Over fighting for me.
He fled Ledonia in the dead of night, leaving behind a scandal that was talked about for years. I was twelve, suddenly notorious, unwelcome in the world I'd been born into with one brush stroke that sent me to Nona in Villadorata.
The bullies at my new public high school had been creative with their taunts. “Disgraced Daddy's little princess” was the kindest thing they'd call across the schoolyard. I won’t mention the others. I'd learned to keep my head down.
I adapted. I had to. There was no other choice.
So, I became someone new, someone no one could connect me to.
Change your name, and you can change your life’s trajectory.
The beauty of anonymity is freedom. I can attend events, cultivate sources, write commentary about behavior I understand all too well, and nobody connects me to anything except the byline I've created.
My phone rings. Unknown number. It usually means either somebody wants to sell me insurance I can't afford, or someone has information.
I answer it using my alter ego, hoping for the latter.
“Good afternoon. This is Ronan Clementine, the Director of Communications for His Majesty, King Frederic.”
It’s clearly a prank call.
“Uncle Bertie, I’m busy, you know,” I reply, a smile in my voice.
The man at the other end of the line repeats, “I am not your Uncle Bertie. I’m Ronan Clementine, Director of Communications at the palace. His Majesty requests your presence this afternoon at three o'clock."
“You’re very good, Uncle Bertie. You sound just like you’ve got a carrot stuck?—”
“Miss!” The prim and proper voice cuts me off. "I was told to invite you to the palace today at three o’clock to meet His Majesty.”
I narrow my eyes, moving the phone from one ear to the other. “You’re not my uncle?”
“I am not.”
“And this isn’t some kind of joke?”
“It’s deadly serious.”
“What does the King want to talk to me about?”
“His Majesty would like to meet with you regarding your recent articles about a particular member of the royal family. This afternoon at three. We’ve spoken with Judith Giovanni, and she gave us the green light to talk directly with you.”
My stomach hollows. They’ve cleared this with my boss.
As if declining an invitation from the King of Ledonia is something people do.
“We can send a car to your residence if you require transport.”
“No, no. That won’t be necessary,” I reply rather hurriedly. The last thing I want is for the royal family to figure out who I really am.
“That’s settled then. Mention your name at the gatehouse. The guards will let you in. Good afternoon.” The line goes dead, his words sliding over me like ice water.
I stare at my phone as though it's personally betrayed me.
The King wants to talk with me at the palace, a place I haven't set foot in as my true self since I was twelve years old. Where people probably still whisper my family's name there as a cautionarytale about trust and betrayal.
This is it. It’s all over. Someone's figured it out. Someone's connected the dots between my insider knowledge and my actual inside experience.
The King’s going to have me prosecuted. Exposed. The country will know who I really am.
