to adjust to his new reality. We give him that time. He leaves the room, looking as harrowed and worried as I’ve ever seen. 

I text Martha, not specifying any of the details of the meeting, but letting her know about Phillip’s current emotional state. If I know my brother as I think I do, he’ll need some time alone with this, and then he will likely ask his wife her opinion on the matter.  

As predicted, two days later, Phillip schedules a meeting with us. 

“I’m in,” he says, “what do you need me to do?”

_______________________

Mum and I schedule a meeting with the newly elected Prime Minister. Asha Kerry is the youngest elected official our country has ever had. She was only twenty five years old when she was elected PM. She joined Parliament at twenty two, barely out of college and ready to take on the world, and she rose quickly through the ranks. 

We meet in her office. After the usual curtsying and  formalities, we sit down at a table and tell her we would like to address Parliament. Then we tell her why. Her face is impassive, she gives absolutely nothing away. After Mum finishes speaking, Ms. Nicholson smiles. 

“You certainly have my support, Your Highness.” 

*

The following week, Mum is scheduled to speak in a joint session. The Prime Minister is the only other person who knows about this. We all agreed that if word got out, it would lead to massive rumors and speculation, which could ruin any hope we have of making our case. Especially if Gran was to ever find out about it. I almost tell Henry when he calls me the day before our meeting, but I don’t. The less he knows, I remind myself, the better off he will be. I can’t risk his safety like that. 

As Mum and I wait in a side chamber on the morning we are to address Parliament, the door opens and in walks Phillip and Martha. I’ve barely had time to register my surprise when I see Peter walk in behind them. Then, to my complete and utter astonishment, Henry and Alex file in behind the rest.

I cross the room quickly and throw my arms around my younger brother. When he lets me go, I look from him to Alex and back again. 

“I thought you weren’t allowed back in this country.”

“I’m not,” Henry says. His grin is almost mischievous, so like Alex’s. “I guess you could say I snuck in.”

“Gran could have you locked up for this, you know.” 

Henry laughs, “Hopefully that won’t be a problem much longer.”

I can feel myself beaming up at him. He’s here. Henry is here. In London. For the first time in years. Yet, as thrilled as I am to see him, this brings up even more questions; “How… how did you know about this?”

Henry smiles and glances over at Alex, who is deep in conversation with Mum, “It turns out, my husband plays Words With Friends with our mother.”

This explanation is so unexpected that it startles a laugh out of me, “What?”

“Yes,” Henry says, “Apparently, this has been going on for years. She told us everything last week.”

I turn to Mum, “I thought it was too risky to tell anyone else.” 

“It was,” she conceded, “But what’s life without a little risk? And anyway, our best chance now is to stand together. All of us. Our country needs a show of solidarity from their Royal Family, now more than ever.”

We enter the room when called and as we file in, the room fills with the low hum of voices. Whatever the assembled members of Parliament expected during session today, this was not it. In fact, there have never been this many members of the Royal Family in the House of Parliament before. 

We take our seats, leaving one open beside Mum’s, then she walks to the podium and delivers the address we spent weeks writing together. As she addresses Parliament, her family stands behind her; her three children and their partners presenting a united front behind their mother. I look over at the seat we left empty. A place that will forever and always be held for the one member of our family who should be here today, witnessing the love of his life making history. Again. 

We stand together; Mum, Phillip, Martha, Henry, Alex, Peter and myself, and ask that the Queen of England be removed from the throne.

The measure is passed by an overwhelming majority. 

__________________________________

Long Live Queen Catherine

The Independent

In a truly historic moment today, Parliament has voted to remove Her Majesty, Queen Mary, as the reigning monarch of England. Her Royal Highness Catherine, Princess of Wales, has officially been crowned Queen. This is the first time in our nation’s history that a succession has taken place without the death of the previous monarch. 

In a prepared statement released after her speech to Parliament, Queen Catherine said: 

“I have a great deal of love and respect for my mother. She led this country well for many years. This measure was never about drawing sides or ousting a family member and reigning monarch, it was about doing what was right; not only for our family, but for our country. It is a great honor for anyone to lead the people of Britain, but as with any aspect of life, there comes a point when it is time to step down and allow the next in line to take their place at the helm of this great nation. After nearly half a century, that time has come once again. 

“I do not take my position lightly. I am aware of what our country has endured, especially in recent years, and I intend to do all I can to better the lives of our citizens. Both Arthur and I believed very strongly in equality. It was something we discussed often and fought for throughout our lives together. I intend to carry on his legacy by leading this country into a time of equality and prosperity.” 

Chapter Text

The Prodigal Son Returns

The Daily Mail 

In Her Majesty Queen Catherine’s first act as reigning monarch, she publicly proclaimed her support for her youngest son, whose abdication is still viewed by some as our nation’s greatest shame. The Queen, however, disagrees with this idea. 

“My son Henry is, was, and forever will be a member of this family. All Arthur and I ever wanted was for our children to find happiness, and to have a life they are proud of. Henry is making that life for himself in the United States with his partner Alex and I could not be more proud of him.”

Sources close to the Queen claim the primary reason Prince Henry has not been seen in London since his abdication was due to express orders from Dowager Queen Mary. With the change of the monarch, that edict has been overturned. Prince Henry is scheduled to visit his family in London next week. 

*

As soon as mum is officially on the throne and I know he is safe, I tell Peter everything. He gapes at me as I go through our whole plan and when I’m done, the kiss he gives me is so enthusiastic that I’m left feeling thrown back in my seat. 

“My god,” he says breathlessly, his lips next to mine, “I’m so in love with you.” 

My responding laugh is cut off with another kiss as passionate as the first. We carry that energy back to our bedroom and do not emerge for the rest of the evening.

A few days later, Henry and Alex visit us at Frogmore for the first time. I show Henry everything; the renovations to the house, the music studio, the little vegetable garden I started the previous summer. We compare notes on the vegetables I am able to grow here and what Henry is able to grow in his burgeoning garden in Austin. 

He and Alex stay for a full week and in that time the four of us are photographed daily around the city. The press are just as relentless about seeing him now as they were in the past. There is not a moment when we are out that we are not followed by at least two people hiding behind cameras. I’m immediately concerned for Henry; how he will handle this renewed attention, but he simply smiles as he holds Alex’s hand and kisses his cheek as cameras click away. His laugh is free and easy, his skin is bronzed from all the Texas sun, and for once he doesn’t even seem to notice all the cameras. Or maybe he simply doesn’t care anymore. 

It feels so good to have Henry back, not just with our family, but also here in London. The city was greyer, these last three years without him. We often stay up late talking, long after both of our partners have gone to bed. At one point, Mr. Wobbles climbs up on the couch and curls up next to him and Henry scratches that spot behind his ears. 

“Oh my god, you missed him, didn’t you?” I say.

“No,” Henry replies immediately. Defensively. Mr. Wobbles nuzzles his face into Henry’s hand, and my brother relents, “Okay, fine, yes I did. I missed your idiot cat.” 

I give him a smug little nod and he rolls his eyes. Then he says seriously, “I missed a lot of things here. I didn’t think I would.”

When Henry and Alex leave a few days later, it is with promises of returning in a few months, along with plans for Peter and I to fly to the states in the interim. 

_______________________

The Beginning of the End for the Monarchy?

The Daily Mail  

In a shocking statement released by the palace today, Her Majesty Queen Catherine announced that British museums will begin returning our historic artworks to their countries of origin.

“Art is a way we honor our culture,” the Queen said in a brief statement, “stealing another country’s artwork denies them that same honor. For hundreds of years, Britain has held hostage the cultures of others. That ends now.”

Of all of the monarchy’s more unconventional decisions since Queen Catherine took the throne, this one has been seen as the most divisive. However, while many in our country see this as a betrayal by the Royal Family, the majority of the country does seem to favor this decision. 

The palace has also announced that they will replace the soon-to-be empty museum wings with  new art exhibitions featuring work by immigrant and refugee artists, as well as art by English LGBTQ+ artists. Prince Henry will be overseeing the latter. 

“There are many in Great Britain who deserve to have their voice heard, and deserve to take their place in our nation’s history,” Her Majesty said, “These exhibits are simply the first step toward that.” 

While many view this change as positive, and rather progressive, a great number of the older generations are concerned by the direction the Royal Family is heading. Some fear that this is an opening salvo for what will be the end of the monarchy as we know it. 

*

There is much less pressure placed upon me, after Mum is crowned. I still do appearances and all that, but the wall between my public and private selves comes down. I don’t have to hide who I am anymore. I don’t have to smile for the press in quite the same way. I’m still conscious, always, of what I say when I’m on camera, (I don’t think that will ever go away), but I’m allowed to be more honest. To be myself. 

I come out to the world as Aromantic and Asexual. In true millennial fashion, I post about it on instagram first, and follow it later with a short interview. Peter makes his own statement of support through social media as well. 

To my utter surprise, my coming out is very well received by the public and press alike. I give more interviews, write articles, and along with my letters from The Beatrice Fund, I start receiving letters from people who realized they were Ace after hearing about my experience. Each of those letters are just as treasured as any of the others I have received.

However, the best possible outcome of all this is that the questions surrounding my reproductive system are finally silenced. People still ask invasive questions, of course, but now they are mostly about our sex life. As usual, Peter and I keep that information to ourselves.

_______________________

Queen Catherine to Drastically Cut Sovereign Tax 

The Guardian 

In yet another stunning move by Her Majesty Queen Catherine, The Firm announced plans to end the Sovereign Tax. This truly unprecedented move has left many uncertain for the future of our country. The Sovereign Tax is nearly as old as Great Britain itself. It is the bedrock of the monarchy. Her Royal Highness, Dowager Queen Mary, has already released a statement vehemently opposing the decision. However, as she is no longer on the throne, she does not have the power to stop this measure, which will take effect early next month.

Basil Morgan, a Kent resident, expressed his concern for this new decree; “I think this is the end of the monarchy,” he said, “I am sorry to see that our once grand empire is being torn asunder like this. I had hoped for better from Her Majesty.”

While the opposition to this is very vocal, they also seem to be in the minority. Many British citizens, especially those in younger generations, welcome this change. 

“I’m all for it,” one reader commented, “lord knows I could use the extra money.’

*

Three years after Mum is officially made Queen, and a year after the Sovereign tax is ended, things in our country begin to shift in significant ways. With the boost in our economy, the number of people below the poverty line is cut nearly in half. What is more, crime rates are lower, birth rates are higher, and all over the country the mood is just… Happier. It’s not perfect, nothing ever is, but the whole country seems to be much more relaxed than they ever were before.

During this time, Peter is promoted to Head of the Art Department at the Royal College of Art. To celebrate, after term is over, we take a two-week-long trip to Greece and decide to renew our vows in a small, private ceremony on a beach in Santorini. It’s only the two of us and a local officiant. Peter takes my hands and as I watch him speak, my heart feels so full of love for this incredible, kind, patient man. 

To this day, I’m still not sure how any of this happened. I don’t know how I wound up married on a beach, and in love for the only time in my life. Still a princess, yes, but free of so many of the confines I knew as I was growing up. 

Peter and I kiss when prompted and, after the ceremony is over, we hold each other for a long time. When we do break apart, we sit together in the sand and watch the sunset. Peter’s body is as warm and solid against mine as ever and I feel a sense of peace I didn’t know was possible. 

_______________________

True Democracy comes to the UK

The Guardian 

In a shocking move, Queen Catherine instated an immediate decree, which passed in Parliament just this morning, formally abolishing the monarchy. The former royal family have been officially stripped of all titles and their financial portfolio is set to be liquidated by the end of this year. All proceeds will be given back to the country and most of their family’s landholdings (excluding very comfortable homes for each of them) are set to be returned to the country as well.

In a speech this morning, our very last Queen of England said, “It has been an honor for my family to serve as your monarch, but the time has come for our rule to end. An empire is a remarkable thing, but empires do not belong in the 21st century. We must do what is best for our country, and for the world, and move forward now as a democracy.” 

The royal family has already started making plans for their post-royal life. Queen Catherine revealed that she has been offered and accepted a position as a professor of English literature at Oxford University. She will begin teaching next term, under her new official surname: Fox.  

*

Peter and I move out of Frogmore Cottage. We find a lovely little house on an acre or so of land not far outside London. There’s a large backyard and an old run down guest house that we have renovated. Between all our family and friends, the guest house is never empty for long. 

Life after royalty is better than I could have ever dreamed. Without all the trappings and protocol and other such nonsense, we start to live as any two other people in the world. Though most of my wealth is now gone, we still live quite comfortably between Peter’s income and the money dad left me (which includes regular royalty payments from his James Bond days). 

The only holdover from our royal life is our security detail, which is still paid for by the country. We might not officially be British royalty anymore, but there are still heightened security concerns to attend with. With that in mind, Parliament agreed to cover those costs, at least for the foreseeable future. 

*

A year after the monarchy ends, we’re cooking dinner together one night and discussing our futures when he asks me, “what do you want to do now?”

It’s such an innocent question. One I hadn’t consciously considered before, but one I can answer immediately: “I want to start a record label.”

“Oh!” Peter exclaims. He stops stirring the pasta in the saucepan, “of course,” he says, “that makes sense.” 

“It does?” 

His smile is warm as he resumes stirring, “Bea you have had a music studio in every place you’ve ever lived, and you use it constantly. It is quite literally your happy place. Why not turn what you love into a profession?” 

Peter blows on a spoonful of pasta and sauce and extends it out to me to taste, which I do. Then I say, “There are so many talented musicians out there, Peter, but the world doesn’t know about them. They deserve to have their stories told.”

Peter shuts off the stove, turns to me and pulls me into his arms.

“Do you know what I love most about you?” he asks. I shake my head and he kisses me, “You have the most incredible heart. You truly believe in people; in their stories and in their voices. Of course you would find a way for those voices to be heard. Quite literally. This is a marvelous idea, Bea.”

I smile and kiss him and wonder, yet again, how I got so lucky. 

Over the next year, I start working to bring Honeybee Records to life. This was never a possibility for me before. Princesses don’t own record labels. But the truth is, it’s an idea I’ve had in my head for years, if not consciously. I remember back in my uni days (the sober ones), going to bars and open mic nights and seeing some truly incredible, talented people baring their soul for a roomful of strangers. I was obsessed with it, without really knowing why. Not just with the music, but with that vulnerability. The way someone could stand under a hot stage light and present their soul up for people to see. That was not something I’d ever experienced anywhere else. 

I majored in concert violin, but I also had a minor in music production, which not only gave me rudimentary sound mixing skills, but also taught me the basics of running a music business. Business was something I initially found no real interest in during Uni, but mum pushed for it. She said it would be beneficial to me in the long run. I had no idea how right she was. 

I start small. I find a few artists and build a solid base before going public with anything. I lurk in the back of open mic nights, and go to college shows. I find people with stories that need to be told and give them an opportunity to do that. 

*

My life now is one I never dreamed I would have. My days are filled with work I love, running companies that I believe in, and my nights are spent largely with Peter. I also remain close with my family, which is as surprising as anything else that has happened since we gave up the crown. 

I see Henry at least a few times every year. He and Alex fly home, or we fly there. Later, Henry and Alex bring their children. Their kids play with William and Cecilia and their newest sibling- baby Arthur. Mum and I meet regularly for tea. And later, when it’s Phillip’s to run for Prime Minister, I get to vote for the very first time. When Phillip is elected, the entire family celebrates.  

As the years pass, there are family dinners and holidays together and all of those wonderful idyllic family moments, and not many cameras (other than our own). Yes, there will always be those looking for a picture, but they become fewer and farther between. Much like the institution itself, the country outgrows the Royal Family. We blend in now. We are less of a spectacle. Less of an oddity. We are simply citizens of the United Kingdom, like everyone else. No more. No less. 

In my life I have been so many things: A princess. An addict. A rebel. An activist. A revolutionary. A destroyer and producer. Flawed and free in equal measure. 

These are all parts of me. Bits and pieces that make up a whole person who tried her best with the life she was given. A person who learned and failed and somehow kept going. A person who loved and was loved. As she was. For who she was.