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Chapter Text

26 August 1988

Her arrival at Highgrove is unexpected. Unwanted, she suspects. She wasn’t due to meet him and pick up the boys from their week with him until the following evening. His surprise when she walks into his study, the subsequent tightening of his features, is not masked quickly enough by the smile. He stands and makes his way toward her, leaning in to peck her cheek, hands on her upper arms.

“Hello,” she greets him.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” he responds, and she shrugs.

“I should have called.”

“No, this is your home too. You’re always welcome.” She shoots him a skeptical look, but he doesn’t notice, already walking away. “I’ll have the boys informed you’ve arrived. Zara and Peter are here, and they’ve all run off on some adventure or another,” he begins to pick up the phone.

“I’d rather you didn’t tell them I’m here yet,” she tells him. “I snuck in to see you first…I wanted to–”

A sob makes its way out of her, and then she falls silent with her hand over her mouth, swallowing hard, and he places the phone back down, looking up at her with a frown. They’ve rarely been together of late, nor spent more than a necessary moment together since their anniversary, and when she has seen him, he’s been quiet, contemplative, even more so than normal. She realizes she has no idea what’s going on behind her husband’s eyes, and that is completely mutual.

“What is it?” he asks.

“I need to talk to you,” she says softly.

“You’re pale,” he notes. “Are you forcing yourself to be sick again?”

“No, it’s not that,” she leans against the back of a chair, gripping it, knuckles white, trying to ground herself with something. He walks toward her, studying her, but not in a way that’s critical. His gaze is soft and concerned, and she wonders at the change as he stands just in front of her. She feels another panic attack coming, swallows deeply, but not before the shaking starts and the shallow breathing. Her knees start to buckle, and she catches herself as she begins to go down, and then she finds herself in his arms, her weight caught against his chest, his arms tight around her, keeping her up. His breath is on her forehead, and his heart beats rapidly beneath her ear. For the first time in a long time, she clings to him like a lifeline, her shaking hands bunching around his shirt.

“Diana,” he breathes out quickly. “Are you alright?”

“I’m sorry,” she loosens her hold, pulls away from him, blinking rapidly a few times, and putting both hands back on the chair to hold herself together. He’s searching her, eyes flitting up and down all over her, and she quakes under his scrutiny because she can’t remember the last time he actually looked at her for longer than a quick scowl of disappointment.

“Are you… are you pregnant?”

They were together recently enough that it would be possible, some sort of duty he seemed to think he had to perform on their anniversary each year, but she’s not sure if he’s implying it would be his child or accusing her of a continued affair.

She breathes out the most cordial response she can manage, making sure to let him know there hasn’t been anyone else since him. “I’m not that stupid that I’d force that on you again. We used protection, remember? No. I’m not pregnant.”

There’s a flicker of something across his face, but he masks it so quickly she figures it was her imagination.

“I’ve had a scare, Charles.”

“What sort of scare?”

“My doctor found a place of concern under my left arm, in a lymph node. They found it a couple of months ago, and watched it for a while. It hasn’t gone and they think it might be– ”

A deep frown flickers across his face. “Cancer?”

“Maybe. They called this morning, and scheduled a biopsy on Monday afternoon,” she admits. “That’s why I came today. I was hoping to see the boys, but ask you to keep them until Tuesday, so I don’t have to worry about them when…”

“Of course. Of course. I’ll make sure they are cared for,” he nods quickly, looking at her in that serious, studious gaze of his.

“What, Charles?” she asks when he stares a little too long. “Just say whatever it is.”

“Diana, why didn’t you tell me when they found it?”

She laughs bitterly. “Don’t pretend like you care.”

“Care? Of course, I care; you’re my wife, the mother of my children.”

“I didn’t come to fight,” she says sharply.

“I’m not fighting against you, Di. I’m fighting for you to know that, of course, I care. Deeply.”

“You’ve never—” she stops herself. “Please. I’m sorry. I’m a bit on edge. I’d appreciate if you gave me the grace to be so for once,” she sniffs, quickly brushing a hand under her eye.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he mutters, and the genuineness of his heartbreak catches her off guard. His hands go to her upper arms and he steps closer. She lets her head fall to his collarbone as she lets it all catch up to her as she’s standing in front of him. “Not to you.”

“God, Charles. I…I know I’ve done a lot of idiotic things to myself, struggled to be healthy, but I don’t want to die. I know it would be easier for you…for everyone, but–”

“Don’t say such things,” he snaps, yanking away just enough to look at her, fire in his eyes. “How could you even say that?”

She sighs heavily, avoiding eye contact with him, and gives a lame shrug. “How else are you going to get out of this marriage that’s making you hate me more and more every day?”

He glares at her, truly, wholeheartedly glares. “Don’t ever say that. I’d never want something to happen to you. Don’t you dare accuse me of being that heartless, Diana. Don’t you dare.”

Diana presses her fingers to her eyes to block the flow of tears. He’s reaching for her elbow, guiding her to a chair, and kneeling before her, her hands folded into his where they rest on her lap.

“I’m coming home with you.”

“Don’t be silly,” she argues. “I’ll phone you once I know. We can begin to make decisions from there if it is the worst outcome.”

“No. You’re not going to be alone when you find out. I’m coming to Kensington with you. Or you can stay here and–”

“Charles. Please,” she argues.

But he’s already crossing the room and making arrangements with his private secretary, telling him to clear his schedule and what to pack up to take to Kensington. She watches, leaning back in the chair, letting the exhaustion wash over her. She catches the glances of Charles’ private secretary, wonders what her husband has said to him behind her back all these years, wonders what he’s thinking about her now.

She can’t help the manipulation of the public, even if the public consists of one private secretary. She places her hand low over her belly. Let them think she’s pregnant, as Charles had just moments before. Anything better than the real possibility. The last thing she needs is a possible illness plastered all over the news pages, and a royal baby is speculated often enough when she and Charles appear together in public, those people out there wanting so desperately believe that their’s is a happy marriage, that she’d rather feed that rumor instead.

It isn’t long before he’s standing before her again, telling her that the boys are out in the garden with their cousins. She wants to see them more than anything but is afraid she will burst into tears at seeing them. Still, she stands and makes her way in that direction, aware Charles is just behind her.

She’s never been sure where their relationship is worst: at Highgrove, his happy place where he can be himself, but where Camilla’s presence makes him resent Diana’s presence, or at Kensington, where she’s at home, and he’s crawling the walls for lack of privacy from them. But she’s very aware and nonetheless shocked when she feels his hand on her lower back, warm through her blouse when he absolutely does not have to be touching her.

He’s doing it voluntarily.

Her pace slows just a bit, and they come outside to the lawn, his private secretary trailing behind and then veering off to talk with the children’s caregiver in the yard. She still hasn’t been spotted, but she spies all four children rolling around in the grass, Zara peddling away on a small bike. Tears rim her eyes as she imagines the worst: that time is dwindling on how long she will be able to be here, to watch them play and grow. Her hand flies to her mouth to stifle her tears, and Charles steps a bit closer to her side, arm tightening around her waist.

“Will! Harry!” he shouts. “Look who is here!”

With joyous shouts, her boys come running, and she kneels to catch them in her arms. She buries her face in their hair, kisses their faces, and holds them tight, aware that Charles hasn’t removed his hand from her once. It has slid up her back to hold firmly to her shoulder. She half expects to find a photographer hiding behind the shrubs, prepares herself to put on a show of happiness. But it’s just them and her niece and nephew, and Charles’ hand is on her for no other reason but to show his support.

It’s enough to make her want to sob. But she doesn’t. Not with the boys there.

The boys talk a mile a minute in their little boy gibberish about what they’ve been up to in the days they’ve been here with their father, Peter interjecting comments here and there and Zara nodding along. Diana finds herself sitting on the top step and him sitting next to her. She finds him wrapping his hand around hers, his thumb rubbing her engagement ring absent-mindedly.

“Diana,” he says softly as they watch the children play and await Anne’s arrival to pick up her children.

“What?” she turns to look at him, gasping slightly at the strong gaze looking back at her.

“For all the trouble we’ve had, I’d never want you to think that dying would…would solve anything,” he says.

Oh, so he’s back on that conversation again. In truth, she hadn’t expected such a passionate reprove of her remark.

“Wouldn’t it?”

“No.”

“Come now,” she says bitterly. “You’d be free to be with her whenever you wanted without anyone judging the poor widower Charles.”

“I don’t want to talk about her,” he says.

“That’s a first.”

“I haven’t seen much of her in a couple of months,” he admits. “They’ve been overseas, and…she and Andrew are having another baby.”

“She and Andrew?” Diana clarifies. “It’s not yours?”

He springs off the steps, whirling around on her, fire in his eyes. “Of course, it’s not mine! As I just said, I haven’t seen her alone since a gathering at their home three and a half months ago.”

He’s claiming to also not have been with anyone else since her? That would be the longest he’d gone since before Harry was born. She had a few doubts.

“How far along is she?”

“Six weeks. She said…well they’re recommitting to each other or something like that. They’ve gone away to do that.”

There’s only a hint of bitterness in his voice. Mostly, he sounds indifferent, and he’s holding her gaze. She wonders how long he’s been processing all of this to be so calm about it now.

“You mean she ended it?”

“Yes. Or rather…I think, I think I did…a while ago,” Charles sighs. “I don’t want to discuss it. But the point of all of it is that no, I don’t think it would make anything easier for anybody if you died, Diana, and I never want to hear you say it again. The world…it would be a wretched place without you. I can’t bear the thought of your heart not beating in it. William and Harry…they’d be so lost without you. So whatever this is, if you’re ill…promise me you’ll fight it. That you’ll fight to stay.”

“I can’t,” she whispers around a lump in her throat. “I’ve been fighting too many things for too long. I’m exhausted. And I don’t have anything left.”

“I know,” he nods, kneeling in front of her, placing a hand over her knee. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

Her eyes fly to his in surprise to hear an apology slip past his lips. It’s so completely out of character for him, and she studies his face.

His hand reaches up to her cheek. “I’ll fight it with you. Us against them this time, all right?”

“You mean that? Truly?” she asks, leaning into his touch.

Their eyes are locked, staring into one another’s souls.

“Yes. I’m coming home with you,” he tells her, “not for appearances or duty. But because it’s time I stand beside you and mean it. And if this doesn’t give me a reason, then I think I’m a worse person than everyone thought possible.”

She kisses the palm of his hand softly, and he smiles so faintly that she almost misses it. He sits beside her again, and she slips her hand over his mid-thigh, holding on tight, feeling him jolt from the contact. His arm slips around her back, drawing her to his side, and her head falls to his shoulder. Warm fingers slip their way under her blouse just above her hip, and her skin shivers beneath the touch. She isn’t sure if the touch is accidental or purposeful, but he doesn’t remove it.

“Somehow, I think I’ve missed you,” she admits.

“Somehow?” he asks.

“You weren’t exactly kind the last time we were…intimate like this.”

He breathes shakily. “I remember that night differently, I suppose.”

“I was referring to the morning.”

“Ahhh,” he acknowledges the memory of yet another fiery argument that ended in a slammed door and Diana sobbing between the sheets of the bed they’d shared for one night.

“And it’s not as though you’ve touched me since,” she mutters

He sits very still, and she’s not sure he heard her, and then his lips are on top of her head and she jolts in surprise. Then he presses a feather-light kiss to her forehead, his fingers slipping further across her skin under her shirt to her belly, drawing her impossibly close to his side. A fire within her is rekindling, and he’s fanning it to flame ever so slowly. Her hand slips further up his thigh, taunting him. She’s rarely known him to desire her so openly, and she drinks from this new source of adrenaline coursing through her like a lifeline.

“Di, the children,” he warns, voice deep, and she withdraws a few inches, having some sort of mercy on him.

And that’s how Anne finds them when she steps outside behind them to pick up her children. She does little to hide the surprise on her face when she steps down the steps to look up at them, her eyes trailing across Diana’s hand on the inside of Charles’ thigh, his hand under her shirt holding her close, and neither of them making a move to separate even though she’s watching them. Charles withdraws his hand to the outside of her clothing but doesn’t release her.

“Hello,” Anne says, her tone laced with distrust as she eyes them. Diana wonders how the world turned upside down, and her presence at her husband’s side would cause more surprise and suspicion, than her absence, to his family.

“Anne,” he greets.

“You two look…different,” she settles on a word.

Charles ignores the comment.

“I’m going to Kensington with Diana and the boys. I don’t know when we’ll be back.”

She studies Charles, and then looks at Diana. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” he supplies, hand stroking up and down Diana’s arm. “We’re leaving this afternoon.”

“I don’t suppose this has anything to do with Camilla’s pregnancy,” Anne guesses, watching Diana for a reaction. Whatever she was hoping to see, she doesn’t, Diana staring right back at her with an unflinching face.

“Anne…” Charles warns, his tone biting. “You best not imply what I think you are.”

“Don’t pretend I’m the only one who will wonder. Your sudden absence might look like–”

“Like I’m going home with my wife and children,” he cuts her off. “Nothing more.”

Diana squeezes his thigh. “Can we not do this right now?”

Anne sighs, seeming to give up on getting more information out of her older brother. “How were the children?”

They’ve caught sight of her and are running up to greet her. Charles stands to catch little Harry up in his arms, though Diana remains on the steps, not trusting her legs quite yet.

“Well behaved as always. Although, I do think Peter owes Will a new viewfinder. He tossed it over the balcony.”

Anne sighs again, fixing Peter with a stern glare as she tosses her hand through his hair. “He can have yours as a replacement, don’t you think, Peter?”

That settled, Anne and the children depart. It isn’t long before the Wales family is packed up in the car, Charles driving his family, with a string of cars following them, including someone driving Diana’s vehicle back for her. When Diana glances into the backseat shortly into their drive, she informs Charles the children are asleep. He reaches across for her hand, drawing her knuckles to his lips, and she gasps in surprise.

The tension is palpable. Like it was…before…so long ago, it seems, and on only a few occasions since. They seem to be vibrating with it, and she’s confused as to its origin. She has no doubt as to his desires, nor does she doubt her willingness to give it to him. But only time will tell if they make it through dinner and an evening as a family with that feeling still intact.

She’s taught herself not to hope for such things. And yet, both the look in his eyes and his hand on her thigh are unwavering. It’s the first unwavering thing she’s seen in him in a while when it comes to anything other than Camilla. She can’t make sense of any of it; his attention and desire for her, the apparent ending of his affair with Camila, his affection.

Chapter Text

19 March 1988

“She’s pathetic,” Charles spat into the phone, pacing his study, phone pressed to his ear, and the cord wrapped hopelessly around a couple of pieces of furniture, tying him to the small square he walked. “You should have heard her. Wanting it to work with all her heart.”

“Well, that’s it then,” Camilla states, her tone dry.

“No! It absolutely isn’t,” Charles argued. “A marriage still takes two, and I’m not…I’m not in. I’m not in it.”

“But you are,” she points out. “As I am in mine.”

“But there was a way out until she bloody decided to make me the villain!” he complained.

Camilla is quiet, and all that passes is the breath between them.

“Say something,”

“Perhaps this whole thing with Hugh has been a shock to her,” Camilla says at last.

“To her? He was my friend. I saw the whole bloody thing.”

She sighs heavily. “Have you thought about it?”

“What?”

“Death.”

“God,” he breathes. “Yes. I kept watching Sarah, and all I could think about was if it had been me. And I’ve never wanted you at my side so badly.”

“Hmmm,” Camilla mutters. “And what…Charles, what if it had been her?”

He freezes. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind for a single second that Diana could have died. Just a day before the tragedy, Diana had been out on the slopes with them, like some beautiful and annoyingly joyful tag-along, and if she hadn’t opted to stay back with Fergie that day, she would have been caught in the avalanche too.

Images of her body bruised, bloody and battered, blue and cold as ice, just as Hugh’s had been, flooded his mind. Up until that moment, he’d only thought about how near death he had been, about all the regrets he would have had if his life had ended that day.

The thought of Diana dying sent a chill straight through his bones.

“You’d be free of her,” Camilla prompts.

But he can’t speak. Can’t utter a single word. He’s imagining her casket being lowered beneath the chapel floor, Harry and Will devastated at his side, and he feels lost.

“Then again…” Camilla says at last. “Maybe you don’t want to be rid of her as you much claim to.”

She utters something else about the children needing her and then says goodnight.

“Goodnight,” he manages back, his voice soft.

He puts the phone back in its cradle, wrestling the cord free from its tangles, and then sinks into a chair, head in his hands, broken by the thought of something that hasn’t even happened. He begins to think, as the hours go by, that he’s pulled on a thread he won’t be able to stop until the whole bloody thing has unraveled completely, him along with it.

26 August 1988

She makes a note of Charles hovering in the doorway, watching as Diana tucks the boys in for the night, not quite in the room with them and not quite present with them mentally.

He’s been quiet most of the evening, and while it isn’t unusual of him, she doesn’t feel it’s because he’s simply tolerating her like usual. Instead, he’s watching her, a pensive melancholy atmosphere wrapped all around him. She feels like she’s in a fishbowl in her own home, his eyes on her every move, and she is so incredibly used to being utterly ignored by him she doesn’t know what to think.

But the boys are all giggles and kisses, and she revels in it, soaking it in. She places a final kiss on each of their heads and then makes her way toward the door, where Charles is at last stepping into the room. His eyes meet hers as they pass, and he smiles ever so gently in her direction, body brushing hers. She turns to watch as he leans over and kisses the boys.

“Papa?” Harry’s little voice says softly, to which Charles turns with raised eyebrows. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Charles smiles at him, hands in his pockets. “Both of you.”

“And Mummy?”

“Yes, Mummy loves you too.”

“No,” Harry giggles. “No, Papa, do you love Mummy too?”

Charles visibly starts, and it takes him a moment. “Yes, Harry. I love your Mummy.”

“Good.” Satisfied, Harry burrows deeper into his covers, holding tight to his teddy bear, and closes his eyes.

Diana rushes from the doorway before Charles even has time to notice she’s still there, and her heart is racing as she makes it to the sitting room. He enters just behind her, and she is surprised when instead of making some excuse to go to his own corner of the house, he sits in a chair. She keeps her back turned to him, hands holding firm to the front of her desk.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” she says. “And I’m not one for making demands of you anymore. But earlier…earlier, you said you thought you had ended it. And I want to know exactly what you meant.”

“Diana...” he complains. “Is it not enough that I said it’s over?”

“Haven’t you told me that before?”

Charles sighs heavily. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

“So no, it’s not enough. Please. I’ll ask for no other explanation, no other details. But this one thing…and the reason, perhaps, for why you are so changed…I need to know and understand you fully, Charles.”

“Will you at least look at me while I say it?”

She turns slowly, moving to lean back against her desk, hands still holding onto it firmly at her sides, looking at him across the room in that chair. He loosens his tie and pulls it off, then undoes the top button of his shirt and then another, revealing more of his chest, his sleeves long since rolled up to his elbows when he’d helped towel William’s hair after his bath, holding her gaze the whole time. Or at least attempting to, while she seems to drink in the sight of him looking all domestic.

She’s tempted to let that same bitterness as always fester in her heart that after everything he’s done to her, she still wants him. Still loves him. Still wants him to love her back.

The room is suddenly warm, she finds. He knows she wants him. And she can’t breathe but isn’t sure if it’s with the desire still pulsing between them or the fear of what he will say.

Heaven knows his words can still hurt her.

“I was going to tell them I wanted to separate the day you ambushed me and said the opposite,” he starts.

“Your parents?”

He nods, draping the tie over the arm of the chair.

“In the days after the avalanche, after the funeral… I went to her. Still wanted her. Perhaps more than ever, I was determined to...to be with her.”

Diana blanches.

“And then you decided to play the part of devoted wife, and I—”

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” she interrupts, feeling that familiar anger rise up in her. She doesn’t want to fight. When she told him that afternoon that she couldn’t anymore, she meant it. She has nothing left.

“No. You were right. You need to know,” he pauses, looks down at his hands folded in his lap. “At the same time, Camilla was dutifully taking your side.”

“My side?”

He nods. “Said that I should consider your side of it…ask myself what I would do if it had been you…you that had died. How I would feel… and I expected to say that I would be free to–”

She winces as he trails off, looking up at her.

“But I couldn’t. Couldn’t say that because it isn’t true. You would haunt me every day for the rest of my life…the ways I’d failed you, hurt you, put myself before you. Instead of being free, I’d have to ask the question for the rest of my life what would’ve happened if I’d fought to stay by your side. Fought to be…as Pa would say it, ‘in, not out’. And once I asked myself that, I couldn’t go back. Couldn’t live with it anymore.”

“So you told her that?”

“No. I didn’t. I just, one by one, stopped answering her calls. Stopped choosing her over you.”

“Then how’d you find out about her travel plans and pregnancy?”

“Anne.”

Diana isn’t satisfied. She’d have rathered him broken it off with his words. And yet, the last time he’d done that, he hadn’t truly ended it.

“Just because you stopped choosing her didn’t mean you started choosing me,” she tells him.

“No. But would you believe me if I said I was getting there…and today pushed me to that point?”

“I don’t trust you,” Diana admits, and she sees the flash of anger cross his face.

“All right,” he nods, accepting that as a fair consequence of his actions. "And what about him?"

"Him?" she questions.

"Him."

"There isn't one. Not anymore," she admits.

He studies her a moment, weighing her words.

“If I don’t measure up…you’ll go back to her," Diana tells him. "You know you will. You always do.”

“Not this time,” he says softly, standing and approaching her. “Not this time.”

His hand slips onto her waist, drawing her close, and he moves to kiss her, but she turns her head, giving him her cheek instead. He pulls back, meets her gaze, flinches, and then looks and steps away.

“I’d like you to meet me halfway,” he tells her.

“Halfway?” she laughs bitterly. “Halfway?

He looks angry now. “Yes, Diana. Halfway would be decent of you. You haven’t been perfect either.”

“I would love you, with everything that I am, if you’d let me!” she shouts. “I stood before God and vowed that I would. I vowed that my life, body, loyalty, and devotion were yours. I am yours.”

“Diana,” he sounds tired.

“Why can’t you hear me when I say it?”

“Because I know I’ve fallen from that pedestal you used to hold me on,” he says. “And I can’t stand to look it in the face.”

“Fallen? You really think I’d so badly yearn for your love if you’d fallen?”

“Come now. I’ll never be the prince you thought I was…the one you want. The prince they want for that matter.”

“I don’t give a damn about all of them out there, Charles. I don’t give a damn about who you are to this country. I was never in love with your title, with the crown…I just wanted you. Want you.”

“I’m here. All of me. Yours.”

“But I’ve never had all of you,” she whispers. “I’ve wanted it desperately. But I’ve never had it.”

“I’ve never had all of you either.”

“What?” Diana reels. “Of course you have.”

“No! The world gets a part of you I never have! When it’s you and me, you wither into yourself. You purposefully destroy your body. You hide yourself from me.”

“Charles.”

“I told you once what I loved about you. Your radiance. Your beauty,” he says. “But you box it away. Reserve it for them. Give it only to them.”

“I don’t intend to. I feel so less than when I’m with you.”

“Less than what?”

“Less than her.”

He sighs, eyes closing painfully. When they reopen, they are filled with all the things she always wanted to see but hasn’t since before he put that ring on her finger and the world crashed in.

“Then let's find our way back,” he says softly. “Back to how it was when you were flitting around in that silly tree costume, and all I could see was you.”

Diana can’t help it. She releases all the air she’s been holding as he fixes her with the softest gaze she’s ever received from him, and then she launches herself into his arms, lips passionately connecting with his. He catches her, kisses her after just a second, and then his hands come up to her neck, tilting her chin back with his thumbs to better access her lips.

She gets the strangest feeling that they are unraveling.

Chapter Text

30 July 1988

The sunlight was just beginning to stream in around the edges of the curtains in Diana’s Kensington bedroom, but Charles had been awake for hours. She was sound asleep, facing him, her face peaceful. His own heart was in the same turmoil it had been since March. Maybe, if he’d had someone to talk to about it, they may have told him he had some sort of post-traumatic stress going on. He’d read about it in a journal not long ago, and identified some of the signs in himself.

The avalanche had indeed been traumatic. Losing a friend had shaken him. Watching Hugh’s pregnant wife grieve and then bring another child into the world to raise on her own had made a terrible tragedy much worse.

But it was not any of those things keeping him up at night. It was the woman currently residing next to him, whom he’d just shared his seventh wedding anniversary with the day before.

Camilla had laid a possibility before him that he’d been unable to shake. God, how he’d taken Diana for granted. Certainly, she annoyed him in all the worst ways, and they’d had more than their fair share of problems. But he remembered a time when they’d been happy. He was not entirely sure where it had gone wrong, or when his eyes had started straying back to Camilla. But slowly over time, he’d fallen out of love with his young wife.

He’d even convinced himself he had never loved her. A bald-faced lie.

He never should have married her. He should have known her idealistic, fairytale-filled, childlike view of the world would not mesh with his. He should have known that this family he had been suffocating in since childhood would destroy her. Make her miserable. But he’d taken up his duty, the thought of pleasing his parents, the crown, and placed it front and center.

He’d married her, the “people’s princess.”

26 August 1988

It’s late. They are both in post-encounter bliss, her back to him. He’s quiet. So is she. If this was what finding their way back meant, she was content to let it sit.

She didn’t have time to fight anymore. He didn’t seem to have the will to.

“About what you said earlier…” he mumbles out, lips pressing against her bare shoulder, hand on her hip drawing her back against his body, holding her to him.

“Which?”

“When I asked if you were pregnant,” he kisses the back of her neck. “…you don’t have to worry about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“If it happened, I mean. I wouldn’t be upset.”

“Truly?” she asks, rolling to her back to look over at him, his hand sliding from her hip to her belly.

He nods.

“Not just because a certain person is having another?”

He shakes his head adamantly. “No. I just…I know you wanted more.”

They are both back in that place long ago, on their honeymoon, talking about the future. She wants as many kids as possible. He has a beautiful, glowing young bride and wants to give her the world. And then real life hit, a pregnancy with William that was full of tears and arguments, slamming doors, emergency doctor calls after a horrific fall down a flight of stairs. He’d encountered a side of Diana he’d never seen before, and dreams began to fade.

“I did…but it’s always so hard for me,” Diana acknowledges.

“Maybe if I were present more…and if you promised not to shut me out…” Charles says. “We could make it better. Maybe it would be a way back to us again…a shared thing.”

“If things turn out okay with me, can we talk about it more?”

“I’d like that,” he nods.

She’s partially afraid that he doesn’t mean it. That if she’s healthy, he will head back to Highgrove. That things will go wrong again. Or that Camilla returning home will send him crawling back to her. So many things could happen, and they are things she doesn’t have the willpower to think about when the possibility of being sick is hanging over every second thought.

He asks the location of the lump, and she reluctantly lifts her arm over her head and presses her fingers to it. His fingers soon come up to feel it, a look of anguish passing over his face. It’s real to him then, and she watches him swallow a couple of times before he can talk.

“Did they mention the possibility of it being benign?”

“Yes…” she nods. “Of course they did. That’s why I hadn’t said anything until they called. I didn’t want you to think I was pulling a stunt.”

He kisses her cheek, and she takes that as an admission that he probably would have.

“As far as our steps forward over the coming days, there are going to be medical appointments and photographs of our coming and going. That isn’t to be avoided,” he says. “But perhaps we would do well to feed into the usual speculation that you’re pregnant instead of alarming the entirety of Britain and the Commonwealth about your health.”

“I had the same thought earlier,” she tells him.

He smiles. “We do make a great team when we try.”

His lips press back to hers as they both secretly wish that they had tried more.

"Sleep," he tells her, holding her close and refusing to allow any distance between them at all.

Chapter Text

28 October 1981

He looks every bit the excited young boy as she hands him the unexpected present, wrapped in yellow wrapping paper and tied with a white bow.

“What is this?” he asks.

“Open it,” she encourages, bouncing on her feet, her hands clasped in front of her.

“Did I forget something?” he asks.

“No, Charles. A wife can give her husband a gift without needing one in return.”

He sits with the box on his lap, looking thoughtful. “Is it a special occasion?”

“Oh, very special indeed,” she nods. “Charles, darling, open the present.”

Charles concedes, finally ripping into the paper. He freezes as he lifts the lid and then very gingerly lifts a tiny shoe out of it. He looks up at her.

“Are you–” he swallows.

Diana nods. “I am.”

He stares at her, then back at the tiny shoe in his palm.

“It’s so soon!” he says softly.

Diana laughs.

“Are you happy?” she asks at last.

“Happy?” he swallows again, looking up at her, absolutely beaming. “Diana…”

He’s on his feet, rushing to her and lifting her into his arms. She laughs again. And then, as he sets her back on her feet, he proceeds to kiss her all over her face.

“Happy…darling, I’m so happy.”

She smiles brightly.

“Are you alright?” he asks, looking concerned all of a sudden.

“Everything is proceeding normally,” she nods. “The sickness is starting, though, so I figured I ought to tell you.”

“A baby…Diana, my beautiful wife…” he kisses her again, his hand going to her belly. “I love you so very much.”

“I love you,” she gets out just before he lifts her into his arms again and carries her to his room, and instead of talking about how much they love each other, they decide to show each other instead. Maybe, she thinks, fairytales are real. If this is happily ever after, she never wants it to end.

30 August 1988

He’s by her side the entire time; when they walk into the clinic and she can’t stop the quivering of her hands or force a smile, and during preparation for the out-patient procedure with his hand firmly grasping hers.

She sits up after, sore and tired but otherwise fine. If only she could stop shaking. Charles refuses to leave the room and the nurse quickly learns not to suggest it again at his sharp response. Instead, after the nurse finishes dressing the small incision, Charles dutifully looks away while the same nurse helps her from the dressing gown back into her bra, and then he steps forward with her baby blue blouse in his hand and fixes the young brunette nurse with a pointed look that has her quickly stepping out of his way.

It’s Charles' hands that help her into the blouse and his warm fingers that secure the few buttons by her neck. Diana’s still quivering and cannot meet his eyes.

“We’ll get these rushed,” the nurse says. “You’ll have your results in a couple of days. Until then, take it slow. Rest. And try not to think about it.”

Diana nods as Charles helps her off the high bed.

“All right?” he asks as she’s back on her feet, and she nods again.

They step from the room and down the hall to the waiting room, where there seems to be some sort of a ruckus going on. Through the waiting room windows, she catches sight of the usual crowd of paparazzi in the clinic lobby, and she slows to a halt. She’s thankful that her primary doctor chose to do the procedure in her office instead of at pathology, or the entirety of the world would be shouting about cancer by noon.

Charles steps in front of her as the waiting staff apologizes profusely, his broad shoulders and tall body blocking the cameras’ view of her. All they will get at this moment is his back. He looks down at her, silently giving her a moment to regain her composure. She breathes deeply through her nose and out through her mouth, keeping tears from slipping, and his finger gently lifts her gaze to his.

“Look at me,” he whispers. “No one knows. We’re all right. Just a normal visit. They just want pictures of the Wales. No one knows a thing.”

She nods.

“Fuel the other rumor now, and we’ll be fine,” he reminds her.

She nods again, hand going to her belly.

“Good girl,” he smiles softly, lips pressing to her forehead, and then he steps back to her side, hand on the small of her back, ushering her forward. The door is opened for him by their security, and another clears a path for them. She keeps her hand firmly over her belly, and Charles keeps her protectively close the entire way back to the car, with his hand low on her back.

Pictures are snapped the entire time, and she keeps her head lowered and tucked safely against his shoulder as he ushers her to the car.

She fights the desire to hurl as the car sets into motion, and he releases a long breath of air. By the evening news, the rumors of a third Wales baby are plastered on every gossip network imaginable, and Charles looks smugly proud that not a single rumor of her biopsy is circulating.

What they will do if she actually has cancer, she can’t imagine for the life of her, but she concedes to let him feel some sort of victory.

Diana is exhausted and sore from the procedure, and over dinner, she rubs her temples against the loud stories the boys are telling. Perhaps she shouldn’t have sent the staff home for the evening, like she normally did, striving for normal family life as much as possible. Pain is pounding at her like a thousand hammers. She sighs for the eighth or ninth time, feeling guilty that she’s not enjoying this time with the four of them as a family. Her heart dreads the possibility of leaving her boys behind to fend for themselves in a world and a family they do not yet understand.

She looks up, feeling eyes on her, and finds Charles is studying her. She offers him a forced smile that turns into a wince as Harry lets out an ear-piercing giggle at whatever William is going on about.

“Harry,” Charles warns. “That is not an appropriate volume level for the dinner table.”

Harry pulls a face, always the ornery one, somewhat immune to the feeling of shame when he’s in trouble and perhaps a little spoiled. Charles shoots him a serious glance.

“Harry, you’ll get our playtime taken away,” William jumps in, to which Harry straightens and reaches for his glass. Almost immediately, he knocks it over, milk going all over the table.

Diana jumps up, reaching for her napkin and beginning to blot at the mess. Harry offers his own napkin, jabbing it up toward her and right into her arm, jarring her and sending a jolt of pain right through the place where she’d had her biopsy that morning. She sees spots in the corner of her vision, gasping, and then Charles is standing behind her, hands on her waist.

“Diana, I’ll clean it up.”

“I’ve got it,” she insists, the boys looking at her in concern.

“Diana,” Charles says softly, pulling her away from the table and taking the napkin from her hand. “Go lay down for a few minutes. I’ll handle this.”

She lets out an exasperated breath of air, bolting past him and heading to her room. As she lies against the pillows, she feels all the shame of reacting like an immature teen, but she can’t stop the tears. She does not want to be ill. Wishes it away with everything in her. Yet her life has been so cruel the past few years that she feels a sense of doom she cannot shake off.

She isn’t sure how much time passes, but her sobs have dwindled, and the tears dried in streaks down her face and into her hair. The pain has numbed away too. But she cannot convince herself to go back out and face them. To face him.

Her hysterics have always driven him crazy. He’s had little patience for her all these years. She’s learned to deal with it on her own.

Yet now, her door creaks open, and he enters quietly.

“The boys are watching the telly,” he tells her, and she nods but doesn’t move.

She’s lying stiff as a board, hands folded over her chest, staring at the ceiling. She expects him to leave, but he doesn’t. The bed yields toward his weight as he sits. He looks over his shoulder at her, his hand reaching back and resting over hers.

“I don’t want to leave them,” she whispers.

Charles kicks off his shoes, rolling onto his side and wrapping his arm around her. He pulls her close, and much to her annoyance, she begins to cry softly again. His lips press to her temple. He’s a bit stiff, laying there next to her, cuddling, not something they have ever done, and she suspects he’s being careful not to hurt her.

“Please don’t leave me,” she begs. “Please.”

“I’m here,” he says simply. “Right here.”

She curls into him, burying her face in his neck, and his hand starts to rub up and down her back.

“I’m sorry,” she says at last.

“For what?”

“I know it annoys you when I act like this,” she sniffles.

He does not confirm or deny it, instead pressing his lips to her lips. “I’m going to go start bath time with the boys.”

She moves to get up.

“I can handle it,” he tells her, hand reaching out to stop her. “Rest.”

“I’m fine,” she tells him. “Please let me come. I promise I will go to bed as soon as they do.”

He relents, and she trails behind him to the sitting room, where the boys are watching cartoons on their bellies in front of the television. She notes along the way that the dining table has been cleared, all traces of their dinner cleaned away.

“Will, Harry,” Charles interrupts. “Time for baths.”

Both boys groan, but he turns off the television, standing in front of it and putting his hands on his hips. Will relents first, rising to his feet, Harry mimicking him.

They are a handful, and Diana hasn’t co-parented with Charles in ages. It’s a relief not to be alone in it. It’s a relief to watch him devote himself to being a good father in addition to whatever else is going on with him these days. It gives her some small comfort that even if she does have cancer–if she grows weak from chemotherapy, and her hair falls out—if she comes to a place where she cannot play with them, nurture them in the ways she longs to—if she dies, they will be loved and cared for.

He joins her and Harry in the bathroom after he’s finished with William’s shower in the other bathroom; he and William carrying on a conversation about some random animal William saw on the television, running a comb through their oldest son’s hair.

“Brush your teeth,” Charles tells him calmly and then turns toward Diana and Harry.

“Papa! Look!” Harry exclaims, lifting his toy boat out of the water and dumping the sailors out into the water. “Man underwater!”

Charles chuckles, lowering himself to his knees on the bathroom rug beside Diana. “Man overboard, Harry. Not underwater.”

“But they are underwater!” Harry laughs.

Charles reaches out and roughs the boy’s hair.

“You’re silly,” Diana says warmly. “Time to get your hair underwater.”

She reaches for the soap, and Charles takes it from her.

“Let me,” he says softly, for what feels like the hundredth time since they returned home from the clinic.

Diana smiles gratefully, watching fondly as Charles suds up Harry’s red hair. Harry makes faces at him, Charles laughing at his antics. Then he catches Diana studying him.

“What?” he asks, and she swears his ears turn a little pink at the way she’s looking at him.

“I hardly know this man sitting before me,” she says softly. “Yet I love him deeply.”

“You hardly know Papa?” William asks, around a mouth full of toothpaste. “But you’re married!”

Diana’s eyes don’t leave Charles' face, but her hand reaches up to softly stroke the back of her husband’s neck.

“Sometimes, Will, you can live beside a person and forget to really pay attention to them. Time goes by so fast, and then you realize people have changed and it feels like you don’t know them anymore.”

Will frowns, looking between them, the conversation far too deep for a six-year-old. He shrugs, turning back to the sink. But Charles reaches with shampoo-covered hands to Diana’s neck, lifting her chin with his thumbs and pulling her close.

“I want to get to know you again,” she whispers.

“And I you,” he whispers back, lips lightly pressing against hers.

They are both interrupted by Harry splashing them, and they jolt, yanking apart and looking down at their soaked clothes.

“Oh, you…” Diana laughs. “Harry, that wasn’t nice.”

“Kissing is yucky!” Harry explains.

“Who told you that?” Diana asks her almost-four-year-old son.

“Nobody. I just know!”

“Out you go!” Charles pronounces, rising to his feet.

“But I still have soap in my hair!”

Charles quickly takes care of that and then wraps a towel around the tiny boy and lifts him out of the water. As he holds him, he begins to dry him off, sending Harry into a fit of giggles, which turn into gleeful squeals as Charles carries him out of the bathroom and down the hall to the boys’ shared bedroom, William following behind.

Diana sits there, fingers pressed to her lips, a look of wonder on her face at the tingling desire coursing through her like she’s sixteen again. Maybe, she thinks, she will find her way back to that young woman after all, mixing her with all the wisdom that her eleven years since had brought. Eleven years of knowing, and if she’s honest, deeply loving the Prince of Wales.

Chapter Text

2 September 1988

Her results are rushed, and given the drama at the clinic a few days before, her doctor agrees to bring the results to them at Kensington. They sit on the couch in her office, Charles tucked protectively around her as if he can shield her from whatever news may come. He hasn’t shown such consistent physical care or affection to her since the very beginning of their marriage, but this is perhaps the first time that Camilla has been so absent from his life. But she feels herself withdrawing, doubt and cynicism creeping in.

The doctor begins to explain, far too slowly, and for the fifth time she’s heard it, what the biopsy did and what they were looking for. And then in a shocking turn of events she can scarcely believe, the doctor tells her she’s fine. The lump was benign. Her worst fears have not been realized, and she’s cancer-free.

She stares open-mouthed at the doctor’s face but doesn’t believe the smile.

“What?” she gasps.

“You are completely healthy, ma’am.”

Charles is practically trembling beside her, and the beaming smile as he turns in her direction is not lost on her. Charles squeezes her close to him, lips pressed against her temple. She doesn’t know what to do next.

After the doctor leaves them, she bursts into tears, completely shocked when Charles draws her onto his lap as if she were William or Harry. His softness toward her, holding her while she breaks down, is all she’s ever wanted. Diana rarely remembers a time when someone held her through her weakest moments of falling apart. The Windsors refrain from touching at all costs, and she realizes that perhaps she has had some positive effect on him after all. Worn down some of his rough edges.

For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, Charles is her husband at that moment, and they are the only two people in the world.

“I was so sure—” she chokes out.

“You’re all right,” he tells her softly. “Oh, Diana… I thought I was receiving everything I deserved, like some cruel joke; the moment I decided to be with you, you were going to be ripped from me.”

“You’ve decided to be with me?” she pulls back to look at him.

He offers her a smirk. “Have you not heard anything I’ve been saying the past few days? You are my wife. You are the woman I chose. And I am going to start choosing you every day.”

She sniffles, and he reaches up with both thumbs to wipe her tears away.

“You’re all right,” he says again, and she nods, throwing her arms around his neck. He squeezes her, kissing her behind her ear and pushing his hands under her shirt and up her back. His touch is gentle, and she moves to throw one of her legs around him, straddling him. As she realizes where they are headed, she also realizes it’s the third time in six weeks, and she is ashamed to realize it’s the most often she’s made love to her husband in years. But something about it is a balm to his wounded soul, and he can’t help but want more of it.

He lifts her up and places her back on the couch, crawling over her, her knees locked around his waist. He kisses her deeply, and then pulls away.

“Is this okay?”

A flicker of surprise crosses her face at the question, and then she nods. “I feel numb right now. The shock maybe…I…Charles, make me feel something. Please.”

He nods, kissing her again. She hears the telephone ringing distantly, perhaps from his office, but it barely registers as his fingers attempt to find the hem of her shirt without removing his lips from hers. And then, before either of them can move apart, there’s a sharp knock almost simultaneous with the door opening and his private secretary entering the room.

Charles turns his head toward the man as he gasps and averts his eyes.

“Out!” Charles demands.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, ma’am,” he stammers, shutting the door.

When he looks back down at his wife, she is sure her face is bright red but her eyes are dancing with merriment.

“Why do I feel like I’m fourteen and just got caught—” he trails off, wincing at the crudity that almost slipped past his lips, but Diana merely giggles.

“Go see what he wants,” she tells him. “We can do this later.”

Charles presses his lips to hers again and then pushes himself off her to a standing position. Diana sits up behind him.

“I’m going to go spend time with the children,” she tells him. “Find us later?”

He nods, running a hand through his hair, and then crosses the room to the door. He pulls it open, glances at her over his shoulder, and offers her a warm smile before he disappears from sight. Diana collapses against the couch again, hand stifling her sobs as she lets it sink in that she’s perfectly healthy.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

“I want to cancel that,” Charles tells his staff.

“But sir— as patron—”

“No. I’m not traveling away from Diana and the boys right now,” Charles cuts him off.

He chooses to ignore how his private and press secretaries glance at each other.

“What’s next?” he asks, twisting his ring around his finger.

“Buckingham called. The Queen would like to know if plans are being made for Harry’s fourth birthday.”

Charles sighs, glancing at the calendar. His youngest will turn four in less than two weeks, and it has completely slipped his mind.

“I’ll talk to Diana. But of course, there will be something,” he nods. “I’ll have an answer for you before you leave this evening.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“There is one other matter, sir…”

Charles doesn’t like the look of hesitancy in the man’s eyes. “What is it?”

“The reports over the weekend that the Princess of Wales is expecting—would you like us to comment on those, sir?”

Charles cocks an eyebrow. “Why would I want you to respond?”

“No particular reason, sir,” he shrugs, opening his mouth to go on and then shutting it promptly.

“Do we normally respond to those?”

“No, sir.”

Charles stares at them both. “Then I’ll assume we take the same course of action here.”

“Very well, sir,” he bows his head at him. “If that will be all, sir, I’ll get the travel off your calendar.”

“Last thing,” Charles says. “Someone let it slip that Diana and I were at her clinic the other day. Can I trust you to ensure that doesn’t happen again?”

They both nod.

“Very well. That’ll be all.”

Charles watches them leave and then sinks into the chair behind his desk. He leans back, letting out a slow breath of air and unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. The pressure of the past few days, the anxiety, has been a lot on his shoulders, and he feels himself breathing a little easier.

Since marrying Diana, September has always been a month of profound joy or profound sorrow. Rarely something in between. It was September 1981 when a few cracks began to show. Diana had been testy about his cufflinks from Camilla, unable to let it go. Once learning she was pregnant the following month, he’d chalked everything from the previous seven weeks to her hormones.

In September 1983, there was a miscarriage. It had been a horrific time for both of them that he tried not to think about very often. The following September had brought Harry. This September, he had dreaded they would find out that Diana was ill.

Instead, he felt a renewed sense of a second chance. He was hopeful—no, determined—to make the most of it.

He stands to go find his family. They are in the sitting room, Diana and Will playing a board game at a table, and Harry building with blocks on the floor. His presence goes unnoticed for a minute or two, and he stands, leaning against the door frame, taking them in. Diana is listening intently to Will, looking him in the face, her chin resting against her hand, and looking at him as if he is the center of the world. She’s good at that, he remembers. She’s good at giving a person her whole attention.

And God, he muses, she’s a truly beautiful creature. Elegant and graceful, with a natural eye for fashion. He imagines that people out there have never understood why his eyes strayed. Truthfully, sometimes he doesn’t understand it himself. But marriage was about far more than outward beauty, and the two of them are just so different in personality. He wonders if they can truly make it work.

He can only try. Try to be less critical. Hope she can do the same.

She looks up at him, blue eyes meeting his, and she smiles. He feels that smile all the way to his soul. He offers one back but doesn’t move. He stands there, hands in his pockets as if his presence might intrude on their serenity. He almost always feels a bit like that, like his presence is ruining the mood of everyone else.

But Diana reaches a slender hand toward him, beckons him to come, and he does so.

He slips his hand into hers when he gets to her and inhales sharply as she brushes her lips across his knuckles, holding eye contact with him the whole time.

“Everything all right?” she asks.

He nods. “I canceled my trip to Scotland. Well, postponed it, rather.”

“When were you going?”

“Just for three days next week. You were meant to have the boys, remember?”

She studies him for a brief moment and nods. “Why did you cancel?”

“I do not think now is a good time to travel,” he says simply. “I don’t want to be away from you right now.”

“But I’m all right.”

“That’s not why,” he kneels in front of her. “Now is a time to focus inward. On us. I want to get this right, Di.”

She smiles, looking down at him. “I don’t want to get in the way of your work.”

He shakes his head. “You couldn’t possibly. I’ll reschedule, and if you like, do so with your office so that you can travel with me.”

Diana nods. “I’d like that very much.”

“Mummy wants to know our plans for celebrating the anniversary of a certain young individual's entrance into the world,” he says in code.

Diana’s eyes widen as they fly across the room to Harry and then back to him. “It completely slipped my mind!”

He shrugs. “We can pull something together.”

“I’m thinking Highgrove.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Truly?”

She nods adamantly. “If the weather holds, a garden party. The children can run and play and be as loud as they want. Your family will be able to spread out.”

“You won’t be stuck indoors with them, you mean.”

“Charles, I didn’t say that.”

He laughs. “You didn’t have to.”

She smirks at him, and Will impatiently informs her it is her turn. Charles lets her get back to their game.

“We can discuss it more later,” he says as he crosses the room toward Harry. “But I need to have an answer for them this evening.”

“Whatever you think best,” she tells him. “I’m open to going back there again if you are, as there is no reason to stay here any longer now.”

The relief of that washes over him anew, and somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he feels that image of her casket growing a little dimmer. As he sits beside his youngest son, her laughter fills the entire room, and beats against some closed-off parts of his heart with a pounding so fierce, he’s sure they will soon give way.

Chapter Text

7 September 1988

“How are you?” Diana asks warmly, the telephone pressed to her ear. There’s a long sigh for a reply, and Diana laughs sympathetically. “That well?”

“Oh, Diana,” Sarah whines. “Honestly. She’ll be a month old tomorrow, and I’ve barely slept since I went into labor. Well, even for about a month before that, with all the discomfort.”

“I know it’s hard, but I promise it will improve before you know it,” Diana says. “Is Andrew helping at all?”

“He tries,” Sarah states. “You know how these men are…”

Diana nods. “I do. Though Charles really did bond well with William right from the start. I sometimes felt Will preferred him to me.”

“I doubt that’s true. And even if, Harry is all yours.”

Diana doesn’t respond to that. Harry has always been a sore subject when it comes to her marriage. She’s not sure why, and she certainly knows Harry isn’t to blame, but his entrance, the whispers of disappointment about that red Spencer hair, and the knowledge that her husband had wanted a daughter had left her with depression and frustration she had taken ages to get out of.

Now, however, as she watched Charles follow Harry around outside on his tricycle, William darting in and out on his own bicycle, she knew without a doubt that Charles deeply loved both of his boys. And she was mature enough also to know that some of those feelings she had back then were things she had made way worse in that sleepless daze of having a newborn and a precocious three-year-old.

Charles had made comments after Harry’s birth he should never have said, of that she could not disagree. But she too had felt disappointment of not having a daughter. She’d just had months to process it before the birth, and keeping Charles in the dark may have been a selfish mistake on her part. She had thrust a shock on him after mercilessly feeding that dream of his to have a little girl, all while knowing that particular baby was not.

God, she’d made so many mistakes. She’d been so young then. Still was, perhaps, though circumstances had grown her a lot the last few years.

“Diana?” Sarah asks in the silence. “How are things?”

“Well. Things are going well.”

“Care to add more sentences to that story? Are you planning to join Charles at Highgrove much before the party?”

“We will be going to Highgrove tomorrow morning, actually,” she admits.

“Charles is at Kensington with you?”

“He is,” Diana confirms, admitting it for the first time to anyone in his family. “Has been for about twelve days.”

“As in…actually there with you?”

“Mmmhmm. He’s outside with the boys right now.”

Beatrice lets out a cry in the background. “Oh, I have so many questions. But I’m afraid I’ll have to go feed her.”

“Go on,” Diana says. “We can catch up soon. I can’t wait to see that baby, Sarah.”

“I can’t wait for you to, either. Much love!”

She hangs up in a flurry before Diana can even respond. Diana cradles the phone in her hand for a moment, staring down at it, deep in thought. Twelve days. It felt like so much had changed, but the reality of only twelve days having passed was a reminder that perhaps they could not stand the test of time. They had made it work for longer than this before, and it had still fallen apart.

Diana wasn’t sure she could keep the pieces of herself together, let alone their marriage. She had told him from the beginning that she did not have much fight left in her. He’d carried the weight of closing the distance between them over the past week. But he couldn’t do it on his own forever. He’d asked her to meet him halfway, and with the threat of her health behind them, it was time to take stock of whether or not she could do that.

She loved him. Deeply loved him. But did she like that man out there enough to look past his faults for the rest of her life?

Could she truly forgive him for all the hurt he had caused?

_________________

8 September 1988

Charles stood in his bedroom, folding the last of his belongings into his travel bag. Most of his things had been packed up to take back to Highgrove hours before by the staff, but Charles had requested to pack the things he’d needed overnight on his own and sent his secretary on ahead back to the country residence.

He headed toward the bathroom to grab his razor and tuck it into the toiletry bag, running a hand through his hair as he glanced in the mirror one last time. He is wearing blue today, a color Diana had raved about him wearing many years ago. At breakfast, he hadn’t missed the way her face had lit up as he entered, nor the way her blue eyes had looked even more blue, reflecting the color of his shirt as he leaned down to kiss her good morning.

They’d spent the night before in separate rooms for the first time since they had come to Kensington. Harry had a nightmare, and much to Charles' annoyance, she had left her place beside him to go crawl into bed with their son. It was not so much that he thought Diana was too soft with the boys sometimes, it was the sharp pain of realization over and over again that his own mother would have never done such a thing. And he’d been left alone in the darkness to process that without Diana’s heart beating beside him. He’d hated every second of it.

She had watched him closely over breakfast, seeming to study his mood, and been a bit quieter than usual. He knew he needed to take a step back toward her today because he’d been cross and snapped at her in the middle of the night.

As he unzipped the side pocket of his bag to slip the toiletry bag inside, his cufflinks caught his eye. He pulled them out, sitting on the bed as if his legs could no longer hold him as he saw the woven-together C & C engraved on them.

Camilla.

She had to have been somewhere in the Mediterranean, or perhaps she was dining in Paris. He was not sure. But somewhere, across the Channel and the kilometers, she was there, far away from here. He’d be lying if he hadn’t thought about reaching out. Not only had Camilla been a lover, but for so long, the only one he talked to.

But he would learn to talk to his wife now, just as so far away, Camilla learned to talk to her husband. He wished her well. He hoped she would find happiness, that this baby, however unexpected and coming far past a season where he knew she wanted to continue having children, would give she and Andrew a place to reset.

He needed to get rid of these cufflinks one day soon. Their presence was like a ticking time bomb, awaiting Diana’s notice. Removing them from his wardrobe was not enough. If he intended to earn and keep Diana’s trust, these parts of him that belonged to Camilla needed to be stripped away.

For now, he wrapped them in a handkerchief and stuffed them deep in the back of a bathroom drawer.

He wasn’t ready to get rid of them, but that didn’t mean he needed to keep carrying them with him. Perhaps, leaving them behind here at Kensington and returning to Highgrove with Diana would carry enough symbolism to be enough for now.

As he zipped up his bag, he heard a light knock on his door.

“Come in,” he called.

The door opened, her slender fingers curling around the edge just before he saw her blue eyes appear.

“All of our bags are in the car, and William finally decided which toy he wants in the car. We’re ready when you are.”

He nods. “I’m ready.”

Diana smiles softly, shyly, and he knows her distance is born out of fear of setting him off and sending him into Camilla’s arms again. He hopes one day, she won’t have that fear anymore. Hopes one day it won’t be a temptation flitting around in the back of his mind like those cuff links in the back of the drawer.

“Come,” he beckons, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding a hand out to her.

Diana walks fully into the room, shutting the door behind her, and then timidly walking toward him. She places her hand in his and sits beside him. He leans toward her and kisses her cheek, and the small action seems to diffuse some of the anxiety rolling off of her.

“I don’t want us to sleep in separate rooms," he tells her.

She stares at him. They’ve slept in separate rooms for most of their marriage. He was raised that way. Their homes were designed that way. It was just the way it was done.

“There’s something about knowing that we’re going to lay next to each other all night, knowing that I’m going to hold you, that I believe will make us more likely to seek peace and reconciliation during the day.”

“That makes sense,” she nods. “But Charles…what about when we don’t?”

“I don’t think this should be an option for us. Not anymore. Distance…physical distance…it isn’t good for us, Diana. We should avoid it whenever possible.”

“Because it gives you space to think about her?” she asks, the brave and blunt question surprising him.

He swallows. “Yes.”

She ducks her face away from him, hand going limp in his grasp. He reaches for her chin, raising her face back to his, and she meets his eyes with tear-filled ones.

“I won’t lie to you anymore, Diana,” he promises. “Sleeping away from you gives us both space to think about other people…and more than that. It creates opportunity for thoughts and suspicions about one another to run out of control.”

She swallows. How many nights had they spent just across the hall, brewing in their misery instead of going to one another and closing the distance? How many times had they slammed doors and run away? Turned locks and backs?

“If we’re going to find each other…find a life with one another…we need to do this.”

“Okay,” she whispers. “What about the children? I refuse to send them back to bed by themselves after nightmares, Charles. I won’t do it.”

“Then bring them to our bed,” he says, watching her eyes widen at the thought of him welcoming their children into their bed.

Diana nods slowly.

“When we get to Highgrove, I’d like for us to begin to redesign the grandmaster to suit both of us and move your things to that room permanently,” he says. “For now, we should probably leave if we want to arrive in time for Harry’s nap.”

She stands, and instead of letting her go, he draws her back to stand between his legs. His hands hold her close and he kisses her neck. Her arms wrap around his neck, holding him against her chest and kissing the top of his head.

“There is one perk of sharing a room, I suppose,” she breathes out. “More opportunities for this.”

He smiles against her, and she leans back to look down at him and he kisses her lips.

In the car, the boys play in the backseat, and Charles driving quietly toward Highgrove. Photographers had chased them part of the way out of London, but now they practically had the road to themselves. It was an overcast day, with the promise of rain in the afternoon. Diana hummed along to the radio.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you I finally talked to Sarah yesterday,” she tells him.

“How are they?” he asks.

“Adjusting to life as parents,” she says knowingly. “Charles, we have to meet the baby soon. Andrew is offended you haven’t made a point of it yet.”

Charles immediately bristles. “I called just after she was born. Again a week later when Mummy was throwing a fit about them not announcing a name yet…Besides…you and Sarah are always the ones to—”

Diana lays a hand on his arm. “Darling. I said your brother was offended, not me. He’s always bothered by something you’ve done. But I would very much like to meet my niece.”

Charles harrumphs in a rather undignified way but doesn’t feel capable of much more. Nothing gets under his skin quite like Andrew can, and he tries not to notice the smirk on Diana’s face at how riled up he gets about it.

“We should ask them to come for the party a bit early next week. We can meet her then,” she suggests.

“That sounds fine,” Charles sighs.

Silence falls over them, and Charles finds himself gripping the steering wheel tightly. The boys are making explosion sounds in the back seat, and he occasionally catches sight of a little hand holding a helicopter in the rearview mirror. He isn’t sure why, but the anxiety is sitting heavily on his chest. Perhaps it’s because he’s heading back to the place of his greatest temptation, but the thoughts of Camilla are floating through his mind, and the more he tries to push them away, the more prevalent they become. He’s half-tempted to turn the car around and go back to Kensington, where he knows without question he and Diana will continue growing closer.

“Charles,” she says softly, interrupting his silence. “Charles.”

He lightens his grip on the steering wheel and glances at her. He quickly returns his gaze to the road, afraid she will see what he’s thinking. But she reaches over and places her hand on his thigh.

“I’m nervous about going back there,” she tells him.

A floodgate within him begins to open, the anxiety slowly releasing. “So am I.”

“You are?” she asks.

He nods, swallowing. “Habits are hard to break.”

She falls silent, and he’s afraid he’s said too much. But her hand remains on his leg, and he reaches down to put his over hers and squeezes it.

“We’ll have to break them together,” she says. “Let me help you. Tell me what you need from me.”

“Di…I—”

“I want to be everything you need so that you don’t need anyone else,” Diana adds, her voice soft but tone firm. “I love you. I want to be enough. I want to be good enough.”

Later, he will realize it was the most honest thing she’s ever said. But in that moment, he raises her fingers to his lips.

“It’s never been that you aren’t enough. It’s me, Di. It’s been me that’s the problem.”

They don’t say anything else, but as they pull up to the house, it feels like some monstrous creature looming over them, and he’s afraid he won’t be able to do it. He feels weak. He feels less than worthy.

He wants Diana, needs her. Needs this marriage to work.

He’s afraid he will do exactly what he’s always done: the opposite of what he needs.

Chapter Text

8 September 1988

As soon as Harry is down for his nap, Diana takes William’s hand and leads him to the sitting room. The rain has started to fall, distant rumbles of thunder echoing in the distance, and the Highgrove house is quiet besides the sounds of the staff moving softly around the house. The two of them pass Charles’ study, where she sees him in a meeting with his private secretary through the open door. He glances up at them as they pass, and offers a smile.

“Di?” he calls out as she keeps walking.

She looks down at her son and squeezes his hand, turning back and pulling him with her back to Charles.

“Hello,” she greets his private secretary, who she thinks always looks at her like he suspects her of foul play.

Charles reaches out for her hand, beckoning her toward him.

“Harry’s asleep?”

Diana nods, surprised he has interrupted his meeting to ask, and she feels his thumb rubbing over her knuckles.

“Papa, will you watch a movie with us?” William asks. “We’re watching Sleeping Beauty.”

“Isn’t that a princess movie?” the private secretary pipes up, and Diana cannot help the immediate frown she points in his direction.

“Prince Phillip fights Maleficient with a sword when she turns into a dragon!” William counters, mimicking sword fighting.

Charles chuckles. “I’ll join you as soon as I finish here.”

Again, Diana is surprised he hasn’t come up with some excuse.

“You will?” she asks.

He looks back up at her, nodding.

“Sir, if we could get back to–”

Charles cuts him off with a sharp look that he withers a bit under, but Diana puts a cool hand on the back of his neck, standing a bit closer to his chair.

“Will, let’s leave these men to their work,” she smiles at her son.

William bounds out of the room, and Diana follows. On her way out, she overhears Charles's firm but quiet words.

“Need I remind you that she is my wife? The Princess of Wales? Not to be dismissed.”

“No sir…I apologize.”

“I regret that past actions have led you to think less of her, but I hope I don’t have to remind you of this ever again.”

Diana smiles to herself as she moves out of earshot. She has not known Charles to defend her in a long time. In fact, she suspects he’s done the opposite many times. But now, more and more of his actions are aligning with his words. She’s learning to hope again. Learning to trust. One day at a time, if she can keep him distracted from Camilla, she hopes that not only will he love her, but he will be in love with her.

Whatever in love means.

They settle on the sofa in the sitting room. It’s a room upstairs she’s designed specifically for family time, a room not stifled by appearances and elegance. There are bins of toys and board games, shelves lined with children’s books, a new large television she’d insisted on, and a sofa that is more cushion than posh. This room had made her feel better about the boys being here without her for days and weeks on end. And now, it felt like a tiny glimpse of a normal life, something she wanted for her children—and her marriage—more than anything.

The room is lit by the warm glow of a couple of lamps and the television, contrasting the gray and rainy skies outside. Diana stretches her feet out to rest on the ottoman, William leaning his head back against her chest. She strokes his hair, feeling him relax against her, and thanks God once again not only for the opportunity to be their mother, but that he’s granted her the health to continue being present for them.

Fifteen minutes into the movie, Charles enters the room. He has unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt on the way up, and to her surprise, he kicks off his shoes by the door. He approaches them timidly, seemingly always afraid of upsetting them or not fitting in quite right, but she offers him a smile. He lifts an afghan from the back of the couch and settles it over both William and Diana, tucking it around William's little legs. Then he sits beside her, feet joining hers on the ottoman. He’s a bit stiff, so she snuggles into his side, awaiting his reaction. To her relief, he relaxes and wraps his arm around her, drawing her close.

As the movie plays, William chatting or giggling here and there and eventually drifting off to sleep in her lap, Diana feels Charles’ other hand slide across her thigh. He kisses her temple.

“Thank you for defending me,” she says softly.

“You weren’t meant to hear that,” he grumbles.

Her hand slides over his, entangling their fingers.

“They don’t respect me anymore,” she comments. “No one on staff in this house does.”

“That isn’t true,” he tells her, but she gives him a pointed look. “Well. We will change that. And if it doesn’t change, we will hire new staff.”

She won’t insist on more right now but has her suspicions that there may be a few higher staff members that will have a hard time ever trusting or respecting her.

She’s the Princess of Wales. But she’s been classified as an enemy here, where this staff has aided and embedded his affair with Camilla, and Diana’s presence results in him being in a foul mood. She can’t blame them, she supposes, but it’s something that will continue to suffocate her, and she’s never been able to say it to his face. Truth be told, she doesn’t trust them either. She’s not on neutral ground here. She’s in his territory, and they see her as a foreign spy.

But Charles is distracting her with his hand in her hair and lips on her neck. She’s never known him to seek her out during the day as often as this, at least not for a very long time, and she hopes against hope that he isn’t attempting to stop his thoughts of someone else.

Her husband’s mind is not something she has the willpower to venture into quite yet. All she knows is that they are surviving their first afternoon back at Highgrove, and Charles is still at her side.

14 July 1980

Diana has her eyes set on just one thing. There are dozens of people milling about, but since the moment he entered, her eyes have followed his every move.

She’s crazy, she’s sure, to think that he will ever look at her the way she’s looking at him. She’s too young. She’s nothing spectacular to look at; in fact, she was quite fed up with her hair when she’d gotten dressed for the party. And yet, that part of her that’s always believed in fairytales, that part of her who had looked into his eyes once and felt she’d understood him on an intimate level, wanted so much for him to look at her as if she was the only girl in the world.

His blue eyes had met her’s at Althorp three years prior, and for her, the facade of a prince had fallen away, and all she had seen was a man. A man she very much thought she could love for the rest of her life if he asked her to.

Charles had not noticed her yet this evening. She’d built up this potential encounter with him so much in her mind, she had become too shy to approach him from the moment he’d walked in and been surrounded by much more charismatic individuals than her.

She takes a sip of her seltzer just as he laughs at something a friend has said. She notes he looks uncomfortable, as if he’s looking around hoping for someone in particular, or perhaps doesn’t want to be there at all. And then his head turns in her direction, looks past her, and then right back at her. She feels her breath catch. And then she finds the courage to smile at him, and to her relief, he smiles back.

He turns back to his conversation, and Diana sighs. If that was the interaction she had built up in her mind all day, it had been quite a disappointment. One she’d think about in the middle of the night, without question, but much less than she’d wanted.

Diana slips outside, her sky blue knee-length evening dress immediately failing to provide the warmth needed with the sun slipping below the trees. But she’s determined to remain, recollect her thoughts, and hopefully gain the courage to approach him. She drains the rest of her drink, letting the glass sit on the stone railing in front of her, as she glances up at the first star that has popped out in the purple sky.

“I thought I saw you slip out here,” a masculine voice says at her side, and she jolts. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She blinks. She would know that voice anywhere.

Suddenly, a hand is in front of her, offering a stemmed glass filled halfway with white wine. She reaches up for it, fingers brushing his as she takes it.

She’s not immune to the shiver that runs down her spine to her toes or the electricity in her fingertips. Slowly, she turns to find him staring at her, a smile on his lips and she dips into a quick curtsy.

“Hello,” he greets.

“Hello,” she returns.

“Tired of the party already?”

“I’ve been here a bit longer than you have,” she tells him. “And no, it was just getting warm inside.”

He nods, watching as she sips her wine.

“Thank you for this,” she tells him, acknowledging the glass, to which he nods again.

“I wasn’t sure you would be here tonight,” he says.

“I try not to miss these summer parties,” she tells him. “I was fortunate to have the day off from work.”

“Where do you work?”

“A nursery school in London.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

She feels the way her face lights up. “I love everything about it. I love giving children a good start to life.”

His smile does not quite reach his eyes. “Uncle Dickie always wanted me to find something I could be that passionate about. I haven’t quite done so yet.”

“Uncle Dickie?”

“Lord Mountbatten,” he responds. “Family nickname.”

“Oh,” she watches his countenance shift at the mention of the man, a somberness and sadness she’s seen before. "You looked so sad when you walked up the aisle at Lord Mountbatten's funeral. It was the most tragic thing I've ever seen.”

“His death was tragic,” Charles tells her. “Untimely and unfair. I wasn’t…wasn’t ready.”

It is daring. She’s been warned so many times to never initiate touch with a member of the royal family. But in that moment, he’s just a man, and she’s just a woman, and her hand slips over his forearm.

“I cannot imagine. My heart bled for you when I watched. I thought, 'It's wrong, you're lonely, you should be with somebody to look after you.'”

He looks down at her fingers on his arm for a moment and then up at her face. She’s certain she’s gone too far, said far too much, illuded to far too much of her desires beneath those words, and topped it off with touching him. She prepares herself for reprimand.

Instead, his hand covers hers. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you to say. No one…no one seemed to notice I was in pain at all.”

“I’m sure that isn’t true,” she says, but the look on his face tells her it very much is. “I’m sorry. No one should be alone at a time like that.”

He shrugs. “You look lovely tonight.”

Diana glances down at her dress and reaches up to run her fingers through her hair, that’s likely blowing in the breeze. “Well, that’s kind of you to say, but you don’t have to.”

“I meant it,” he says, his blue eyes meeting hers. “You’re lovely every time I see you.”

She can barely breathe and certainly can’t speak.

“I’d like to see you more,” he adds. “If you’d agree to that?”

“What–” she stammers. “What do you mean?”

“I think you know exactly what I mean,” he says, his fingers reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes close as those fingers trail their way down her spine to the small of her back.

“Oh,” she gasps. “Oh.”

She hears him chuckle, and then he puts space between them.

“I’ll call you,” he adds, to which she nods.

He smiles again and then turns to head back into the house, hands in his pockets.

From that moment on, her heart is his, and for whatever will come, it will always deeply love the Prince of Wales.

Chapter Text

14 September 1988

Charles laughs heartily, Diana's face in a pout as they stand alone in the Highgrove kitchen.

“It isn’t funny,” she insists.

“It’s funny,” he argues, hand over his rib from laughing so hard.

“Charles, stop laughing at me.”

He bites his lip, reaching for a cloth and wetting it in the sink. He steps toward her, wiping the frosting from her cheek with the cloth.

“Is it in my hair?”

He nods, inspecting her. “Just a bit.”

She sighs heavily, looking down at her frosting-covered apron, glad she at least has it on over her clothes. She reaches back to begin untying it as Charles begins to wipe the frosting from her hair. She would throw the handheld mixer in the rubbish bin if it were the last thing she did. It had betrayed her once and for all, sending frosting all over her at the exact moment Charles had asked her if she was absolutely certain she wanted to bake Harry’s birthday cake. He’d been laughing ever since.

Rolling her eyes, she yanks the apron off, finding Charles's eyes on her neck.

“It’s all over you,” he says with a grimace.

She feels tears at the edges of her vision.

“Diana, don’t cry,” Charles begs. “It isn’t a big deal. We can try again.”

“I’ll just order a cake,” she groans. “This probably wouldn’t have even tasted the way he likes it anyway.”

But Charles surprises her by running a finger through the glob of icing on her neck and poking it in his mouth. She stares at him wide-eyed and mouth hanging open.

“It tastes exactly how he likes it.”

“How do you know?” she asks incredulously.

“Because I like it the exact same way he does, remember? Buttercream?”

“You do?”

Charles nods. “That’s how I know he’s my son.”

It would have been a joke in any other household in Britain, a comment made without any ammunition, and hilarious because paternity wasn’t a question in most households. It wasn’t in this one either, but that hadn’t stopped gossip columns from going after her.

And she immediately feels like he’s struck her.

She moves to walk away, catching the look of recognition and regret on her husband’s face but wanting none of it. He reaches for her hand, then her waist.

“Diana.”

“Let go of me,” she bites out.

“No. I meant nothing by that. You know I’ve never questioned that. It was just a joke. A pathetic one, but just a joke.”

But she’s sobbing. Absolutely pushed over the edge. And when he doesn’t let go, she melts to the floor to escape him. He’s left with her sobbing on the floor at his feet.

“Diana,” he says, kneeling next to her. “Darling, please. I didn’t mean that to sound that way.”

“I know. I don’t know why I’m crying,” she wipes at her tears.

He runs a hand up her back as she sits up.

“I just want everything to be perfect," she admits. "And I keep failing.”

“You haven’t failed at anything. The cake looks wonderful, and you have plenty of frosting left for the whole thing.”

“Your family will frown at a homemade cake anyway.”

“Who cares?”

She looks up at him as he settles on the floor next to her, legs stretched out in front of him.

“I care.”

“Why?” he asks

“Because I want them to love me again,” she admits. “I want all of you to love me.”

He swallows hard, arm going behind her to her waist and pulling her closer. “Darling. Take it from me. Striving to earn their love and approval will crush you.”

She sighs.

“Is…is that why you used to make yourself sick all the time? To make yourself…I don’t know…feel better?”

“You said I was pudgy.”

He reels back. “What? When?”

“When we were engaged. You put your hand on my waist and said I was pudgy.”

He looks like he’s going to be sick, both of his hands covering his face. “God. Diana. I’m so sorry. I don’t…I don’t know why I used to say things like that.”

She shrugs.

“You’re beautiful. I love your body.”

“You do?”

He nods. “You’ve always been so beautiful. And you’ve given me two beautiful children. How could I not?”

She frowns. “Then why did you always go to her?”

His mouth opens and closes a couple of times, and he looks completely done in. “I don’t know.”

“You could have had me anytime you wanted to. You didn’t have to.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

“Why not?”

“I…I want to feel close to you when we’re together. And we haven’t been on the same page in so long…it made me feel dirty to have sex with you when we weren’t getting along. Felt like I was using you. ”

“And you felt better cheating on me?” she asks.

He looks stricken. “No. No, I suppose not.”

She sighs, looking at her hands in her lap.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

She nods. “I know.”

“For what it’s worth,” he says after they are quiet for a while. “I think the idea of you baking a cake for Harry, knowing that you’re doing it out of love for him, is wonderful. I’m jealous the boys are growing up with such a mother.”

Her head leans back against the cupboard, and she smiles softly at him. He smiles back. Both of them look and feel tired, she notes. But they are both still here. And that counts for something.

She uses her finger to wipe up the rest of the frosting on her neck and then puts her finger in her mouth to taste it. Charles watches, his face a bit dazed, and then she shrugs.

"It is pretty good," she says with a smile, and Charles bursts out laughing again, poking her in the side with his finger. She squirms away, giggling, and soon they are both practically in tears from laughing so hard.

When his arm wraps around her waist that night in their bed, and he presses his lips to the back of her neck, she realizes that even the painful conversations are bringing them closer together instead of driving them apart.

15 September 1988

Diana is enthralled with her new niece, and she cannot stop telling Sarah how beautiful the baby is. So new, with perfectly round lips and pink cheeks. She’s immediately glad they invited Sarah and Andrew over early, though she had questioned her sanity while frantically trying to finish birthday preparations for her excited youngest son.

Charles and Andrew had taken the boys outside, Charles agreeing to oversee the set up of the tables on the lawn so that Diana could visit with her sister-in-law. The house was quieter than it had been all day, and holding a sleeping baby has lulled Diana into a trance. Sarah talks with her softly about all the struggles and joys of being a new mother.

There’s a ruckus at the door, and Beatrice scrunches up her little face in displeasure. Diana bounces her softly in her arms, urging her back to sleep, and then looks up as Charles walks in. He rolls his eyes deeply, and Andrew laughs just behind him, more than likely making some crude joke at Charles’ expense, as is one of Andrew’s greatest pleasures in life.

Charles’ eyes meet hers, and her cheeks instantly warm as he sends her a genuine smile across the room. She hears Sarah gasp at the noticeable sparks flying between the pair, and she well understands the shock. It’s still reverberating through her as well. Charles looks at her like—well—she still can’t quite convince herself that it’s true—but like maybe he’s genuinely falling in love with her.

Beatrice squirms, letting out a little mew of noise, and Diana turns her attention back to her niece, rocking her slightly and hushing her. She feels more than sees, Charles fold his warm body next to her on the sofa, sitting so close that her entire left side is touching him. His arm goes around her back as she continues to bounce Beatrice, and his left hand rests on her thigh.

“Hello,” he says cheekily.

“Hi you,” she flirts back. “Have fun?”

He shrugs, and then leans over to whisper. “Is anything I do with him ever fun?”

She shrugs in return, turning to meet his gaze.

“You look happy,” he comments. “I’ve forgotten how happy you look when you’re holding a baby.”

Diana blushes deeply, leaning over to kiss the side of his mouth. She leans back into his arm a bit, resting against him, and he peers over her shoulder at Beatrice, his hand reaching up to graze softly across her tiny round cheek.

“Do you want to hold her?” she asks, to which he nods. Diana turns her body to pass the baby into his arms, readjusting the blanket as she pulls away. Her hands graze fully across his thighs as she pulls away, and she does it entirely on purpose. She feels him almost quiver beneath her touch, his eyes flying to hers. She smirks at him. “My word, Charles. You look good holding a baby too.”

She says it somewhat loudly, causing his eyes to widen just a bit, but she’s determined to flirt with him wherever possible. The rules be damned. She wants what’s going on between them to translate into every part of their life, not just behind their closed doors. And she doesn’t care who knows it.

He leans over and presses his lips firmly to hers, and she gets the feeling it might be to shut her up, but when he pulls back, he catches her bottom lip lightly between his teeth, taunting her. Then he takes one of his arms and draws her back to his side, his other holding a calm Beatrice firmly against his chest. Diana curls her legs up beside her, leaning against her husband.

Andrew and Sarah are not doing an excellent job of hiding their observance of the two of them, but Harry and Will come flying in, grabbing Andrew’s hands and pulling their uncle out of the room. Beatrice is awake then, looking around and up into the face of her uncle. Diana watches Charles gaze back at his niece, watching the look of contentment followed closely by desire wash across his features. Diana lifts her hand up to the baby, and Beatrice grabs hold of her finger.

“I want a girl,” Charles tells Diana, and Diana looks up to find him staring directly at her.

She’s speechless, and Beatrice, bless her, finds that the perfect moment to let out a piercing cry. Sarah sweeps in and frees Beatrice from Charles’ arm and out of the room to feed her. They are alone, moments from the rest of the family descending on their home, and there are a thousand things she should be doing to prepare for Harry’s party, but she sits there staring at her husband.

His other arm free, he wraps it around her.

“What?” she finally manages.

“I want a girl.”

“You said that when I was pregnant with Harry. I’ve done my best,” Diana retorts.

He flinches, seeming to realize he’s come across a sensitive subject.

“I didn’t mean—” he pauses, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “May I start over?”

She nods, sighing.

“I want another baby.”

“And you want it to be a girl.”

“I always envisioned a little girl,” he shrugs. “Her little blonde curls bouncing, freckled nose.”

“Blonde?” Diana feels nauseous, thoughts of Camilla flashing through her mind.

Charles reaches up and gives a light tug to Diana’s blonde hair, his fingers running gently through it, and nodding. Diana relaxes, tears coming to her eyes.

“What did I say?” he asks, looking concerned.

“You said blonde, and I thought—”

He frowns, and then recognition crosses his features, and he leans up to kiss her. “You, darling. Only you.”

“You really want another?”

“I do,” he nods. “But only if you do.”

She nods. “I’d like that.”

“I have some conditions for your pregnancy, though,” he adds, and she frowns at him.

“You get to make conditions for my pregnancy?”

“I do,” Charles says emphatically. “I know you, Diana, and given your track record, I want to agree on some things ahead of time.”

“Do tell,” she snarks, but he wisely ignores her attitude.

“You don’t get to shut me out.”

She starts to argue, but he reaches up to put a finger over her lips.

“We share a bedroom the entire time. You don’t get to lock me out of your room. You’ll be honest with me about what is morning sickness and what is—the other. And you’ll not take unnecessary risks to get my attention,” she bolts out of his arms at this, but he shuts her down with a knowing look. “Because you’ll already have my full attention.”

Tears well up in her eyes at the memories of her previous pregnancies. The loneliness. The feeling of failure because she wasn’t made of as stout stuff as his mother and was having a hard time. The emotional turmoil, the paranoia that he thought she was ugly as her belly grew round.

“I’ll be at your side the way I should have been before,” he tells her. “And you’ll let me?”

She gives a curt nod, the tears slipping down her cheeks, and he reaches up to wipe them away with his thumb.

“I love you,” she whispers, then leans her head on his chest, her arm around his waist.

He holds her for a moment until they are interrupted by one of the household staff entering to ask Diana a question about the appetizers, and he relinquishes her.

The next two hours pass in a flurry of final preparations, and the family slowly trickles in. Philip and Elizabeth are fashionably late to their grandson’s fourth birthday, and Diana does her best not to feel annoyed by the grand entrance. Soon her attention is back on her youngest, trying desperately to rein him in.

Diana stands amongst the children in the yard, explaining the rules of a party game to them, but Harry seems as though he’s determined not to listen. The excitement of having everyone’s attention leads him to act defiantly, and Diana’s eyes meet Charles’ gaze among the crowd of family, silently begging him for help. He moves toward her immediately, kneeling in front of Harry and putting his hands on the young boy’s arms. He whispers close to his ear, words Diana will never know, but when Charles stands back to his full height at her side, Harry is standing still and ready to listen.

She offers a grateful glance to her husband, who leaves her to it. At last, the children are playing the game she had planned for them, and she retreats to Charles’ side. He’s deep in conversation with his father, but his arm goes around her waist without a thought. She’s feeling daring, even under the scrutinous gaze of his family, and puts her own hand up to his waistline, slipping a couple of fingers beneath his belt above his hip nearest Philip’s side. When he doesn’t seem to notice, she trails that hand down his hip to his backside, giving a little pinch. This draws his attention without question, and as Edward steps up to ask his father a question, Charles turns his gaze to her. She looks up at him with a mischievous look in her eyes.

“Husband dearest…” she drawls, batting her eyelashes at him. “Father of my children…what was that you said about adding to our brood?”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Whatever brought that to mind?”

She knows he’s teasing her, and her heart rate picks up. “You seem so astute at this whole parenting concept. I was thinking maybe we should get started on that next addition.”

“Really?” he asks, his own hand slipping down her hip.

Diana knows better than to flirt in front of his parents. She knows it deep within her. Philip and Elizabeth have strict rules when it comes to public displays of affection. But she does not care. Nor, does she think, will Charles. Not now. Not after they’ve been through so much. And she figures the relief of seeing them doing anything but hating each other will give them a free pass. So she reaches her hand up to his neck, tangles her fingers in his hair, and draws him down to her.

“Really,” she whispers against his lips.

She expects he might pull away. Might be mad at her little show. But instead, he kisses her deeply, and when he pulls back, he draws her bottom lip between his teeth again. Her cheeks are flushed, and when he looks at her, there is nothing but desire in his blue eyes. Then he looks around at his family. Only a few of them seem to have noticed their display, Anne and Sarah to be certain, and perhaps his granny, but most of them were busy in conversation or wrapped around the new baby, and he takes Diana’s hand in his and leads her from the back garden straight into the house.

She wonders if they will go to the bedroom, but instead, he draws her into his study and locks the door. She finds herself quickly pressed up against a bookcase, his lips hungry on hers. She flicks her tongue across his lips, and soon they are melded together.

“I always wanted to do this in here,” he admits.

“Why didn’t you?” Diana laughs. “Conceived in your study might be our smartest child yet.”

He laughs. His hand is under her skirt, her fingers undoing his belt as she pants against him, his lips doing something magical to her neck. She cries out in pleasure, and he quickly stifles it with his mouth over hers.

Ten minutes later, they are both gasping for air, both sated, his forehead against hers as he hovers over her on top of his study’s rug. He looks genuinely happy, his thumb running over the bridge of her nose and down her lips before he kisses her again. And then there’s a swift knock on the door and a jiggling of the doorknob.

“Charles!” Andrew’s voice calls out. “Are you in there?”

“What?!” he shouts out over his shoulder.

“Why is the door locked? Come out here. Sarah’s worried. She hasn’t seen Diana in a few minutes, and we don’t know where she went.”

Diana presses her hand to her lips to stifle a laugh as Charles rolls his eyes.

“We thought she was in the kitchen...Harry’s going on about his birthday cake…but she isn’t there. Have you seen her?”

“I don’t know, have I?” Charles mutters to her, before standing and stepping away to fasten his pants and belt.

Diana giggles softly as the door handle jiggles again.

“I’ll be right there!” Charles shouts toward the door, reaching down for Diana’s hand and pulling her to her feet.

He does quick work of righting himself again, then runs his eyes over Diana, reaching up to fix her hair for her. His fingers graze across her neck, grimacing slightly as he looks at it, and she knows immediately there is physical evidence of his mouth on her. She shrugs, her eyes joyfully meeting his, and he smiles at her. Her knees wobble at that smile, and she gives her own back.

They move toward the door, Charles grasping firmly at her hand, and just before he opens it, he leans over and kisses her once more. Then he yanks the door open just as Andrew’s fist is about to pound on it again. Andrew’s hand falls to his side.

“Oh!” he exclaims, looking into the displeased look on his older brother’s face. And then his eyes widen as he gets a look at Diana just behind him. “Oh.”

“You wanted something?” Charles growls, Diana burying her burning face between his shoulder blades, hand still clinging to his.

“Everyone was wondering about the cake,” Andrew squeaks out. “I can see you’ve already had your dessert.”

Diana’s eyes widen as she gasps, and she wraps her arm around Charles’ waist, hoping to prevent him from decking his younger brother.

“Get out of my sight before I do something I’ll regret,” Charles warns, and Andrew scurries away, cackling.

She feels her husband take a deep breath, and then they make their way back outside, where she asks a staff member to bring out the cake and service ware. Before long, the entire family is gathered around Harry and his birthday cake, singing to him. Diana is beaming, and though she feels the studious gazes of various members of the family and sees Andrew whispering jovially to Sarah and Edward, she does not care in the least. Not even when the news seems to make its way to the most senior member of the royal family does she wither under that gaze. Instead, she and Charles both bend to kiss their son on his cheeks as he blows out his four candles and opens his gifts.

As the sun begins to set, long after the only remaining members of the family are Anne and her children and Edward, Diana makes her way across the cool garden toward her husband, who is holding a sleeping Harry while he talks to his sister on the patio. Will and Edward are playing a game of cards at a nearby table, with Will showing the same tell-tale signs of nearing sleep.

Diana places a hand over her belly, hoping her next child will soon reside there—perhaps even today—and catches Charles watching her. She smiles at him, content for the first time in a long time.

It’s been mere weeks, and yet everything has changed.

As she comes nearer to them, Anne’s back to her, she begins to overhear parts of what her sister-in-law is saying.

“They got back four days ago,” she says, to which Charles merely hums.

Diana hopes against hope that Anne’s not talking about who she thinks she is. Charles is watching her every move, and knows she can overhear. Surely he wouldn’t allow Anne to talk about Camilla in front of her. Surely he wouldn’t want to hear about it while his wife stands in earshot. Or at all, preferably.

“And from what I understand, she miscarried yesterday,” Anne says, her tone so nonchalant, it does not match the statement.

Diana freezes, her hand still over her own belly, her gaze locked in Charles’ stare. She watches his face falter, a deep look of pain crossing his features and sees his eyes flick to her belly. She’s not sure what to think, but she thinks all of it simultaneously: questions, doubt, pain, brokenness. She's certain he wishes she were Camilla. Certain, once again, that he would rather have married Camilla, had children with her. Those things should have been different and that Camilla losing a baby is a reminder of all he had lost. Perhaps, that look of anguish was the result of him questioning the paternity of Camilla's baby. She wasn't certain, but she doesn't have the energy to logically calm down or to force herself to trust him. Instead, that same old feeling of having lost a battle drenches her, and she feels the familiar spiral beginning to take place in her head.

She flees into the safety of the house, behind the closed door of her bedroom, before Charles can move a muscle.

Chapter Text

15 September 1988

“I don’t want to hear,” he tells his sister softly.

“You cannot avoid her forever,” Anne retorts. “You run in the same circles. She’s going to be around.”

“I understand that,” Charles nods, shifting his sleeping son in his arms, locking his wrists to hold him firmly in place against his chest. More than anything, he wishes Anne would just go, just leave him alone. His sister seems to have it in her mind that she knows him so well, but he hasn’t opened up to her about anything since March. And truly, everything has changed even in the past few weeks. “I understand, I do. But I have no need of intimate knowledge anymore.”

“Really? So it’s that simple. You’ll let Andrew claim that all is well in his marriage, that they conceived a child out of some sort of attempt at reconciliation…and you’ll sit here and pretend it never happened?”

“Anne,” he snaps, then takes a breath and covers Harry’s ear with his hand after the boy flinches in his sleep. “Anne, for the last time. I’m not the father of that baby.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now anyway,” Anne says.

He wants to know what she means but won’t satisfy her by asking. Instead, his eyes watch Diana as she walks around the garden in the cool evening air, her skin glowing and a look of pure contentment on her face. His mind flicks back to hours before in his study, the way his body had been so overcome with want for her that he’d been shocked and powerless against it. The way he’d been truly satisfied to be with her, and the hope of continued building of a future with her.

He watches her hand as it rises to her belly, both in on a little secret that gives him great joy. He hopes she’s pregnant. Truly wants another child with her, a little girl with her big blue eyes and a love for flitting around a room in a ballet costume, or another little boy with a love of polo and following him around the garden.

But Anne draws him back out of that daydream, and though his eyes still follow Diana’s every move as she smiles at him and walks closer to them, he hears his sister loud and clear.

“They got back four days ago,” she says.

“Hmmm,” Charles says, aware Diana is standing near enough to overhear everything.

“And from what I understand, she miscarried yesterday.”

Charles’ heart stops. First, he feels immense pain for Camilla. He knows—he and Diana know the pain of losing a child, and he’d never wish it on anyone, let alone the woman who had been his dearest friend for his entire adult life. But hearing about the miscarriage, though it is not entirely a shock given Camilla’s age and difficult delivery with her youngest child, Laura, ten years prior, reminds him that his newest dream with Diana could be plagued with loss and grief.

He realizes at that moment that he’s once again placed a desire in Diana’s hands, one that she is likely to go to the ends of the earth to achieve for him or destroy herself trying. He doubts whether or not she is strong enough to handle another miscarriage should one happen, nor the toll having another son would take on her when he knows she will only find true success in having a daughter.

He thinks of the time she’s taken razors to her wrists, become skin and bones, done other unpleasurable things to herself, for what purpose he doesn’t know.

But he's becoming increasingly aware of Diana’s desire to please him and her need to do so for fear of losing him. He’s made a grave error in asking her for another child. He should have just kept that dream to himself and hoped it would happen on its own.

All of this plays out in his mind in mere seconds, the memory of her writhing in their bed when she miscarried the first time, with new images of it happening again, replacing that vision of her casket he’d finally gotten rid of. His eyes meet hers, and he freezes.

A look of utter betrayal is written across her features, and he immediately knows she has misunderstood the whole situation. But Harry is in his arms, and he cannot move fast enough before she disappears into the house, already wiping at tears.

“Diana–” he calls.

Anne looks at him with wide eyes, hand over her mouth. “I had no idea she was there.”

“Anne…” he growls. “Go home. Please.”

His sister looks truly remorseful; it's as if she’s realized for the first time that he is truly trying with Diana, and she’s ruined it. But she calls over to her children and they say their goodbyes. Edward walks up, hands in his pockets as he watches them go.

“Everything all right?” he asks.

“No,” Charles says simply. “Ed, do you mind putting the boys to bed? You’re welcome to stay in a guest room, so you don’t have to drive tonight. I’ll have them put on their pajamas and brush their teeth, and then you can read to them and get them into bed. I need to go look in on Diana.”

“Sure,” he shrugs. “Wills…did you hear? Uncle Ed has the bedtime honors tonight.”

William looks excited by the prospect, and when they get to the boys’ room, Charles rouses Harry enough to urge them both through their preparations for bed. He waits until Edward is seated on a chair between their beds, reading a story Charles is sure will have them asleep in moments before he seeks out his wife.

He checks their bedroom first, hoping that despite everything that’s just happened, she will at least have gone there. But the room is empty, and instead, he heads to her bedroom, sighing heavily. When he gets there, the door is locked, and because the boys will hear him pounding on it, he goes downstairs for the key.

Once he’s in the bedroom, the door closes behind him; he takes in the bed littered with candy wrappers and boxes of pastries and then notes the closed bathroom door.

Damn. He’s already lost her to that horrific thing that haunts their marriage.

“Diana?” he calls softly.

The only response is the sound of her sobbing and heaving. His heart wrenches in his chest, and he tries the doorknob, relieved to find she hasn’t locked it.

He finds her on the rug, hunched over the toilet, throwing up as she had so many times before. He’d always avoided this, even when she was pregnant with both of the boys, and she had managed to hide most of this struggle with her eating disorder from him for a long time. It was another battle she had fought on her own, and he understood it very little. Not that he had tried.

Now, he approaches timidly, setting aside his frustration with how quickly she had fallen back into this and jumped to conclusions, and instead, kneels behind her, his hand on her back.

He notes that she doesn’t seem to force it as the staff had once told him she did, gagging herself to throw up. Perhaps at this point, her body instinctively is taking over to rid itself of whatever is in her stomach.

“Diana,” he groans in anguish.

“Go!” she gasps. “Get out.”

“No,” he says firmly.

She hurls again, very little left to come up, and then she flushes the toilet and leans her face on her hand as she sobs. His hand is still on her back, and the sound of her brokenness echoes off the bathroom walls. He swallows hard. She had gone from looking joyful and glowing in the garden to frail and gray. And it’s all because of him.

“Please go away,” she begs. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

He stands, disappearing from her side momentarily, but quickly returns and places a cool, damp cloth on her neck. This is no place for his wife; he wants to be done with it once and for all. He bends his tall body and lifts her into his arms, carrying her from the bathroom, out of her bedroom, to the master bedroom they shared. He places her on the bed, and she immediately curls into a ball, facing away from him, crying softly into her pillow, arms folded around her belly.

“I know you overheard,” he says, sitting beside her. “But–”

“I more than overheard. I saw the look on your face when she told you Camilla had miscarried. That wasn’t the look of a man feeling sympathetic. It was the look of a man who–”

“Who what?” he dares.

“Was it yours?” she asks.

“No! For the last time, it wasn’t mine,” Charles is angry now and cannot hide it. “I’ve done a lot of things wrong, but I haven’t told you a single lie since you came here to tell me about the biopsy.”

But she tells him it doesn’t add up. The look on his face was one of agony and grief, and she knew because she’s seen it before; at Mountbatten’s funeral, when she lost their baby, and most recently when Hugh died.

“I care about her. I hate to hear that she’s experienced pain,” Charles admits.

Diana shakes her head. “No. When Anne told you, you had that look on your face that you had when I miscarried.”

“Because it’s what I was thinking of,” he says softly. “And I thought maybe it wasn’t worth risking you going through that again. Both of us going through that again.”

His hand lands on her hip, but she shoves it away.

“Sweetheart, please,” he begs her. “I asked Anne not to talk about her. I didn’t want to hear it. She told me anyway, and while my first thoughts were of sorrow for her, they were wrapped up in thoughts of our experience.”

She’s silent, sniffling, and hiccuping, and he decides he needs to be even more emphatic.

“It was not the look of grieving my child. It wasn’t mine. I swear to you.”

But before she can respond in any way, she flees out of the bed on the side opposite him and runs back to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. He hears her vomit again and leans forward to put his head in his hands.

When she comes back a few minutes later, she weakly crawls back onto the bed, and he hands her a glass of water from her bedside table, along with a wrapped mint she kept there for exactly that.

“You have to stop doing that,” he tells her.

“I know,” she whispers, holding the mint on her tongue.

He bends his leg, turning toward her. “I won’t stand it anymore, Diana. The watching you waste away to nothing, the attempts on your life.”

“I know I need to stop, but I can’t. There’s something wrong with me,” she tells him, hands on her forehead. “Sometimes I can’t take it anymore, and it’s the only way to–”

“To what?”

“Release it. Release the craziness going on in my head.”

He wants her to see someone, but there’s such a stigma about the royal family’s mental health he knows it will be difficult. They have forced so many pills on her, many he suspects she has not taken or refused to because she was pregnant. Any psychiatry she seeks will reflect poorly on him and the way he’s treated her in their marriage, and he’d willingly set all that aside, but he knows Buckingham will have something to say about it, which could make it even worse for her.

Instead, he stays silent, praying that perhaps this is the last time and he can prevent it from happening again.

“I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions,” Diana whispers.

“I’ve given you more reasons not to trust me than to trust me. I understand. But I promise I’m doing everything I can to change that.”

She nods, and in the dim bedroom light, Charles reaches over to dry her tears with his thumb.

“What do you need?” he asks.

“Hold me?” she asks timidly.

He moves quickly, thankful to be allowed to touch her after being shoved away a moment before. She curls into him as both his arms wrap around her, her head on his chest. She grips his shirt, and his fingers trail up and down her spine.

“Promise me you won’t do that again,” he says after they’ve laid there for several minutes.

“I can’t,” she whispers. “I can’t make or keep that promise.”

“Then promise you won’t lock me out,” he amends. “Let me help you.”

“You’ve never wanted to help before. You wanted to ignore it. Told me I was making it up.”

“I do not know how to help. But I know I need—I want to try, Diana. I want to love you better than I have before.”

She sighs, lifting her head up to rest her chin on his chest and look at him. He returns her gaze, his face blank but eyes full of emotion.

“You’re not alone anymore, Diana. You have someone to look after you.”

Her breath catches at that reference phrase she had said to him that evening when she had attempted to comfort him after Lord Mountbatten’s death.

“Do you still love me?” she asks in a whisper.

“I’ll never stop,” he admits.

“Please. You’ve hated me at times.”

“Even when I’ve hated you, I’ve loved you.”

“Is that why you kissed me like that in Cirencester?”

He could pretend he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. But he knows exactly. It had been his most public display of affection perhaps ever, and the papers had raved about it. And he had done it in the midst of one of their most difficult seasons. Harry had been young, not even a year old, and yet that summer of 1985, Charles had been almost as affectionate with Diana as he was now. It had confused her immensely, and he had known that, but he’d never afforded her any clarity. It was a year they were at each other’s throats, and then he was slipping into her bed. He’d played polo nearly every day, let hungry eyes roam all over her, and then spent time in her bedroom each evening before they would get up to check on the baby, and he’d go back to his room.

He’d let it go on for months, Camilla’s presence in the background of the polo matches hanging over them like a noose. And then, one day, he’d caught Camilla and Diana locked in a deadly stare-off and realized he was feeding a flame that would destroy all three of them. He had cooled off with Diana quickly after that, and she’d gone back to wasting away.

So here they were, three years later, and Diana was just now brave enough to ask him what he had meant by all of it.

“I kissed you like that because you are my wife, and you were beautiful.”

“I think you saw it as a duty. Because rumors were swirling about Harry’s paternity and the state of our marriage, and for the sake of the crown, you needed to put on a show. I understand. We’ve done it time and time again.”

“Could it not have been both? Could it not have been because I wanted and needed to?”

“If it was that, why didn’t it last?” Diana asks. “Time and time again, you’ve looked at what I have to offer and what she has to offer, and you’ve chosen her.”

“I know. But I’m choosing you now. You and you alone are my choice. You and our family.”

She looks at him, studying him, and he hates how sad she looks.

“Are you ever going to be able to forgive me?”

“Yes,” she says. “I will. But not yet. I still don’t trust you. I’m sorry.”

He feels the knife in his heart, the way it twists, but knows he deserves it.

“I don’t think you’ve forgiven me either,” she tells him. “For James.”

No. He hasn’t. That much is apparent each time he sees the man at polo or when William let it slip last November that James had been over at Kensington. At least he had the decency to keep his affair with Camilla away from the children. Diana had all but replaced him with James whenever Charles was away.

“Whatever happened to dear James, anyway?”

“Don’t get that tone,” Diana grumbles. “I needed a break after the avalanche. I…I was confused.”

“About?”

“How much I still loved you,” she tells him. “It wasn’t fair really, that you’ve treated me so wrong, and yet I love you so much. And there was James being kind and gentlemanly and putting me first, and I was still pining over you.”

“You’ve never pined over me,” he says with a roll of his eyes.

“You’re really stupid if you believe that for a second,” she argues. “I’ve been head-over-heels in-love with you more times than you’ve deserved.”

He falls silent, his hand still on her back, her chin still on his chest. He doesn’t know what to say.

“You’ve been so cruel to me,” she tells him. “All I ever wanted was your patience. Your affection. I’ve wanted to be first in your heart. And I never have been. And every time I fell short of your expectations, I slipped further from that place. All I ever wanted was to be your wife. Truly your wife. To be adored, protected and cared for. I just wanted you to look at me, to see me.”

“Diana—” he hears his voice, the way it sounds heartbroken, yet even it does not match the depth of his pain and regret.

“Do you see me?” she asks, tears burning her throat. “Charles, do you see me?”

“Yes,” he whispers, and he doesn’t even bother to try to hide his own tears. “Yes, my love. I see you.”

A sob rises in her throat, and he hates that there have been so many times when he looked right through her. But he doesn’t now. He sees the woman in front of him, his wife, the mother of his children, who has begged for his attention for so long, loved him so much that she wanted to be the center of his world. And he’d missed her all this time. Accused her of being self-centered, of making the world gray and dismal, being outraged over her constant tears and depressions, or her manic bouts with throwing herself down stairs or grabbing knives.

He’d blamed her all this time, and all she’d wanted was for him—for whatever blessed reason she loved him—wanted him to see her.

His hand is in her hair at the back of her neck, and he rolls them over so her head is on the pillow and he’s hanging over her. As he leans on one elbow, his thumb and gaze trail along her face, over each arch of her facial structure. Then his blue eyes lock with hers, and he notices that her breath gets so shallow he’s certain she will faint away.

“I see you,” he says, his baritone voice even deeper than normal. “I see you, Diana. And I love you. Darling, I love you.”

“Don’t look away,” she begs. “Charles, please don’t look away. Keep your eyes on me forever.”

His lips descend on her forehead. “I love you.”

Then they descend on each of her cheeks.

“Charles,” she begs, his hand trailing up her thigh under her dress, causing her to whimper with want.

God, he didn’t deserve to be wanted by her. And yet…

“I love you.” His statement is emphatic. She believes it, he can see it as it crosses her face and descends into the depths of her thoughts. And then his lips are on hers and for the next hour, he forgets everyone else in the world even exists.

Later, he thinks, as he watches her sleep, that it hasn’t been his eyes he needed to see her with. It’s been his heart, his mind…the depths of his soul. A Shakespearean quote from his school days, that he had dutifully learned while rolling his eyes, enters his mind, and he realizes Shakespeare’s genius as he whispers it over his sleeping wife.

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore, is winged Cupid painted blind.”

Chapter Text

6 July 1988

“It’s a victory for women, is all I have to say,” Sarah remarks, leaning in close to Diana, her hand rapidly waving her fan to try to cool her sweat-shining face.

It’s a hot day on the polo field, especially for her sister-in-law, who is a month away from her due date.

“I’m not sure we’re allowed an opinion on the church,” Diana teases her. “Considering the whole Mummy being head of the church thing.”

“I do wonder what her thoughts are on the matter,” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “I imagine the ordination is a bit modern for her, even if she herself is a woman.”

“Pa is sure to convince her it’s a step in the right direction to give women more of a voice, even if in the church and even if you and I are censored on everything,” she tries not to let the bitterness into her voice. She had naively thought long ago that marrying into this family would give her more of a voice for the ideals that mattered to her, but found in many ways she had less. If only her husband cared as much about giving her space to speak her mind as he created space in their schedule for this dearly loved sport of his.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t so much this sport as that woman sitting across the field that Diana was doing her best to ignore.

She shifted in her seat, a sigh leaving her lips. She hadn’t eaten enough that morning, between Charles' foul mood at the breakfast table and Harry’s refusal to be roused from his bed. Charles had been put out and frustrated that they would be forced to be late to the field, and at last, Diana had sent him on his way with a promise to arrive a bit later with the boys.

Harry had been all tears that morning, and she’d finally allowed him and William to stay home for a day of rest after the sun had tired them out the day before. Charles had been none too pleased when she arrived without them, but she’d merely rolled her eyes and walked off, hoping he’d work his frustrations out on his opponents instead of her. She was unsure of the cause of her dear husbands’ particular mood that day. She had a familiar feeling she was a component of it and had a stronger feeling he likely would spend his evening with the crowd at Bolehyde instead of at home.

She watched her husband ride across the field, noting how off his game he was today almost at the same moment Sarah commented the like.

“He isn’t focused,” Diana remarks back, her hand shielding her eyes from the hot sun. “He’s been in a mood all day.”

“Perhaps you haven’t been attentive enough to his needs,” Sarah teased.

Diana scoffed, muttering under her breath as Sarah laughed.

“How are things in that department for you, by the way?”

Diana shot daggers at her sister-in-law, shifting again in her seat and looking around to see if anyone was eavesdropping.

“Could we perhaps not have this conversation here?”

“I’m just asking because I overheard him declining an invitation to Bolehyde when I walked by him earlier.”

“Who was doing the inviting?”

“Your dear friend,” Sarah said, and Diana instantly tensed, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the arms of her chair. “Relax. He barely looked at her, and as I said, he politely declined. So I figured he must have plans with you this evening instead.”

“Not that I’ve been made aware of,” Diana said. “I was planning on driving back to London this evening.”

“Oh,” Sarah shrugged, leaning closer. “Well…do you know what she said in response to his decline?”

Diana sighed. Sarah loved and fed off of drama. But when it came to her husband, Diana was never sure if she wanted to know or was better off turning a blind eye.

“I overheard her point out to him that he hasn’t been to one of their parties in over a month.”

At this, Diana reacted visibly before she could school her features. She’d regret that later, she was sure, some awful photo of her plastered somewhere. But she whipped her head around to look at Sarah, her jaw hanging open, eyebrows raised as high as they would go.

“Are you certain?”

“Quite,” Sarah nodded. “And he said he’s been too busy. I moved out of earshot at that point. But I’ll say this…perhaps the reason for your husband’s mood is a frustration of a different sort.”

Diana sat back in her chair, eyes following her husband and the intense look on his face. His brows were furrowed and his jaw tense. And when her eyes trailed back to Camilla's residence on the other side of the field, she noted that the woman was gone. She didn’t know what to think of it and refused to allow herself to hope. Surely it was just some lovers’ quarrel or another, and the thought of that made her sick as it was.

The match drew to an end, and Diana and Sarah stood to applaud the winning team. One more match to go that afternoon, and then Diana would be free to close herself away and process what Sarah had told her.

“I think I’m about done in,” Sarah admitted as Diana turned to note her red cheeks and nose.

“Yes, I’d say you ought to head home,” Diana told her. “I’ll walk with you to tell Andrew?”

The woman nodded and the two of them slowly made their way through the crowds, their arms looped together to keep from being separated. Just as Diana was about to remark on the strange lack of journalists and photographers, two appeared to her right, snapping away and calling to her a series of questions as normal. Diana ducked her head away, refusing to give them the time of day as she and Sarah sped up to get around them. Charles and Andrew were merely two hundred steps away, she was sure, and the photographers would stay back at that point.

She caught a glimpse of her husband pulling off his helmet and tucking it in the boot of the car; his team was done for the day with that loss. She mentally prepared herself for his mood to be the same or worse than earlier, but then the crowds swelled in front of them again, and she lost sight of him.

“Diana! Diana, give me a smile! Give me a shot any man would be delighted to put on his ceiling to enjoy!”

Diana did her best to keep her face void of expression. Sometimes the photographers could be borderline crude, and she would never grow used to it. And she was certain the men of the family would never understand what the women put up with.

Suddenly, she felt a strong yank on her purse strap, her shoulder whipping back behind her. Said hand landed on her forearm, turning her back to find a camera right in her face.

“Come on, Diana! Give us a good shot!”

“Let go of me,” she shouted. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

The crowd grew deathly quiet. She’d hear about that remark later, she was sure. But she didn’t care. The fury burning in her, years of pent up frustration at the continuous invasion of her privacy brought to this pivotal moment of one of them daring to lay a hand on her.

“I don’t belong to you!” She shouted. “Get away from me!”

He backed off quickly, the photographer with him tugging him away. But Diana stood, feet planted, glaring him down, her breath coming in short rasps as if she had just run a marathon.

“Di,” Sarah was pulling her arm in the other direction. “Come. We’ve got to get to the cars.”

Diana allowed herself to be tugged away, the crowd parting for them like the red sea. Suddenly, before she could gain control of her emotions, she was standing in front of her husband.

“What was going on over there?” Andrew was asking, his hand on Sarah’s waist.

“A photographer grabbed—”

“Nothing,” Diana cut her off, black spots swimming in the corner of her vision as the heat and adrenaline caught up to her fully.

“Grabbed Diana,” Sarah finished, giving her a strange look.

“It was nothing,” Diana whispered, noting the presence of Charles at her side.

“Grabbed you?”

A sob lodged in her throat, her right arm flailing out for something to hold onto and catching onto Charles' shoulder.

“What do you mean they grabbed her?” Charles demanded.

“I don’t know, I just know we were walking and all of a sudden this man yanked her to a complete halt and—Diana really gave him a what for.”

“Sarah, please.”

“It was glorious,” Sarah told the men. “You should have seen her.”

Charles arm wrapped around Diana’s waist, leading her over and setting her on the bumper of the car in the shade. His hand stayed on her back, pressing her sweat soaked day dress into her skin. Didn’t he know he was suffocating her looking at her like that?

“Diana,” Charles growled. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t…didn’t look at his badge. I’ve never seen him before.”

Charles scanned the crowd, but it had dispersed some, and she knew the photographer would have surely fled by now if he had any smarts about him at all.

“They’re getting more desperate,” she heard Andrew remark. “I don’t like it. What if they’d grabbed Sarah instead?”

Diana’s eyes trailed down to her shoes. She noted the rapid rise and fall of her husband’s chest out of the corner of her eye, and felt his thumb move slowly across her spine. And then his finger was hooking under her chin and tugging her face up so he could look at her. Her eyes met his, the tears blurring her vision of his concern and fury-marked face. Her hand came up to rub her shoulder.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head, but he looked down at her hand where it rubbed her shoulder, and moved to stand in front of her and block anyone’s view of her. He slid her purse off her arm and set it in the trunk of the car, and then his fingers undid the buttons at her neck, pulling her dress off her right shoulder. The fury grew as his fingers trailed the tender spot where the strap had dug in so far to her skin.

“There’s a bruise,” he remarked with a growl.

“I’ll be fine,” she told him, shrugging his hand off and yanking her dress back into place. “I…I’m fine.”

They were alone, Andrew walking Sarah off to their car. A glorious breeze blew across the two of them, providing some small relief to the tension and heat of the moment.

“What did he look like?”

“Bald, dark mustache, young…probably early twenties. I don’t know,” she sighed, reaching for Charles’ hand as she felt him turn to scan the crowd again. “Charles. Please. Don’t make anything out of this. I’m already going to be in trouble for what I said and we’ve had enough drama for a lifetime this year. I’m tired. Just…just leave it alone. He wouldn’t have the nerve to try it again.”

“They don’t have the right to treat you as if you’re—you’re worth nothing but—but something nice to look at.”

“They’re taking notes from how my husband treats me,” she snapped. “That’s all I am to you, isn’t it?”

He turns that look of fury onto her the next moment. “Diana.”

Diana buries her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. I just…do we have to stay? Can…can you take me home? Please.”

He runs his hand through his hair then steps back. He yanks his shirt off in a fluster, and his movements as he drags a towel over his sweaty skin and then drags a clean shirt over his head tell her enough of his anger that she wisely says nothing else.

“I’m…I’m going to be sick,” she breathes out, a hand over her belly and the other reaching for her mouth.

He’s back at her side, shoving a bottle of water toward her. “Yes, you seem quite fine,” he mutters, pouring water onto the towel he’d just used and holding it to her neck as she takes slow sips of the water from the bottle he’d handed her.

“It’s just the heat,” she whispers.

“Just the heat—” he scoffs again. “And perhaps some bastard laying his hands on you.”

“I didn’t eat much this morning,” she tells him as her stomach begins to feel like it’s calming.

“Why?”

“You were all in a rush and—”

“Is everything my fault today?” he snaps.

“Yes,” she snaps back. “No one dared lay their hands on me, let alone paid me a bit of attention until you decided to make me the Princess of Wales.”

He wisely stalked away from her at that moment, leaving her sitting there on the back bumper of the car in the shade of the trees. She did not know why she was going after him so intensely. But in the option of the moment, when she could fall apart and run and hide, or stay and fight to the death, she’d chosen to fight. No matter whom it was with.

Diana was done. Done with crossing paths with her husband’s lover, done with wondering whether or not he was on or off with her. Done with being second. Done with being used. Done with being treated this way by him, by the family, by the media. And if she couldn’t truly be done…if she couldn’t hide away from it all and avoid it…she wants in that moment to burn it to the ground instead.

She left for London an hour after they got back to Highgrove. They didn’t speak of it again. But the following day, she received word from her secretary there had been a reminder of royal protocol sent to every media outlet, source Prince of Wales, and she felt some of that fight deflate just a bit as she remembered his hand on her back, the concern in his eyes and she realized he hadn’t been angry at her, but for her.

That familiar flame of love sprung up in her again, uninvited and unbidden, and she couldn’t outrun it even if she tried.

The boys called her that night to tell her about the events of their day with their father, and after she’d chatted with them for a bit she heard him speak to them in the background.

“Papa wants to talk to you,” William told her.

“Alright. I love you.”

Her son returned the sentiment, and then she heard a rustling on the phone.

“Hello,” Charles' voice filled her ears.

“Hi,” she sighed. “It sounds as though the boys had fun today.”

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I believe so. Are you well after yesterday?”

"I'm fine," she tells him.

It’s silent for a moment, and her brows furrow, wondering through the awkwardness of the moment if he’d actually asked to speak to her or the boys had put him in that position.

“Well,” she says at last. “Sleep well.”

“Diana—” he cuts in. “Wait.”

“Yes?”

“You…you’re…”

“What, Charles?”

“I…I thought I might come to Kensington for our anniversary this year,” he says abruptly.

“Alright,” she nods. “If that’s what you want.”

“Perhaps Anne can watch the boys,” he continues.

She is silent, nodding, though he cannot see her.

“You’re worth more to me than something to look at,” he says softly. “Far more.”

Not as much as someone else, her brain argues, but she doesn’t say it out loud.

“Alright,” she breathes, eyes closing.

The silence reigns once more.

“Well. Goodnight,” he says at last.

“Goodnight,” she says and hears him breathe for a moment more before the line clicks dead.

Diana is left staring at the phone in her hand for far longer than she’d care to admit, wondering if her husband will ever stop being a confounding and frustrating mystery to her.

21 September 1988

Diana hates being away from the children, but when the three-day trip to Scotland, followed by two days in Wales, is rescheduled, Charles convinces her to allow them to stay behind for the sake of Willam’s schooling and their routine. She concedes when he reminds her with a playful smirk, it will allow more time for the two of them, but the day of, she feels that anxiety of separating from them coursing through her.

“Diana, we have to leave,” Charles says impatiently as Diana recites the list with the nanny again.

She ignores him long enough that he’s back at her side, hand on her waist, tugging at her a bit.

“It’s well in hand,” he says. “If the whole staff doesn’t have your lists completely memorized with how often you’ve gone over them….”

The nanny giggles softly, Diana’s face flushing as she shoots her husband an annoyed glance.

“They aren’t so little anymore. They will be fine,” he tells her yet again that morning. “We’ll call every day.”

“It’s only a week, Ma’am,” the nanny reminds her. “And you’re not so very far away as you’ve been before.”

Diana nods. She logically knows all of this, but it doesn’t quite help ease the anxiety flurrying around inside her like a blizzard. But the boys come bursting in again from outside, and she sets it aside to give them warm hugs, something she’d already done multiple times. William remarks that he thought they left already, and she’s just about to remind them to behave again when Charles tugs her hand.

“Diana,” he complains. “You’re smothering them. We need to leave.”

She gives in at last, kissing them both once more and allowing her husband to pull her out of the room and into the hallway. Just as the front door comes into sight and a footman pulls it open to reveal the waiting car outside, Charles tugs her body flush against his, pressing her up against the wall as he kisses her with the same passion he’d woken her up with that morning. The footman dutifully looks away.

She can’t breathe and feels like she’s fluttering for an entirely different reason as he pulls back a bit, his breath still hot on her and his desire-filled eyes holding her captive in his gaze.

“If you would just get in that car, I promise a lot more of that when we get there,” Charles whispers, his voice deep.

“Alright,” she says breathily. “I was coming.”

“Not nearly fast enough,” he argues.

“Well, now, who is the one delaying our trip?”

He smirks at her quip and, after kissing the tip of her nose, leads her out to the car. When they’re pulling away, and she looks in the rear glass to see if the boys are watching them go, her husband tugs her face gently back toward his with a finger under her chin and kisses her again.

“Stop worrying about them,” he says. “They are looking forward to a week without us as much as you dread it.”

“They are not,” she argues.

“Diana, they can survive a few days without you better than you think they can. We’ve raised quite independent children.”

She sighs.

“Besides,” he whispers in her ear. “Perhaps we’ve brought one of them along with us after all.”

She misses his meaning until his hand splays across her belly, and then she smiles and leans back in to kiss her hopeful husband, enjoying this newly reshaped optimistic side of him. As her head settles against his chest and they turn their attention out the car windows at the passing scenery, she does her best to put her worry out of her mind and not ruin this trip he’s been so looking forward to. Even if they will work the entire time, traveling from engagement to engagement, she feels a bit like this is a second honeymoon.

22 September 1988

Her smile as she stands at her husband’s side for pictures at their first event of the day is genuine, as is Charles’ good mood as he answers a few press questions following his short speech to open the wildlife and conservation educational classroom at a Scotland secondary school. He had worked hard over the summer to raise funds and awareness for the school after receiving a letter asking for support from their superintendent. A cause near and dear to his heart, Diana noted the hints of passion in his remarks.

As he continued his answer to another question, this one about their afternoon events, Diana scanned the room of familiar journalists and photographers who usually accompanied the Prince and Princess of Wales. She smiled, trying hard to focus on her husband’s words even though the usual flashing of the cameras unnerved her. It wasn’t so much the cameras as the constant worry of the spin certain columns placed on things regarding her. She hated the way they analyzed her body language at every turn, the expectation that she be perfect, and no matter how hard she would try, the knowledge she would fail and falter at some point during the day.

Amidst the flashing, she heard Charles thanking them for coming and noted his hand over hers in the crook of his elbow as he began to lead her off the small platform they stood on. She offered a final smile in the direction of the press, a bald head catching her eyes. She did a double-take, certain she was seeing things, hoping she was. She’d seen nary a sign of that man who’d grabbed her over the summer since the day it had happened. And yet…she was certain she’d seen him now, standing toward the back of the room, a camera raised.

Her feet slowed, and she felt the tug of Charles as he realized she wasn’t quite keeping up with him. He turned toward her a bit, eyes questioning, and as she scanned the crowd, the man was gone.

Her brows furrowed, her gaze meeting Charles’ as he quirked an eyebrow slightly at her. Once they were in the car, he turned toward her fully.

“What happened? Are you alright?”

“Fine. I just…I thought I saw…”

His hand is on her leg. “Who?”

“No one. Just my mind playing tricks,” she offers him the warmest smile she can muster.

Charles studies her a moment more and then accepts her answer. It only happens once more throughout the day, on the way back to the car after their final engagement, when she’s completely worn out and ready for a hot meal and a bath. This time, she catches a glimpse of him on the sidewalk across the street, with no camera, and then Charles is ushering her into the car, and when she slides in to look out the window, the man is gone again.

She rubs her temples, telling Charles she has a headache when he questions her again. She’s certain, absolutely certain, that journalist would never have the nerve to approach her again, not after she’d publicly dressed him down and Charles had sent out that warning to the entire press corp. If ever a hint had been dropped that he ought not to try anything again, she thought they had certainly accomplished it.

Diana dares not mention her suspicion to her husband, remembering the fury he’d responded with the first time. She doesn’t see the man again the entire time they are in Scotland, and by the time they reach Wales, after being so thoroughly wined and dined by her husband, she’s all but forgotten about him.

Chapter Text

6 July 1988

Charles watched Diana stock off across the field to find her seat, leaving him high and dry in the middle of a rant about not wanting the boys to grow soft sitting at home instead of with her at the field. He huffed loudly, reminding himself that he was in public and he’d do well not to look so cross during or after a conversation with his wife.

He felt pent up. Trapped. Suffocated. And nothing was easing his discomfort.

He’d looked forward to Diana staying a few days at Highgrove so they could attend the matches together. He’d hoped that her being there would start to turn the tide. Either get the images of her dying out of his mind forever so he could be free to carry on, or give him some hope that he could win her back. But Diana being in that house with that reserved look on her face that silently let him know she suspected his every move had added a layer to his guilt he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for some time.

Not to mention, the images of her dying in his nightmares, the flashes of a life with her dead and gone had catapulted him to an entirely new level of chaos and turmoil overnight. He suffered silently, her sitting there at the breakfast table blissfully unaware of what he endured.

Perhaps it would drive him completely mad. Perhaps this was his punishment, heaped upon his back for carrying on that flame in his heart for Camilla while taking vows to another woman.

The Archbishop’s voice echoed in his mind repeatedly while he sat there and watched her sip her tea and attempt to calm a grumpy Harry. “Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will, I will, I will…. “ he’d said before God. But then, before God in so many ways since he hadn’t.

The last time he’d been at Bolehyde at the beginning of June, he’d been sitting there on that plush sofa, Camilla right at his side, perched on the arm of the chair, taking a long draw on her cigarette, and his mind had been blessedly quiet. He’d listened to her laugh and tell their closest friends a story, everyone captivated by her. He’d been a little off-kilter that night, his silent mind taking a reprieve from the trauma and thoughts he’d been relentlessly combatting since Switzerland.

But then Andrew Parker-Bowles had come back into the room from somewhere or another, and Charles was thrown off all over again.

“Charlie, I guess that son of yours will be six this month,” Andrew said.

“He will,” Charles had nodded, quirking an eyebrow at the out-of-the-blue remark.

“Crazy,” Andrew shook his head.

“What are you on about?” Camilla asked her husband. “You’ve interrupted my story.”

“Just how fast the time passes,” Andrew shrugged. “I don’t know. With Tom turning fourteen in six months, I’ve been thinking about what I was up to when I was fourteen…and God, I hope we got it right with him.”

“We’ve done just fine,” Camilla remarked, taking another draw on her cigarette. “He’s a sweet boy.”

“Still. Time is flying by. It's been six years since the Prince and Princess of Wales popped out their first….” Andrew laughed, looking around the room wistfully. “I remember being so proud of how fast you moved on that too, Charlie. Though I suppose any man would have if given the opportunity to–”

“Andy,” Camilla laughed uncomfortably, shooting daggers at her husband.

“Where’s Diana tonight?” Andrew suddenly turned his full attention to Charles.

Charles stared back. “She had an engagement at a hospital in Manchester today.”

“Shame she couldn’t be here,” Andrew asked. “She always lights up the room.”

“Yes, she does,” Charles had returned to him.

“Strange that you still seem to notice,” Andrew said, eyes locked on his, daring him to flinch.

Camilla stood to her feet, clapping her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Who’s ready for dessert? Let’s get some food in this husband of mine to go with all that wine.”

But Andrew and Charles stared each other down a moment more, even as everyone else filed out of the room, leaving only the three of them. And the quietness of his mind was shattered once more.

“Come on,” Camilla extended her hand, and he looked up at her warm face. “Ignore him. I know I do.”

Charles accepted her hand, but instead of letting her pull him along, when he stood to his feet, he pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek. “I’m done in for the night, I think.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Andrew told him. “Didn’t mean to run you off. You know I–”

“I have an early morning,” Charles replied, buttoning his jacket. “I’m to meet Diana in Birmingham for a ribbon cutting and tour of a manufacturing plant.”

He'd extended his hand toward Andrew, and the man had shook it. This mutual understanding between them was uncommon, unnatural, and one of the things that irked Diana to no end, because she refused to comply as Andrew did. Refused to understand it. She would have gotten some satisfaction from seeing Andrew Parker-Bowles stir up the water in the room that night, but Charles added the strange and unsettling occurrence to the growing list of reasons why time was surely running out.

Camilla walked him out, and the air shifted between them even further than it already had been since that fateful conversation where she’d planted the thought of Diana’s death in his mind. And the look that passed between them that night was one in which he urged her to understand without any words at all.

She hadn’t. But he hadn’t gone back to Bolehyde since, even though the invitations continued to be extended.

And he’d avoided her at the polo field, hoping that Diana’s presence would further deter her. His mind couldn’t take another upset until he’d decided once and for all what to do about all of it.

His brow furrowed against the July sun, watching that wife of his march away, her hips swaying in a tantalizing way. He’d never tell her he wanted the boys at the match because Camilla knew it was not a time to approach him when they were there. Just like he’d never tell her that his mood that morning was born out of some desperate need for her that he knew he no longer had the right to possess.

He didn’t even know if she loved him anymore. Not after he’d shut her down so quickly after that business with her telling his parents she wanted their marriage to work. He’d failed too many times, while that shining young thing she snuck into Kensington over and over all of last year seemed to be everything he wasn’t.

Charles tore his eyes away from the torment of his annoyingly captivating wife and turned back to the car boot to finish his preparations for the match.

“Hello you,” Camilla’s familiar voice came from his left, and his spine straightened on impact.

“Hello,” he greeted back, offering her a smile. “I had a feeling I’d see you today.”

She smiles but he watches her gaze flit around at whatever is behind him and wonders if she can see Diana from there.

“You did?” she asks. “Well, at least one of us is still dependable.”

“I’ve been busy,” he responds. “You know how it is.”

“Yes, well, in the midst of all that busy, if you can find the time for your old friends tonight, we’d love to see you.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Charles tells her, scrambling for an excuse that evades him.

He hears her sigh and, as he fastens on his helmet, turns toward her.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I can’t.”

“You haven’t been by the house in a month,” Camilla reminds him. “We’re all beginning to think you don’t love us anymore, maybe you’ve gone off it.”

He doesn’t have to question the truer meaning of her words. “A man can only accomplish so much with his limited time, Camilla.”

A flicker of understanding crosses her face just as he hears the crowd react to something in the stands that could only have been his wife's presence.

“So that’s it then,” she tells him. “You sound strangely like that husband of mine these days. Seems you’re both analyzing and taking stock.”

“Well, I hope he’s having more luck at it than I am.”

She studies him for a moment. “Perhaps he will.”

Her hand comes up as if it’s going to reach for his arm, but then she drops it again at her side.

“Well,” she says wistfully. “I hope that where you decide to focus your time fulfills you.”

Then his brother is standing there, and before Charles can utter another word, Camilla bows low into a curtsy and walks away.

He’s never been worse at polo than he is that day. Afterward, he shoves his helmet into the boot with a thud and ignores Andrew’s grilling him about the match as he wonders if his little brother will ever mature.

“Ah….here come our lovely brides,” Andrew grins, elbowing him. Charles doesn’t turn to look, rubbing his hands over his face and trying desperately to school his mood back into control before Diana is there in front of him.

The crowd's clamor has drowned into the background of his ears until it was suddenly gone. He turns toward the silence.

“What in the—” Andrew mutters, already stepping in the direction of the crowd where he’d been watching the women come toward them.

Charles’ brow furrows, and then the crowd parts, and Sarah and Diana are moving toward them again, Sarah looking completely red in the face and practically dragging his very pale wife toward him. He and Andrew cross the remaining distance to them.

Andrew tucks an arm around his heavily pregnant wife’s waist. “What was going on over there?”

“A photographer grabbed—” Sarah starts to explain.

“Nothing,” Diana blurts, and Charles is on high alert, studying her dazed look and the slight sway of her stature.

“Grabbed Diana,” Sarah finishes her sentence.

Everything within Charles is on fire. He doesn’t have time to even conjure up the image of a casket when his wife is standing before him, truly in danger at the present.

“It was nothing,” Diana whispers.

“Grabbed you?” Charles doesn’t even attempt to keep the growl out of his voice. A bear has awakened in him that will not be easily silenced.

He hears the sob catch in her throat and is ready to hurl grenades at whoever caused it. He watches her sway more drastically, her hand reaching for him and clamping onto his shoulder like a lifeline, and he steps even closer, his arm around her back pulling her close to his side, and he has to remind himself to lessen the protective grip his fingers have dug into her waist.

“What do you mean they grabbed her?” Charles turns toward Sarah, desperate for answers that he knows Diana will not give him.

“I don’t know,” his sister-in-law stammers at him, and he knows he’ll have to apologize later for his tone. “I just know we were walking, and all of a sudden, this man yanked her to a complete halt and—Diana really gave him a what for.”

“Sarah, please,” she begs. But if he doesn’t find out soon who hurt his wife, he will—well, he doesn’t know, but he feels capable of doing a lot of damage.

“It was glorious,” Sarah tells them, her eyes trailing from Charles to Andrew. “You should have seen her.”

Charles' arm trails down to Diana’s waist, and he feels how heavily she leans against him suddenly as if she's going to collapse. He moves her into the shade, and settles her onto the bumper of the car until her legs grow back. He stays at her side, rubbing his hand up and down her spine.

“Diana,” Charles growls, a bit quieter this time. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t…didn’t look at his badge. I’ve never seen him before.”

Charles scans the crowd, looking for a guilty party as if he will announce himself.

“They’re getting more desperate,” Andrew remarks. “I don’t like it. What if they’d grabbed Sarah instead?”

Charles is breathing hard, feeling like he also might pass out. The thought of someone hurting his expectant sister-in-law would be enough to enrage him normally, but the fact that Diana took the brunt of it doesn’t comfort him in the least. Don’t they know? Don’t they all know she’s the most precious thing in the world to him?

No. No, he realizes, they probably don’t. Because until that moment, he hadn’t known it either. He’d suspected it. His subconscious had been telling him for months through nightmares and waking visions. But he felt it settle deep in his chest at that moment.

He hooks a finger under her chin, raising her gaze up to his, and when he sees the tears there, he truly can’t take a full breath.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, searching her for some sign of injury.

She shakes her head, but he notes her hand rubbing her shoulder. He has to know. Needs to lay his eyes on her skin to see how bad the damage is. He pulls her purse out of his way, and then undoes her dress enough to pull the fabric away, being careful to block any of the public’s view with his body. He feels nauseous as his gaze lands on the purple and red marks on her shoulder, where he’s certain that the purse strap practically ripped her arm off. As his fingers tenderly trace the bruises, he has the ridiculous thought that he will cut off all the straps from her purses later, now that he knows they can be used against her.

But Diana is practically shoving him away, her hands pushing his away and yanking her dress back up over her shoulder to hide it from him.

“I’ll be fine. I…I’m fine.”

He knows she’s not. And the cool breeze that blows across the two of them does little to calm him.

“What did he look like?”

“Bald, dark mustache, young…probably early twenties. I don’t know,” she sighs as he begins to scan the crowd again, but then he feels her fingers intertwine with his and he turns back to her. “Charles. Please. Don’t make anything out of this. I’m already going to be in trouble for what I said, and we’ve had enough drama for a lifetime this year. I’m tired. Just…just leave it alone. He wouldn’t have the nerve to try it again.”

“They don’t have the right to treat you as if you’re—you’re worth nothing but—but something nice to look at.”

“They’re taking notes from how my husband treats me,” she hurls at him, her tone sharp and cold. “That’s all I am to you, isn’t it?”

He turns that look of fury onto her the next moment. But he isn’t angry with her. This rage is focused only on himself, and perhaps a bit at her need to call him on it at this exact moment where he’s just realized it himself. “Diana.”

Diana buries her face in her hands, and her next words sound as if she's lost the will to exist at all. “I’m sorry. I just…do we have to stay? Can…can you take me home? Please.”

He runs his hand through his hair, a thousand thoughts pouring through his mind, none of which he can currently say out loud. Not there. Not on that field with those people. Not with the emotions rushing through him. He steps away from her so he can breathe, needing to do something distracting. If a bit of his rage is taken out on removing his shirt and toweling his sweaty torso, he can’t help it. But then she’s speaking again, a panicked hilt to her voice, and he’s flying back toward her to rescue her from whatever ails her.

“I’m…I’m going to be sick.”

He notes the hand over her belly and the other over her mouth, and he’s shoving a bottle of water at her.

“Yes, you seem quite fine,” he mutters, as he looks around for the towel he just used and pours water from his own bottle onto it. He dabs it at her neck, wishing she’d meet his gaze but knowing she won’t.

“It’s just the heat,” she whispers.

“Just the heat—” he mutters in disbelief. “And perhaps some bastard laying his hands on you.”

“I didn’t eat much this morning.”

“Why?” he demands, angry at something else now. Doesn’t she know better than to not take care of herself? Doesn’t she know he can’t face life without her?

“You were all in a rush and—”

No. No, she doesn’t know.

“Is everything my fault today?” he snaps, more at himself than her.

“Yes,” she responds. “No one dared lay their hands on me, let alone paid me a bit of attention until you decided to make me the Princess of Wales.”

Now he’s going to be sick because, damn it all, she’s never said anything more accurate. He placed her in this position. He put her in their line of sight, and then he’d all but handed them ammunition.

The image of her casket has him closing his eyes tightly and ushering her into the car the moment she begs him to take her home again. But at home, she won’t look at him. Won’t talk to him. And he’s so paralyzed by his own fear of saying the wrong thing and sending her out of love with him forever, that he’s silent as she packs into her car and leaves him for the night.

One of these days he will figure out how to tell her. But he has this new fear that maybe he can’t even save her from himself.

25 September 1988

Charles walks the crowd on the right side of the street while she walks on the left. They are both all smiles and friendly conversations. The Prince and Princess of Wales are never more celebrated than in that place from which their title hails. He hears them chant her name, calling her to them, and he practically joins them in their cheers.

She’s radiant today in a red dress and hat, and he can’t keep his eyes off her. He understands fully why they are so enamored with her because he is too.

He’s wise enough now to know that she makes him stronger. It makes him more likable and more approachable. He wishes he could kick that younger, jealous, stupidly blind version of himself right in the arse.

They are handed all sorts of gifts: teddy bears, bouquets, single-stemmed roses, cards, and hand-drawn pictures, most of which they hand off to their staff to carry with them. A little girl catches his attention and he kneels down to greet her as she dips into an adorable curtsy.

“Hello,” he smiles. “What’s your name?”

“Imogen,” she says shyly.

“Imogen,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name. How old are you, Imogen?”

“Five,” she pops her thumb in her mouth.

“Five. My word, you’re practically grown,” he remarks.

The woman holding her hand tugs on her arm, nudging her.

“Don’t you want to give him the picture you drew for them?”

She nods eagerly, producing a piece of paper from behind her back. She extends it toward him, and he smiles, reaching for it. It’s a picture of the family, his family, he’s certain, but he asks for clarification.

“This is quite pretty. Can you tell me about it?” he asks.

Chubby little fingers point out each person, and he notes the adorable inability to say the letter ‘r’. “You, Pwincess Diana, Pwince William, Pwince Hawwy, Tigga, Pwincess Poppy and Pwince Geowge.”

Charles smiles. “Who are Poppy and George?”

“Yours,” she says emphatically.

Charles can’t help the joyous laugh. “I see. You seem to have added a bit to my family tree here, Imogen.”

She nods. “I have thwee bwothers. Everyone should have thwee.”

“Ah. That sounds like you’ve thought a lot about that. Well, thank you for the picture. It was very kind of you. Should I show it to Princess Diana?”

Imogen nods and Charles returns to his full height, ignoring the creaking of his knees as he carries on through the crowd. After a few more minutes, he and Diana give a final wave and both get back into the car.

He’s about to show Diana the picture when he watches her pull a card out of the single bouquet she’d kept with her, and her face pales.

“Diana?” he questions, scooting closer. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she tells him, tucking the card away. “Just a gift from someone in the crowd.”

But Charles reaches for the card before she can tuck it into the folds of her dress and flips it over to read what seems to clearly be a man’s scrawl.

“You looked ravishing last night,” he reads out loud. “Diana, who is this from?”

“A little boy handed it to me,” she says as she discards the bouquet on the floor of the car as if it burned her. “I don’t know.”

“This isn’t from a little boy,” Charles remarks, feeling the hair stand up on the back of his neck. “Diana.”

“I know,” she tells him, looking down at her hands in her lap.

He studies her. “You know who this is from.”

“Charles, please,” she begs, turning tear-filled eyes to meet him. “There’s no harm. I get notes like that all the time.”

“Calling you ravishing?” he demands.

“Well, no,” she says softly. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Suddenly, he’s at the polo field again, her leaning against him like a lifeline after a violent encounter with a photographer, and he suspects she is about the same amount of fine she was then.

“Stop the car,” he demands.

“Do not stop the car!” she shouts over him.

“Your Highness?” the driver questions, slowing a bit, but not stopping completely.

“Please,” she begs both men. “Please. I just want to go home.”

Charles gives in, telling the driver to continue on. He settles back against the seat.

“Did you see him in Scotland?”

“See who?” she plays dumb.

“You know who!” he shouts, and she jumps out of her skin. He lowers his voice. “I’m sorry. But Diana, please, do not make me beg this information out of you. I can’t—”

She slides across the seat and against his side, her hands wrapping around his in his lap. “Yes. I saw him.”

Charles nods, swallowing heavily. He feels her head on his shoulder, but his body refuses to be calm.

“I’m going to take care of this,” he tells her, voice deathly low. “I promise.”

“I’m fine,” she tells him. “We’re both fine.”

His lips press against her temple, and he wraps his arm around her, holding her close. Nothing is fine.

Chapter Text

11 August 1984

Diana had dreaded the Saturday with the royal family, celebrating the Princess Royal’s birthday, all week. She had ceased seeing her feet weeks ago, the baby weighed an astronomical amount, and William had been running her ragged. She stubbornly refused the nanny’s offer of extra help, much to the annoyance of her husband. She understood the need to celebrate a birthday but desperately wished the event might have been scaled back or she had been brave enough to give her excuses. Charles had assured her everyone would understand.

If only she had taken him up on it.

She sat in the nursery rocking chair, hands folded over her belly, feet on the ottoman, alleviating some of the swelling from her ankles. William sat in the middle of the room on the rug playing with a wood farm set and babbling happily. The house was terribly quiet, and she was tempted to drift off, but she’d already done her makeup and didn’t want to ruin it.

The nursery door swung slowly and quietly open, and her husband’s eyes met hers. He offered her a warm smile.

“Papa!” William exclaimed, rushing toward him.

Charles swung the boy up into his arms, kissing his cheek, and then moved toward his heavily pregnant wife. He knelt at her side, William on his hip, reaching a hand up to her face.

“You look tired.”

“Thank you,” Diana teased. “There wasn’t enough make-up in the world to cover up the lines under my eyes.”

“I want you to stay home,” he said.

“We’ve been over this.”

“They will understand.”

“They think I’m weak,” she told them. “Going on about how they never had morning sickness and have such strong constitutions.”

“Mummy had a hard time with Edward, regardless of what she says,” Charles told her. “I was far old enough to remember.”

“She was approaching forty. I am not.”

Charles sighed. “Is there any way I’ll win this argument?”

“You shouldn’t be arguing with your pregnant wife anyway,” she told him, as she affectionately tucked his collar that was already perfectly in place.

The baby gave a swift kick to her rib, and Diana hissed, wincing and placing her hand against the spot. She looked over at her husband to see him staring at her as if his point had been proven, but she swung her feet off the ottoman onto the floor.

“We should go,” she announced. “Is the car ready?”

He nodded, standing and reaching for her arm to help her up, and they both kissed William goodbye and passed him off to the nanny. On the drive, Charles complimented her on her purple dress, but Diana told him she could not wait to leave the maternity clothes behind. She was larger this pregnancy than last, which she had been informed was normal, and the dresses were getting tight.

The family was all standing around the princess in the garden at Buckingham when they arrived.

“Ah, here they are,” Elizabeth remarked as they stepped outside.

“Hello,” Charles greeted, bowing and leaning in to kiss his mother’s cheek.

Diana curtsied and leaned in to do the same.

“Diana, you look well,” Elizabeth remarked. “How are you?”

“Thank you. Ready to meet this little one,” she smiled.

“Hopefully not too ready,” Elizabeth supplied. “You still have some weeks left.”

Diana nodded.

“It won’t be long,” Charles added, his hand on the small of Diana’s back as the couple shared a smile.

“We are excited about adding to this boisterous crew,” Philip remarked, coming up and leaning in to kiss Diana’s cheek.

“I’m not sure help is needed in that,” Charles glanced toward his siblings and Mark across the room. Andrew was laughing loudly about something, elbowing Edward in the side while Anne smiled and rolled her eyes. “Where’s Aunt Margo and Granny?”

“Oh, they’re around somewhere,” Elizabeth glanced around. “They were arguing over one of those paintings and had to go see which of them were correct.”

Charles grinned, his thumb massaging Diana’s spine. After they said hello to everyone, Diana settled in a chair where a cluster of them is set up under a tent, wishing she’d left the heels for another day. She watched the family in action, smiling as Charles roughed up his youngest brother’s hair and teased Anne about getting older. Elizabeth and Philip sat nearby, asking after William, and Diana happily filled them in on their grandson’s latest interests and achievements. When Margaret and Granny reentered the area, they headed straight for her. Diana moved to stand and greet them.

“Oh, don’t get up,” Margaret held her hands out to stop her. “You look as if you’ll teeter over if you do.”

“I am a little top-heavy these days,” Diana laughed.

“How are you feeling?”

“Ready,” Diana supplied. “And yet…we’re enjoying this time.”

Her eyes trailed across to her husband, and she caught him watching her. They smiled at one another, and Diana didn't miss the glance of what seemed to be relief that passed between Elizabeth and Margaret.

A game of croquet was soon started, and Diana shielded her eyes against the sun as she watched almost the entire family face off against each other. She and Granny made small talk with one another while enjoying listening to the banter of the family. She felt a familiar tensing in her abdomen and glanced down to notice that the contracting muscles were visible under the taut fabric of her dress, and she smoothed her hand over her belly. Knowing that the preparation contractions often eased with a change of position, she pushed herself to her feet and stepped out into the sun to walk around. She edged along the croquet field, aimlessly approaching her husband. He glanced up at her as she did so, and she smiled warmly at him, feeling the tension easing off. She noted that it was not incredibly painful but certainly uncomfortable.

When she reached him, Charles wrapped an arm around her and kissed her temple.

“How are you faring?” Diana asked him, gesturing to the croquet mallet in his hand.

“If I walk away now, maybe they will forget I was playing,” he joked.

“That bad?”

“I’ll hear about it for a while,” Charles laughed. “Maybe I can tell them I was too distracted by my wife.”

“Oh, I’m happy to assist with that tale,” she flirted, kissing his cheek, which earned her a quick kiss below her ear.

Without warning a ball came rolling toward them through the grass, and Charles helped her sidestep it.

“Ah…” Charles exclaimed as he risked a cheeky look at his sister. “Maybe I’m not out of this game after all. The hoop is over there, Anne.”

“You hush,” Anne told him. “It’s my birthday.”

“While we may be celebrating today, your birthday isn’t until Wednesday, and no one has to let you have any unfair advantages until then.”

“I’ll remember that,” she retorted.

“So will I,” Diana remarked and Charles mocked her by looking completely affronted, earning him a giggle from his wife.

“That was a cute sound,” he laughed. “Haven’t heard you giggle like that in a while.”

“I live to serve,” she teased. “Any other cute sounds you’d like to hear?”

Charles visibly swallowed, pulling her closer as his eyes trailed to her lips. Anne cleared her throat.

“Do you mind?” she asked dryly, pointing to her ball near their feet.

They stepped out of her way, Diana’s cheeks flushing, which earned her a teasing chuckle from her husband. Soon the game was over, Philip was crowned the reigning champion, and the family gathered back under the tent for cake and toasts. As Philip droned on about his dear daughter, Diana felt the beginnings of her abdomen tensing again and she shifted from one foot to the other to avoid it, trying to maintain her normal breathing while desperately wishing it were a convenient time to move around. Her hand went to her belly as she inhaled a gulp of air, and Charles' didn't miss either, his line of sight following her hand. With her tight dress, the contracting of her muscles in her belly was unmistakably visible, and Charles’ arm went around her in an instant as she shifted her feet again.

“Is that a contraction?” he whispered near her ear.

She gave a half-shrug and shook her head no at the same time, which did nothing but more deeply furrow his brow. As everyone joined in singing "Happy Birthday" to Anne, he turned her out of the tent and walked her a few steps out onto the yard so he could talk to her.

“You need to sit?” he asked.

“No, I just need to walk,” she told him. “It helped earlier.”

“Earlier? When you came to see me?”

“It’s just Braxton Hicks,” she said, a calming hand on his chest. “Walk with me?”

They walked a few steps more, and she noticed he was directing her back toward the palace.

“Is it easing off?” he asked.

“Not yet,” she leaned into him. “I’m a bit dizzy. Maybe I should sit.”

They were nearing the palace then, and she felt the anxiety of worried eyes behind them, even though she couldn't see them all watching. And just as she took the first step inside, the baby betrayed her with a swift punch down in a place she’d really rather it never happen again, and she buckled forward in a gasp of pain. Suddenly she found her husband’s arm behind her knees, lifting her up into his arms, and he was crossing the room with her to lay her out on a Victorian chaise sofa in the bow room. It wasn’t perhaps the most comfortable place she would have chosen had she really been in labor, but her husband’s anxiety seemed to have overcome all rationality for the moment.

“Diana—” he was cut off by none other than his mother coming into the room.

“What’s wrong?” Elizabeth asked and Diana moved to stand at her entrance into the room, just as had been engrained her mind to do. Charles held her firmly down as he knelt on the floor beside her, his hand on her belly.

“The baby,” he said by way of explanation as if it really could have been anything else. “She had a contraction, and it’s too early.”

“I’m fine,” Diana argued. “Braxton Hicks.”

“Those aren’t supposed to be painful,” Charles argued back. “And you just nearly collapsed in pain.”

Diana flushed, hands over her cheeks to cover how red they were. “The baby kicked in a sensitive spot. I’m fine, really.”

“Are you sure, dear?” Elizabeth asked, placing her hand on Diana’s forehead. “Do you need anything?”

“I’m alright.”

“Water,” Charles said. “You need water.”

Elizabeth gave an affirmative nod, but Margaret was already coming toward them with a glass of cool water. Diana, thoroughly embarrassed, took it with shaking hands, which she knew added to Charles’ worry. She pushed his hands off of her, moving to a sitting position, and Elizabeth and Margaret have the good grace to leave them alone for a moment.

“We’re going to the hospital,” Charles announced decidedly.

“No, if we’re going anywhere, it’s home. I want to hug our son and curl up in my bed.”

“Diana…” he sighed exasperatedly.

“Darling, I’m fine,” she reached for his hand and pulled him until he was sitting beside her. “Braxton Hicks. This is completely normal. I’ve just done too much today between chasing after our son and coming here.”

“You were in pain and—”

“You want to know where this child of yours decided to punch me?” she asked, and then leaned toward him to whisper in her husband’s ear.

He looked astonished at the confession. “Truly?”

She nodded with a laugh. “Won’t be the last time. It was, however, poorly timed for you and your anxiety over me.”

His hand smoothed over her belly again, earning his palm a kick that made him smile. “You’re truly okay?”

Diana leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder. “Take me home?”

“Gladly,” he kissed the top of her head and then left her sitting there to go make their excuses to his family.

She smiled as she watched him go, shaking her head in amusement, reveling in that feeling of being the center of his world these last few weeks. She looked down at her belly, hands rubbing over it, and wished that feeling would last forever.

25 September 1988

Charles was still fuming by the time they got back to Highgrove, and he almost wished the boys were at Kensington so he would have had more time to calm down before seeing them. But something about stepping foot onto the beloved property does something to stop the quivering of his hands.

His anxiety over Diana’s safety has waxed and waned over the years, all within reason, he supposes. Her various illnesses, her pregnancies, her mental health, and most recently the threat of cancer; these struggles have been his constant companions. But none of them have compared to the anxiety mixed with rage when another person threatens her.

He remembered their engagement and that picture of her at work in London, with the sun shining through her dress, revealing her thin and shapely legs. He’d enjoyed that picture immensely, even used it to make a move on her when he complimented her for it, and the nineteen-year-old had been like putty in his hands. But it had been followed closely by letters from men that had made him nauseous. She’d never known about them, he’d made sure of that, all of her mail being screened as it came through to Clarence House, and after they’d received that first one, he’d directed all her questionable mail to come across his desk. His secretaries and security had told them they could handle it, but he’d felt it best to read them himself instead of receiving watered-down reports. It had taken everything in him not to have all those men tracked down for daring to have inappropriate passions for the woman that would be his wife.

Over the years, letters like that had slowed, and he’d turned it back over to their security to bring any credible threats to his attention. After the incident in July, he’d had his security comb through every media outlet for pictures of her at that polo match and follow them back to the photographers who had taken them. They had turned over every stone but not found a single photo that matched up with the incident or a photographer that matched her vague description. He had hoped that had been the last of it, with Diana’s fiery reaction in the moment of the encounter and his response to all the media outlets nipping it in the bud.

Now, when she thought she had seen the creep, though through further interrogation she was not as confident that she had, and the questionable note in the flowers, Charles feared the situation was a bit different than originally thought.

He’d read and heard enough stories of stalkers to know that it could in fact be much worse than all that.

Diana chided him for his temperament when they greeted the boys just before dinner, commented on how quiet he was during dinner, and her eyes silently pleaded with him while they put the boys to bed for him to let it go. But that was the last thing he could do.

Not when it was her.

“Papa?” William asked as Charles searched the room for Harry’s missing teddy bear that he was refusing to sleep without.

“What?”

Diana sighed at his tone, curling around a sniffling Harry in his bed, her hands smoothing down his red hair.

“Are you tired?” William asked.

“Why?”

“You don’t seem very happy,” his son explained.

Charles felt the pinch in his gut as he picked up a blanket from the top of the toy box and then lifted the lid to look inside. “Yes. It’s been a long day. But of course I’m happy to be home.”

“You are?”

Charles turned toward his son and his big blue eyes and sighed. “I am. I’m sorry, son. I’ll do better tomorrow.”

To his surprise, William crawled back out of his bed and crossed the room to throw his arms around Charles’ waist, hugging him tightly.

“I have bad days, too,” William shrugged. “It’s okay.”

He swallowed hard, hands landing on top of his son’s head and his shoulder. Then he knelt in front of him.

“Will, I love you. Do you know that?” Charles asked.

William cocked his head to the side and offered a smile, his red cheeks flushed with emotion. “Yes. I love you too.”

Charles pulled him close and then looked over to find Diana watching them with her thumbnail between her teeth. He mouthed “I’m sorry” silently to her and she offered him a small smile but didn’t stop chewing her nail. He hadn’t seen her do it in so long, it surprised him.

“Now, what do you say we try to find your brother’s bear?”

“It’s under my bed,” Harry announced suddenly, and all three of them turned exasperated looks in his direction.

“Oh, you,” Diana laughed as Charles grumbled under his breath and knelt to look under the bed and fish out the bear. “You and your timing. Your poor father’s hair is turning grey over you.”

“What does that mean?” Will asked.

“It means that your father loves you both so much that he can’t help but be very worried about you all the time.”

“All the time?” Harry asked next.

She nods. “All the time. Even when you were in my tummy and even when teddy bears are missing and you can’t sleep.”

Charles looked at his wife and his youngest son from his spot on the floor and handed them the bear, which Harry took with an excited squeal. Charles chuckled softly while rolling his eyes and sharing a knowing glance with his wife. She then sent him from the room to relax while she finished up bedtime on her own. He headed to the sitting room, unbuttoning another of his shirt buttons while he went and poured a glass of scotch from the bar cart. After settling onto the sofa with a sigh, he picked up the newspaper and tried to read, but his mind kept trailing back to his wife and a memory of a summer birthday party at Buckingham four years before when that sprightly son of his had first started causing mischief before he was even born.

His head fell back against the sofa as his eyes trailed closed.

“Are you asleep?” he heard her ask softly.

Without opening his eyes, he responded, “No.”

He heard her draw closer, and then she crawled onto his lap, straddling him and working to undo the rest of the buttons of his shirt.

“What are you up to?” he asked, eyes still closed.

“Distracting you,” she answered. “Easing some of that tension out of you. Thanking you for being so protective of me.”

“You shouldn’t have to thank me for that. It should be a given. I’m sorry it hasn’t always been.”

Her lips descended on his chest and trailed lower while she responded. “When will you stop apologizing and just be here in this moment with me?”

“When there isn't anything worth apologizing for,” he answered, his voice deeper than before as she undid the last button of his shirt.

“Just be here with me,” she whispered, lower still, hands on the button of his pants. “That’s all I want.”

Before she could do anything else, his eyes opened, and his hands reached for her face, drawing her back up to him and meeting her gaze.

“I’m here. I’m just trying to do everything in my power to make sure you always are.”

He heard the whimper she mustered as a response, felt her go limp in his arms, and then he stood, her legs still wrapped around his waist, and carried her to the bedroom, his lips on her neck as he went.

Chapter Text

27 September 1988

Diana awoke slowly, the weight of someone nearly crushing her. A head of red hair caught her eyes as they cracked open, and she smiled softly. Her young son clung so tightly around her that she would either wake him to remove herself from his grip or pry herself free stealthily. A glance at the 5 o’clock hour on her alarm clock told her it should be the latter option.

Untangling his arms from around her, she checked to see if Harry had stirred and then slid out from under him, transferring his head from her chest to her pillow. She glanced to her other side to where her other son lay on his tummy, head pressed against her husband’s pillow. Charles was still asleep on his other side, though how she wasn’t sure. He barely had any room left in the bed and surely had slept on that side most of the early morning.

They had hardly slept the night before, but it wasn’t for reasons she would complain about. She had led her husband to their bedroom almost as soon as he closed the door of the nursery, her intentions clear. They’d continued into the early morning hours, fumbling and hurried, dozing in between and then slow and careful. She’d seen every bit of her husband in all his glory that night, and even then, after all this time, it caused her to blush deeply.

A thunderstorm had rolled overhead around two or three; she was unsure. But she had heard the rumblings of thunder grow closer until it felt like the house shook.

“They boys are going to wake,” she announced, sitting up and reaching for her nightgown.

She pulled it over her head, glancing over at her husband.

“Charles,” she shook him slightly, to which he groaned. “Charles.”

“Hmmm?” he mumbled.

She tossed his sleep pants at him. “You might put these on just in case I have to bring the boys in here.”

A loud crack of lightning followed her words, so close that the thunder came simultaneously, causing even Diana to jump out of her skin. Charles groaned again, sitting up and reaching for the pants. She was just about to slip from the room when a tiny knock came on the door. She opened it to find William standing there rubbing his eyes.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Diana asked, drawing him close.

“Harry’s crying,” he answered. “He’s scared.”

She didn’t miss the trembling coming from her oldest either. She bent to kiss the top of his head and then took his hand and led him back to the nursery, where she could hear Harry wailing from down the hall. She rushed to her son, where he was sitting in his bed with his hands over his ears, and drew him into her arms.

“Oh baby,” she crooned. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

He flung his arms around her, crying into her neck, and she rubbed his back.

“I have you. You’re safe,” she assured him.

“Can…can…” he stammered. “Can you stay here?”

Her chest tightened. In a matter of minutes, she would see how serious Charles was about her bringing the boys to their room.

“I can take you back to bed with me,” she offered. “Would that be okay?”

Harry nodded, his whole body quaking with a sob at another crack of thunder. She stood, lifting him into her arms, her back and arms protesting under the weight of her growing little boy. To her surprise, Charles was just inside the nursery doorway when she turned, William tucked at his side. He had pulled on a robe over his pajama pants, but she could see his bare chest underneath as he stepped forward, reached for Harry, and pulled him out of her arms into his.

“Papa?” Harry asked.

Charles responded with a kiss to the little boy’s forehead, and another loud crack of thunder sent his little arms around Charles’ neck as if holding on for dear life. Charles rubbed his back, offering Diana a tired smile, and then he turned and carried him out of the room, answering Diana’s anxiety about bringing them back there with a determination to make it work. Diana’s hand cradled William’s face as she stood next to him.

“Would you like to come too?”

He steeled his shoulders, head, and neck straight, and she thought he might tell her no, but another crack of lightning lit up the room, and his eyes met hers.

“Maybe I should make sure Harry is alright,” he said, earning him a smile from his mother.

She retook his hand and led him back to Charles’ room. Their room. She crawled into bed first, and then Charles placed Harry on her side, and he scooted right back into her arms. William climbed in on her other side, and as lightning lit the room again, she caught sight of her husband’s unsure face as he took them in, scratching the back of his neck. She wondered for a moment if he might opt for the sofa in the room, but to her surprise, he joined the three of them, everyone shifting a bit to accommodate him. She glanced over a moment later to find William’s head firmly on her husband's chest, already tangled around him, her husband stroking the little boy’s back. William began to snore softly, and she leaned over, pulling Harry with her, to kiss her husband’s forehead.

“I love you,” she told him firmly.

“I love you,” he said back, and she breathed it in deeply.

In the morning light, Diana took stock of all that had changed. It had been nearly a month, not long by most standards, but everything felt new. Everything felt different. She’d seen her husband make real changes to his behavior, changes she hoped could last.

After tying her robe tightly around her frame, Diana slipped from the room and down to the breakfast room, alerting the staff that she was awake. She opted for coffee, which was soon brought out on a tray, steaming and hot. She had just lifted the liquid to her lips when warm arms slipped around her waist, lips pressed to her neck.

“Good morning,” his deep voice said near her ear as she smiled and leaned back against his chest.

“Good morning,” she responded, reveling in the feeling of being held against her husband’s muscular frame. “How did you sleep?”

He pulled back, rubbing his neck with a groan. “I’m not one to take a nap in the middle of the day, but—”

Diana giggled softly, kissing his cheek after setting down her cup of coffee. “I love you. I know what that took to allow them to come to our bed…and I want you to know what it means to me.”

A flicker of pain crossed his face. “I’m trying, you know? I just wasn't raised that way…Mummy…”

“I know,” she said softly, hand on his chest. “That’s why seeing how far you’ve come means so much. And I know that it’s difficult, so know that I see the effort, and I adore you for it.”

He tugged her into his arms. “Promise me something.”

“Anything,” she smiled.

“If you’re pregnant, we have to purchase a larger bed.”

Diana laughed. “Well, I suggest we do that anyway.”

He raised hopeful eyebrows, pulling back to look at her.

“It’s far too early to know,” she said, noting the way his face fell a bit. “But as it was you hardly had any room. And while William usually doesn’t choose to leave his bed for nightmares or thunderstorms, if we add a third child to this family, which I suspect we might with the way we’ve been carrying on—” she notes his smug smirk. “—it will definitely be necessary.”

“Are there…is there a reason to think…?”

“I’m a few days late, if that’s what you’re asking,” Diana answered. “But it could be the travel or the anxiety, so I’m not rushing to conclusions. In a week…if…well, I’ll take a home test.”

Charles nods, crushing her to his chest. “I love you either way. You know that, right?”

“I’m beginning to,” she whispered.

They are interrupted by their breakfast being wheeled in on a cart and Charles releases her to hold out her chair for her. They discuss their schedules, deciding to head back to Kensington the coming Saturday for a number of London engagements over the next month. It might be worth the drive to stay at Highgrove if it weren’t for William’s school starting, and he’d already been carted back and forth between Highgrove and London multiple times over the past week for school while they had been traveling. While he may be only six, it was time to give him more of a routine, something she would have made sure of sooner under normal circumstances. As it was, she would need to wake him by six o’clock to get him out the door in time for the just over two-hour drive.

To her surprise, the boys shuffle into the room on their own, and their plates were soon loaded with breakfast. Everyone was quiet, both boys rubbing tired eyes, and Diana took the time to sort through her mail. Her eyes trailed across an envelope with a familiar scrawl and return address, and her heart plummeted into her belly as she double-checked that it was addressed to her and not her husband.

She had gone above and beyond the week before, after all that misunderstanding with Charles over Camilla’s miscarriage, and sent a note and bouquet of flowers to Bolehyde. She had not mentioned it to her husband, unsure how he was wanting to approach their ongoing connection to the Parker-Bowles, but she had known in her heart that despite everything, the best thing she could do was send words of condolence.

She hadn’t excepted a response. Hadn’t expected Camilla would be brave enough to do it.

But then again, Camilla had always been so brazenly sure of where she stood in Charles’ life, she’d often made Diana feel as if she were the other woman, the outsider.

With shaking hands, she tore it open, and beneath the formal addresses to the Princess of Wales, she found a much more familiar tone.

Diana,

I wanted to offer my sincerest gratitude for the flowers and the note. Knowing you’ve been through what I have just endured brings some comfort to me that I will rise as you have, all the stronger for it.

It is strange, I admit, to grieve something I was so uncertain of in the first place. Perhaps it is my husband’s grief impacting me so deeply, for he was so certain it was a sign that we were to begin anew.

I hope this note finds you well at Highgrove. You seem to have been a great triumph in Scotland and Wales, I saw reports on the telly each day. Truly, I don’t know how you do it, but you always do seem to rise above.

We’re up for visitors now, and the old gang will be around this Friday should you both wish to join. We would all love to see you. It’s been too long, and I’d love to show you pictures of our travels in August.

Warmest regards,

Camilla

Diana pressed her fingers to her lips. She had known this would eventually come. Her husband’s circle of friends was too tight, they would not avoid the crowd forever. It had been an issue since the beginning, that inability to sever the connection completely, and that woman was always around to some degree.

She glanced up at her husband, and watched him read the newspaper for a moment, wondering in her heart of hearts if he could truly resist Camilla if their lives continued to tangle together.

Charles glanced up at her with a smile, but his face quickly pressed into a frown at the sight of her stricken face.

“What is it?” he asked, all three pairs of eyes turning toward her.

Diana gasped at the force with which tears seemed to burn her throat suddenly as his gaze held hers, and she tossed her napkin from her lap onto the table, rushing to her feet and hurrying from the room, that letter still in her grip. She heard Charles’ chair scrape across the floor as she stepped down the hallway. He was reaching for her, one hand on her arm and another on her waist, and she pushed against his chest with her fists.

“No. Let me go,” she begged. “Please don’t make me fall apart in front of them.”

But she realized he had closed the breakfast room door behind him, and the boys were not watching.

“Diana,” he said firmly. “What is the matter?”

She shook her head, the tears issuing forth in rapid succession.

“We’re never…we’ll never get away from them. From her.”

“What are you going on about?” he asked, his voice laced with frustration. “Diana.”

“Here!” she shouted. “Read it! I don’t care.”

She shoved the letter against his chest and in his surprise, he released her with the force of her shove, and she stumbled away, practically falling to the floor. He reached for her quickly, but she caught herself with her hands and righted herself.

“I’m fine,” she growled, whirling away from him while he sighed heavily and began to read.

After a few moments of silence, she heard his voice speak softly behind her.

“You sent flowers?”

She nodded.

“That was—Diana—that was very kind of you. But perhaps…”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“No, you should. I just—”

“What?”

“You reinitiated contact,” he said.

She nodded again.

“Why would you—?”

“I was just thinking from one mother to another, all the rest of it aside.”

Silence fell again.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She whirled on him, fury spreading through her at his words. “I didn’t do it for you and your precious friend that you care for morning, noon and night. It was just the right thing to do.”

He stared at her, chest rising and falling heavily. “The only woman I care about like that is you.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Diana shouted, fully hating herself for fighting with him once more where the boys and staff could hear. “You’ve told me quite the opposite before. Told me I should care about her because you do! Well, I did! I did what you asked.”

“Diana!” he shouted back. “That is enough!”

Her mouth snapped shut, her whole body trembling. Charles turned away, both hands running over his face, his shoulders rising and then falling, and then he slowly turned back toward her. He took a step toward her, to which she flinched and backed away, causing a flash of fury across his face. But then he closed the distance between them so rapidly she couldn’t escape.

“Don’t do me this disservice of cowering,” he growled. “I have never laid a hand on you or even threatened to do so. I would never—”

His voice caught, as well as her breath.

“I know there are not enough apologies under the sun that will be worthy of what you deserve for what I’ve put you through. But it’s in the past now. Firmly. You are my present and my future. When are you going to get that into your head?”

She whimpered, trying desperately not to sob as her body was pressed firmly against his, and she felt the warmth of every part of him as his strong arms held her close, his face mere inches from her.

“I could spend a year trapped in a room with her and wouldn’t touch her. I would spend every moment of those three-hundred sixty-five days trying to find a way back to you. We could spend every evening at Bolehyde for the rest of our lives, and my eyes would be only on you. I love you. Do you understand me? I love you with every damn fiber of my being.”

A sob erupted out of her, her knees quaking as his lips pressed to her cheeks and kissed away her tears.

“I love you,” he whispered as her legs gave out, and she began to sink. He bent his body with her own, following her as she sank in a sobbing heap to the floor. He pressed kisses all over her face, holding her so close she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began as he whispered over and over between each kiss. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Chapter Text

30 September 1988

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Diana assured the boys, leaning back into the car to kiss them both. “Wills, have a good day at school, darling. And Harry,” she fixed the redhead with a firm glance. “Listen well to Aunt Sarah and Uncle Andrew. Maybe help with Beatrice today?”

Harry nodded eagerly.

“Good. I love you both,” Diana smiled at them and then straightened to face her brother-in-law.

“You’re sure you want them overnight?”

Andrew smiled at her. “Why do I feel you have so little faith in my abilities?”

“The last time I left you in charge of my children, you taught William to belch aloud after we had so diligently taught him not to. He did so at the dinner table,” Diana reminded him. “Charles nearly had a stroke.”

Andrew laughed heartily. “Well, I’d call that a grand success.”

Diana sighed, hands on her hips.

“Relax, will you, Di? I’m driving straight to drop off Wills at school. Sarah is looking forward to spending the day with Harry and Beatrice together, and I’ll dutifully pick Wills up from school and wrangle the whole crowd with her tonight. They won’t want to leave Uncle Andy’s house by the time you both arrive tomorrow. And Sarah will ensure no one belches at the dinner table. You have my word.”

“Well, thank you again,” Diana leaned in as Andrew did, and he kissed each of her cheeks. “And don’t hesitate to call if you need us.”

“You’ll be here?” he asked as he headed around to the front seat of his car.

“No,” she answered, not offering him any more information. “But the staff will know where to find us, as always.”

Andrew looked at her over the top of the car for a moment, but she ignored him and gave a final wave to the boys. She watched them all the way down the driveway, hating being away from them yet another night. But it was easier on William this way not to be brought here after school while she and Charles would be out anyway, to return to London with them all again tomorrow morning. Sarah had offered to watch them overnight when the boys continued asking at Harry’s party when they could see their baby cousin again. Diana had hated to ask the new parents to follow through on their offer so soon, but with the evening pending in front of her and the uncertainty of how it would go, it had been for the best.

She turned back to the house, feeling aimless without the children there. Other than a meeting later in the day about her schedule and appointments in London the coming week, she knew the anxiety of awaiting the evening would torment her. Charles had work scheduled for most of the day, so he would offer little help.

They had agreed on a response to Camilla’s invitation on Tuesday afternoon. Knowing it could not be avoided forever, they had agreed to attend the gathering at Bolehyde. It would be the last time they’d be available for the next month, and she figured she could put on yet another pleasant smile for a few hours.

Diana stepped into the quiet house, a heavy sigh leaving her lips. She smiled softly as her husband’s private secretary stepped out of Charles’ study, who bowed his head at her before walking out of the house. Diana leaned against the open door, watching her husband as he leaned over his desk, pen in hand, scratching through words on a paper and writing words in the margin.

They’d had quite the row the day before when her private secretary had informed her of a meeting the Monday they would be back in London that Charles has arranged between them and their head of security without consulting Diana. She was certain he was blowing the whole issue with the photographer way out of proportion, and his insistence and fear over it piled onto her anxiety until she cracked. They had gone to opposite sides of the house for an hour after that, and when she emerged, certain she’d find him on the phone with Camilla or at least moping silently about, she instead found him in the garden with Harry.

Slowly, day by day, she was learning to trust him not only by his very insistent words but by his actions. And now, when before she might have gone off to watch television, she found herself drawn to him, even while his brow was furrowed over his work.

She cleared her throat, and he glanced up, smiling.

“The boys have left,” she told him, and he glanced at his watch.

“Wills will be late.”

“I phoned ahead and ensured they knew Andrew was dropping off and picking up today.”

“I don’t like him getting special treatment.”

“I know, Darling, and he won’t. If he’s late, it will be marked against him. But Andrew seemed to think they’d make it in time. We won’t have to worry come Monday anyway. We’ll be at Kensington, and I’ll drive him myself before that meeting you scheduled at the grueling hour of ten o’clock. You and your early mornings…”

Charles mumbled something, looking back at the paper on his desk, and Diana stepped toward him. When she reached his side, she stepped behind him and rubbed her hands into his shoulders. Her fingers and palms pushed deep into knots and muscles stretched tight under her touch, and he groaned in pain, causing her to pause.

"Are you all right?" she asked, to which he hummed, flexing his hand as she resumed rubbing his shoulders.

“You’re tense,” she commented, and he groaned in agreement. “What’s bothering you?”

“Oh, this speech,” he grumbled, motioning to the paper before him. “They’ve botched it all up. Doesn’t sound like something I’d say at all.”

“What’s it for?”

“When we meet the Olympic medalists,” he said.

Diana leaned forward and peered over his shoulder at it, her nose wrinkling as she read a few lines. “It is rather dry. Not quite what I would deem celebratory.”

Charles rubbed his forehead. “I know. I’ve taken over. This is the third draft, and well…they’ve lost their chance.”

She leaned down and pressed her lips below his ear, his weak spot, and she heard his sharp intake of breath.

“Diana…”

“Do you need a source of inspiration?” she asked.

He glanced toward the open door and then turned toward her fully, taking her hands in his and raising them to his lips.

“It’s seven in the morning.”

“And?”

“I’m expecting a call in just under an hour that I haven’t prepared for yet.”

Diana poked her lip out in a pout. “That will take this whole next hour?”

“Well, perhaps not the whole—” Diana cut him off with a giggle, pulling on his tie, and then headed out of the room, purposefully swaying her hips.

She glanced over her shoulder at him to find him staring after her with longing. “Are you coming?”

Charles grinned, rushing from the chair faster than she’d thought capable while maintaining his dignity. She giggled again as he rushed toward her, and she ducked out of the room. He caught her hand in the hallway and tugged her back into his arms, pressing his lips against hers. She was melting into him when he suddenly tucked his hands under her knees and hoisted her up into his arms. She shrieked in surprise, tossed her head back, and laughed joyfully as he took the stairs two at a time.

When it was all said and done, he might have been less prepared for that particular telephone call than she knew he liked to be, but she doubted he would find much to complain about.

While he was on the telephone, Diana wandered out to the garden. This house had never been her favorite place, but she saw touches of her husband throughout and felt a sense of pride at how much the gardens had changed in the past few years. He’d worked hard, and it showed. He’d tried to explain his vision for it to her repeatedly, but she’d never been able to imagine it as he had. Now, she saw the fruit of his labor everywhere she turned.

After walking around for a while, enjoying the sunshine and the end-of-summer greenery and blooms, she looked up to see Charles standing just outside the house. She waved at him, and he began making his way toward her.

“You’ve done a lovely job with the gardens, you know,” she told him when he was within earshot. “You should be proud.”

He looked out over the expanse, hands in his pockets, and smiled. “I am. Thank you.”

“I haven’t spent enough time out here,” she added. “I’d like to change that.”

Charles turned toward her, eyebrow up. “You would?”

Diana nodded. “We should do it together. I always wanted to grow rose bushes as big as my grandmother’s, but I wouldn’t know where to begin. You could teach me?”

He looked at her thoughtfully, and she thought he looked a bit stricken.

“What?”

“I–You don’t have to pretend to be interested in something just to please me,” he said, looking down at a nearby bush.

“I’m not.”

“You’ve never cared a fig about this garden before. I could barely get you to step out here…anything remotely interesting to me just…just silly to you.”

“Charles,” she whispered, to which he swallowed but did not look back up. “Charles.”

Oh, how she had hurt him. For so long, it had seemed this pain had only gone one way, him hurting her. But now, she could see that the wheels had begun falling off with her help too. Or lack thereof.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

He didn’t look up.

“I was always so jealous that you had so much in common with…” she swallowed. “With Camilla. But I never even tried, did I?”

“No,” he whispered.

She closed the distance between them, her slender hands reaching for his face and lifting it toward her.

“I’ll do better. I want to…I want to learn to care about the things you do. I will need patience, but if these things make you happy, then they make me happy too.”

He had not allowed her behind that wall into his insecurities in so long, it shocked her to see how much he really needed her affirmation and support. But before she could study him further, he took her hand and began leading her off toward the sundial garden.

“This is my favorite,” he told her.

“Why is that?” she asked.

She watched him gaze at the shadow of the sundial on the ground.

“This will sound philosophical,” he warned, to which she laughed softly and squeezed his hand. “I get lost out here sometimes. Not physically, but in my thoughts, almost like I’m watching myself from the outside. I don’t know how else to explain….”

“Like you’re not really there at the moment?” she asked.

“Yes. Yes, that’s it exactly. But this spot grounds me to the present. It reminds me time is fleeting. And those things we think we will wait for an eternity to have or to feel aren’t as far off as we think. And that try as we might to find ourselves important, we’re just a moment in time.”

“Philosophical indeed,” Diana agreed. “But wise.”

They stand there for a moment, hand-in-hand.

“Do you think I’ll make a good king?” he asks, startling her.

She turns toward her husband, studying him. “I do.”

“You don’t think I’m lacking humanity?”

She frowns. “Why would you ask that?”

He shrugs.

“Charles, why would you ask that?”

“In Australia, when you were giving Adeane a good dressing down over William’s care…you told him your service to this country was ensuring the future king had a shred of humanity left in him by the time he became king.”

“Oh,” she swallowed.

“I took that to mean, whether or not you meant it at the time, that you didn’t think I did…that you alone would have to ensure William did because he was out of luck with the rest of us.”

“Charles…”

“I’m cold sometimes. Unfeeling. But it’s only because I know it pales in comparison to you.”

“You’ve grown so much,” she tells him. “I think you will make a wonderful king.”

“If I’ve grown, it is only because you’ve taught me.”

Diana scoffed. “Sometimes I think I have enough feeling to carry the whole family.”

“You do overcompensate a bit,” he teased.

She gasped, smacking his arm, to which he laughed and wrapped it around her waist, pulling her to his side.

“How are you, by the way?” he asks.

She glanced up at him. “Well…with that very pointed question, I feel the need to tell you that, as of now, I will still be taking a pregnancy test next week.”

Charles beamed. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Why?”

“You already have that rosy glow,” he answered, brushing a finger across her cheek.

“There is no way you can tell that,” she said.

“I can,” he nodded. “Regardless of how you feel during a pregnancy, something about you blooms.”

Diana quirked a doubtful eyebrow. “You’re seeing things.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Whatever you say, Di. I know what I see, and you look beautiful.”

The rest of the day passes far too quickly for her, and by the time it’s time to dress for dinner at Bolehyde, Diana is trying in vain to hold onto her frayed nerves.

Charles entered the room just as she finished applying her lipstick, meeting her gaze in the mirror. She had opted for a long-sleeve, knee-length burgundy dress with a cinched waist. She felt confident in it, and it fit the occasion of the dinner party. He leaned in to kiss her cheek.

“Beautiful,” he breathed out.

“We always did look rather good together,” she said, taking in their appearance side-by-side.

To her surprise, Charles reached up to unknot his tie, undoing his always carefully-kept appearance and stepping away.

“What are you doing?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him as she ran her fingers through her hair again, but he stepped out of the bathroom without responding to her.

“Tom!” he called out to his valet. “Grab the burgundy tie, would you?”

Diana’s heart caught in her throat. So committed was he to let the world know they were united; he was taking the detail of coordinating his outfit with her. Overcome with emotion, she turned toward the doorway, leaning back against the vanity. He stepped back into the room, tying that burgundy tie as her throat thickened, his eyes meeting hers.

“Are you crying?” he asked cautiously.

“No,” she choked out.

“What’s happened now?”

She shook her head, unable to speak, and crossed the room in three steps, taking his tie in her hands and knotting it for him. She kept her eyes diligently on the task at hand, his breath on her face.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying. Just…teary,” she explained, earning her an eye roll.

“Why?”

“Your tie. You chose a matching tie.”

He let out an undignified snort, to which she met his gaze with a glare, and he quickly worked to pull his smile back into submission.

“Diana, if a tie is making you tear up like this, I think it’s safe to assume—”

“Don’t say it,” she cut him off as he placed a hand to her belly. “You’ll jinx it.”

“I don’t believe in that nonsense.”

“Still,” she said, hands trailing down his chest.

He leaned his forehead against hers, breathing her in. “Alright. I won’t say another word about it.”

Suddenly a knock on the door interrupted them. “The car is ready, Sir.”

The fluttering in her stomach had her wanting to run for the toilet, but instead, she squared her shoulders.

“Nothing changes tonight. I love you,” Charles told her in the car. “And I’ll be by your side the whole evening.”

She nodded, not able to form a response. She wanted to tell him at that moment all of her fears, and her insecurities and tell him that being in the same room with that woman made her want to die. But she said nothing around the lump in her throat. And as they pulled up outside Bolehyde and stepped up toward the entrance, she felt Charles’ hand reach for hers, and she turned to see him offering her a faint smile that did not quite reach his eyes. It was a comfort, she supposed, to know he was no more looking forward to seeing Camilla Parker-Bowles than she was. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

She was Diana, Princess of Wales. And she could and would face them with squared shoulders, head held high, and look them all straight in the face if it was the last thing she did.

Chapter Text

30 September 1988

Charles had rarely felt such a strong level of determination in his entire life; determination not to let his eyes trail from Diana to the woman he’d longed for half his life, determination to show that entire room, as well as Diana, through his actions and if necessary, his words, that he was entirely in love with his wife.

He glanced at his wife in the seat next to him as they drove and watched her hands twist in her lap through the dimness of the twilight sky. Her cheeks were flushed rosy pink, and he knew without question that she was carrying his child, even if she was scarcely willing to admit it herself. This was the fourth time he’d seen her pregnant after all, and he had known before she did with Harry too. Strange, he admitted, to so often be away from her and yet to know those details of her physical features so well. He’d always been enraptured with her beauty, even in those moments when absolutely nothing else about her appealed to him.

It was the conventional masculinity in him, Charles knew, but he always felt a deep sense of pride and an incredibly heightened desire to protect her when she was pregnant. If he was enraptured and attentive to her every move before, he certainly was then. He’d felt so incredibly anxious during her pregnancy with William, second-guessing every shift of her body, every gasp or wince, that it had nearly driven him insane. He’d tried to cope by avoiding her. And then, when he’d learned she was forcing herself to be sick on purpose and shortly after thrown herself down the stairs, he’d been so angry with her he’d barely been able to look at her.

He would handle it better this time. He would handle all of it better. He had to. He feared what would happen should he fail.

Now she was the one practically vibrating with anxiety, the air around her tense as if she expected it all to go wrong.

“Nothing changes tonight. I love you,” Charles told her, but she did not turn to him. “And I’ll be by your side the whole evening.”

A nod was her only response. God, he hated how she shut down sometimes. He understood, of course, but wished she wouldn’t. It would make it that much harder for him to show them how united they were as a couple if she was withdrawn and half-responsive.

He longed to see her radiant, confident side come out in front of that group of people but accepted that he alone was responsible for the lack of it.

The car pulled up to Bolehyde, and he was out first. He reached for her hand, and held it firmly in his grasp as they stepped toward the entrance, watching as she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. Watched her put herself back together.

His entire focus was not to give her a reason to fall apart.

The house was loud, and her hands shook as she went to remove her wrap, and Charles pulled her to a stop in the entry, hand on her wrist. He reminded himself that just that morning they had laughed together, and he’d carried her to their bedroom, where he had delighted in exploring her. He reminded himself of their strides toward one another in their conversation in the garden. He reminded himself that even at Bolehyde, they were that new version of Charles and Diana and that even if she seemed far away, they were closer than they had ever been.

He only needed to remind her of that too.

“Let me,” he said, taking over for her shaking fingers by unfastening the hook between her collarbones and then sliding it off her shoulders, his fingers purposefully trailing lightly over her skin. Her blue eyes met his and he offered her a smile. To his relief, she managed one back.

“Your favorite is the sundial garden,” she whispered.

Ah. So she was also attempting to ground herself in the memory of their day.

He reached up and traced his thumb softly across her cheekbone, down the bridge of her nose, and over her lips before he leaned close and whispered against them. “We’re going to grow rose bushes larger than your grandmother’s.”

Diana’s eyes closed; she softly inhaled, then pressed her lips against his. “Don’t leave me.”

He shook his head, kissing her again. "Don't leave me, either."

Then he pulled her hand into his and they stepped toward the parlor where the noise came from.

“My God, Charlie, is that you?” Andrew Parker-Bowles's voice sounded as they rounded the corner. “I thought we’d never see you step foot in this house again.”

I’d rather not have, he thought bitterly. He wondered what it would take never to have to hear anyone in this room address him so informally again, but he had foregone the formalities with them long ago.

The room was swimming with probably twenty people, and he felt Diana take a half step closer to his side while his hand went automatically to the small of her back.

“Diana, as we live and breathe,” Andrew added. “Now there’s a sight for sore eyes.”

He stepped toward the couple still hovering in the doorway, and others stood to greet them. Diana put on her best-dressed smile and both shook lots of hands by way of greeting, though he watched as a few leaned in to kiss her cheeks instead, Andrew Parker-Bowles one of them.

And then, as if the crowd purposely parted for her, Camilla stood across the room. Her eyes met his, and he at once felt the distance that had grown between them. No longer were their private jokes or conversations dancing behind her eyes. Diana stiffened beside him and his thumb rubbed up and down her spine soothingly.

Camilla looked like she had aged since he had seen her last, with dark circles under her eyes; her face sunk in a bit, and he wondered if the pregnancy and miscarriage had been harder on her than he’d guessed. He hoped Andrew was supportive of her or something wasn’t more seriously wrong with her.

As their hostess crossed the room, her eyes went to Diana. He was not sure what to expect. It was not as though they would pull one another’s hair and shove each other to the ground right in the center of the room, though he’d dreamed about such a thing happening a time or two. But he knew both of them well enough to know that messages were often hanging behind their words, and their gazes at each other were often sharp.

However, Diana surprised him by reaching out and gently grabbing Camilla by the elbows and leaning in to press her cheek against hers.

“Camilla, thank you for having us.”

“Of course,” Camilla smiled. “Thank you again for the flowers. They were lovely. It meant…” she trailed off, swallowing. “It meant more than you know.”

Diana smiled back, squeezing her elbows. “Believe me, I know what a difference something lively and beautiful can make when the world seems grey.”

The exchange was not what Charles had expected, and he felt a sense of guilt and gratitude that Diana was being so gracious. Neither of them deserved it in the least.

The women released one another, and then that familiar gaze turned toward him.

“Charles,” Camilla smiled, extending her hand. “I’m glad you came. It’s been far too long.”

He felt Diana’s gaze on his face as he shook Camilla’s hand. “Thank you for extending the invitation. Diana and I are heading back to London in the morning, so seeing everyone before we go is good.”

He saw Camilla swallow again, and he broke their gaze to look at Diana. It was enough. Camilla turned to her husband, taking her place at Charles’ other side.

“Andrew, would you mind preparing their drinks?”

“Scotch as usual, Charlie?” Andrew asked.

“Yes, thank you,” Charles nodded.

“And for you, Diana? Scotch and soda?”

“No, thank you. Just soda water,” Diana smiled softly.

This earned the gaze of several, including Camilla, and to ease the tension, Charles propelled Diana forward to an open set of seats on a sofa. Drinks soon in hand, Charles settled into a comfortable conversation about polo and his horse. Diana was silent at his side, though attentive to his words, her hands still twisting nervously in her lap, and he reached over to slip his hand into hers. His thumb rubbed gentle circles on the back of her hand and he felt her relax against him a bit, her entire side melding against his as though she might try to disappear into his shadow. Camilla was across the room conversing with Andrew and two women, and though he felt her gaze turn to him repeatedly, he did not return it.

He could do this. He could survive a couple of hours and dinner here without planting ideals of reconciliation in Camilla’s mind or infidelity in Diana’s.

_______________________________

When the call came for dinner, Diana felt some semblance of relief. She had made awkward eye contact with Camilla across the room far too many times to be reasonable, and she feared she might scream if it happened again. She hated herself for being so kind, for rising above the fray. Any other woman in her position would not only hate Camilla but certainly would have never sent her flowers. In fact, they might even be tempted to believe that perhaps, if karma was real, Camilla’s apparent misery was entirely hers to own.

But the second she had seen the circles under the other woman’s eyes, the withdrawn, almost grey pallor of her skin, her heart had lurched with something akin to compassion. Perhaps it was empathy because that look was so familiar. She’d seen it in the mirror too many times to count over the years. It was the look of a woman who had almost given up.

It was also, she realized, as she sat under the scrutinous gaze of the same woman, the look of someone growing desperate.

A desperate Camilla was a dangerous one, and Diana felt a sense of doom swallow her up. She highly doubted whether or not she’d get her husband out of here in one piece. Never before had he resisted the invitation to join Camilla alone for a few moments when it was offered, and she had no doubt that it would be. A certain glean in the other woman’s eyes told her what little fight she had left would be spent trying to win Charles back.

Diana always lost that battle when it was waged. Always.

______________________________

As everyone in the room stood to go to the dining room, Charles stood more slowly and held out his hand to his wife, his eyes drinking in every feature of her face to discern how she was faring. She took it and he pulled her up to his side, his arm slipping around her waist. She looked a little dazed and leaned against him momentarily.

“Easy,” he held her firmly in place, noting he had not seen her eat that day, as he had been occupied from lunch until the late afternoon. “Are you well?”

“Fine,” she answered shortly and then Diana attempted to step forward and follow the string of people to the dining room, but Charles kept a tight hold on her, drawing her back against him, her back pressed against his chest, his fingers on her hips.

“You’re quiet,” he mentioned, his voice soft and close to her ear. “Are you angry?”

She shook her head, turning her head to meet his gaze. “No. Just feeling like I’m in a fishbowl.”

“I thought you’d be used to that by now.”

“I never will be,” she admitted, her eyes cloudy. “If that’s what you want in a wife, you should have looked elsewhere.”

There was a flash of anger on her face and he felt his brow twitch.

“Don’t turn on me now, Di. We’ve come too far.”

“Perhaps not far enough,” she said, her voice cool. “She dares look at you like she’s undressing you, even in a room full of people. And when she’s not looking at you like that, she’s looking at me like she desperately wishes I was in a coffin.”

He felt immediately sick to his stomach and he swallowed it back, wincing under that image in his mind once again.

“I’m the only one in this house with the right to look at you like I’m undressing you,” she added when he remained silent. “but your past actions have made our vows so incredibly fluid, she doesn’t seem to know.”

“Diana…” his voice was a mix between a sigh and a warning. Tired and yet ready for a fight if it was required of him.

“If it is vows you want retaken, I will do so,” he tells her. “She can look at me however she wants to. I won’t pretend to be able to control her. My eyes are only on you, remember?”

He saw the fight roll out of her all at once and felt her sag against him. Old habits died hard, perhaps, because something about that woman made Diana behave like she had venom rolling through her veins, and all her defenses rose until she was ready to fight whoever threatened her peace of mind. But Charles was not her enemy. Not anymore, and he would remind her of that.

Perhaps, though it would be far too much for him to say it out loud just then, his affair with Camilla had become an enemy they could share.

She looked about to crumple, her eyes unfocused and pained. Her forehead fell against his collarbone.

“I’m sorry, I just—it all makes me crazy. I feel like I’m drowning in it,” she whispered.

His hand landed on the small of her back again and he pressed a chaste kiss against her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo.

“Just a couple of hours more, and then we will go home. Together.”

She took a shaky breath and raised her head. Charles looked at her with raised eyebrows, silently asking if she was going to hold it together, and she gave a firm nod.

He propelled her into the dining room, hand never leaving her. It was one of the things he intentionally changed. Never before would he have paid her much attention in this house. Sometimes he had even forgotten she was there until she would come to find him deep in conversation with Camilla in some secluded room. Tonight, his intentions were clear, and yet he hoped they didn’t seem forced or showy. He hoped it was clear that this was the new normal, not the new façade. But he felt sick all over again the moment he realized that, as usual, the chair next to Camilla had been left open by everyone else, Andrew at the complete opposite end. It was for Charles, and everyone in the room knew it. But he would not give in, and as Charles propelled Diana forward, he stepped to her other side and placed her in that chair meant for him.

He was unsure he was doing them any favors by placing her next to Camilla instead, but at least there wouldn’t be any brushing of legs or hands reaching for his under the table.

Charles didn’t miss as Camilla flinched a bit at the switch of chairs, but the first course was brought out and the conversation picked up around the table.

“How was Europe?” Diana asked Camilla when the silence became unbearable and Charles was pretending to be wholly engrossed in a conversation about the Olympics with the man next to him. He kept his body turned so that he could listen to every word the two women said to one another.

“Oh, it was lovely. All the places we had always talked about going, and he finally did it,” Camilla said. “That was meant to be the honeymoon he’d promised me years ago.”

“It’s wonderful you had the opportunity,” Diana said, and he noted she was pushing her food around her plate with her fork.

“Yes, well, it was meant to symbolize new beginnings. And yet—”

Her voice stopped short and Charles glanced over to find the woman staring down the table at Andrew Parker-Bowles with a bored, bitter expression.

“Yet?” Diana asked softly.

“Somethings cannot be started anew. One cannot change the past, nor can they forget it.”

Ah. So that was the game she would play. Underlying messages targeted at the Wales. Perhaps it was a last-ditch effort to convince him to give it all up and return to his affair. Perhaps she was hoping to appear the victim in it all.

“I believe that’s why they are called second chances,” Diana pointed out.

He remembered, his lips twitching against a smile, that Diana could fight her own battles. He slipped his left hand under the table onto her thigh and she jumped a bit at his unexpected touch.

Camilla stared Diana down. “Pardon? I’m afraid I miss your meaning.”

“Second chances,” Diana said again. “The first is passed. It’s been botched. But the second…well, you’ve learned things. Things that make that second chance have better odds.”

“Take care, Di,” a woman named Edith, one of Camilla’s circle, cut in from directly across the table. “Talking about odds, you sound more like you know more about gambling on horse races than marriages.”

Diana sank back against her chair a bit and he hoped she wouldn’t give up so easily as Camilla poorly hid a smirk behind her napkin. He burned with anger toward those women teasing her. But Charles’ fingers had found the hem of her dress and began tugging it slowly upward until his warm fingers met her flesh, and he saw in his peripheral as she glanced at him sideways as she wondered what game he was playing. He kept his head turned away, and he carried on a well-kept conversation about men’s rowing, words somehow pouring out of him in a stream that sounded reasonable as his hand worked its way ever so slowly up her thigh.

If only somehow he could remind her he was hers, that he wanted her so much. Give her strength in that knowledge.

His fingers trailed higher, a desire burning in him.

God, he’d never done such a thing before in public and he could feel her writhing under his touch, and then her hand jutted out to pin his still against her thigh. He turned toward her, his gaze meeting hers as her cheeks and neck flushed. There was no denying that look in her eyes, nor his, he suspected; that burning desire and the thought that he wanted her, even there, in the dining room of Bolehyde. He watched her shoulders square and neck lift, watched as she bloomed with new confidence.

He’d accomplished that mission with only his hand. And he wasn’t done, even though she was holding his hand as firmly in place as possible. He knew she was teetering on the edge, unable to hide her reaction to him.

“One should never bet on marriages, Edith,” Diana said softly, her tone a blend between a daring tease and a scold at that woman who’d dared to taunt her, and he felt pride. “That would sort of trample the idea of the holy estate of them, would it not?”

There was nothing holy about the thoughts coursing through his brain as Charles’ finger traced the edge of her panties, and she was forced to cover up a gasp with a cough. Camilla was staring at them as if she knew exactly what was going on under her dining room table, and he hoped, with some evil thought, that she did.

“Diana, your face is so flushed. Are you alright?” Edith piped up. “You must have drank your wine too quickly.”

“She hasn’t touched a drop of her wine, or hadn’t you noticed?” Camilla pointed out drily before poking a bite of lettuce into her mouth as Charles mercifully withdrew his hand from under his wife’s dress and took hers in his grasp.

“Oh,” Edith said.

“It perhaps wouldn’t settle well with the soda water from before,” Camilla added, and he knew she was on to them immediately about the pregnancy. Not that he’d been concerned about hiding it, necessarily, but he did not want to rub salt in an open wound either. He was not that cruel.

Edith caught on with a gasp. “Oh…”

“Yes,” Camilla muttered, sipping her wine. “Oh.”

Charles had the good grace to turn toward them at that moment of the conversation before sly remarks further accosted Diana. He studied her face, the way it had paled again and he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed her knuckles before returning their entwined hands to the tabletop where everyone could see them.

“Camilla,” Charles addressed her at last and she looked hopeful at him. “Did you and Andrew ever get a new hound?”

He could not avoid speaking to their hostess all evening, but he’d be damned if he spoke of anything important or meaningful with her.

“Yes, Sir,” Camilla nodded, and he could not name the emotion that crossed her face. “Tom named her Daisy. She’s been bred already so we should have a litter just after Christmas.”

“Perhaps we should consider one for Will,” Charles told Diana.

Diana wrinkled her nose. “That sounds like work.”

“He’d do well at this age, I think,” Charles continued, imagining his eldest son easily taking on responsibility for a young pup.

“But we will have to teach and help him. I’m not sure this will be a good year to attempt it. Perhaps when we don’t have so much demanding our time,” Diana pulled their entwined hands under the table once more and pressed his palm against her belly, then raised a pointed eyebrow at him, and he caught on rather quickly that she was hinting at the potential new baby. The thought of a newborn and six-month-old puppy in addition to her two sons widened her eyes, and he knew she would be none too pleased if he arranged to receive one of the puppies before they had discussed it.

“You’re right, of course,” he smiled and then turned his gaze back to Camilla. “Perhaps another litter in the future?”

Camilla gave a half nod and cast a territorial gaze upon Charles. He cleared his throat and looked away as another dinner course was brought. Camilla angled away from Diana a bit, leaning nearer to Edith and discussing something in quieter tones, and Diana sighed, sinking in her chair again, looking bored and dejected. Charles studied her until she turned to look at him.

“Will you eat?” he asked, tilting his head toward her plate. “You barely touched the other.”

“It’s difficult to do when my hand is otherwise occupied,” she whispered, and she saw the corners of his mouth turn up slightly, his thumb rubbing softly across her belly.

“I’ll behave if you eat,” he teased.

“I can’t,” she shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

His eyes clouded, narrowing at her. “Diana…”

“Please,” she whispered. “You know I can’t. Not here.”

He felt the guilt once more of being the source of her eating disorder struggles. His gaze softened, and he leaned toward her and pressed his lips to hers. He was pulling back just as quickly, and if anyone had blinked, they had missed it. Diana squeezed his hand and he turned back to the meal.

He saw her take a bite or two, and then Andrew cleared his throat, clinking his fork against his glass and standing, and Diana put her fork down quickly, left hand going to her belly. It was a defensive, protective reaction he’d seen her perform repeatedly. He squeezed her right hand, drawing their entwined hands to his lap, causing her to lean closer to him. It was as shielded as he could make her from whatever drama was about to happen, and he felt certain there would be some.

“Andrew, what on earth are you doing?” Camilla asked, her face alarmed.

“Toasting you, my dear,” he said with a smirk.

“That isn’t necessary,” she told him. “Please sit down and let our friends enjoy their dinner without indigestion.”

Andrew rolled his eyes and ignored her. “Friends, as you know, Camilla and I celebrated fifteen years of marriage this summer. As such, I find it important to tell all of you in this room, who have been involved in our lives through varying degrees of…intimacy…” Shot number one fired, and he felt it hit him in the gut. “throughout the years, that I’ve realized anew that my wife is an extraordinary individual with strength beyond comparison. She chose me all those years ago. Chose to hang her hat on this peg.”

His hand went limp in Diana’s grasp and then flexed with anger, and he knew that Andrew was purposefully taking digs at him. He would not deny that he deserved it. But he never handled humiliation well.

“Camilla, darling, I love you,” Andrew continued. “I love our life together. I love this family that we’ve built. And before all our friends, I declare that I love you, and I want to declare it again in church before God. Marry me again?”

Both Wales turned their gazes to Camilla, as did most everyone else, as various exclamations of awe and gasps of delight rang out throughout the room. But Camilla’s face was ashen white. And they watched with wide eyes as the woman pushed away from the table and stood, fleeing the room.

“Camilla!” Andrew called after her.

A door slammed and the room sat in the reverberating shock. Andrew laughed bitterly, muttering under his breath, and tossed back his entire glass of wine in two swallows.

Slowly, awkwardly, people began to give their excuses and stand to leave. Diana remained stock still, but he could feel her trembling. He had never felt so paralyzed with inaction before, but he truly had no idea what to do. He was furious, suspected that they had been invited here for the purpose of this humiliation. He could take it. But Diana had been humiliated enough, and he was furious that Andrew of all people, would put her through this. Charles feared what he would do if he moved, so he remained there until they were the last three in the room.

“Charles…” Diana begged him to react in some way or another and follow everyone else’s lead. But when she said his name, Andrew turned his gaze onto them.

“You did this to her,” Andrew said, his voice cold and quiet.

At last, Charles looked up and met his gaze.

“You used her, and I let you for all those years because you’re the fucking Prince of Wales, and I’d be a damned idiot if I denied the future King of England anything he wanted. But then you up and decided to go back to your wife, and you tossed her aside without a conversation. And if that wasn’t worse enough, she lost that damn baby that she was holding onto as some final parting gift–”

Diana gasped, releasing his hand.

“It wasn’t mine,” Charles thundered as he stood from the table so fast his chair slammed back against the floor.

Andrew laughed bitterly. “We will never know, will we?”

“We do know. I haven’t laid a hand on her since January, and I never will again,” Charles thundered. “I don’t know what she told you or what she may have gained from it, but that baby was yours.”

Both men were breathing heavily and he heard Diana sniffle.

“Camilla!” Charles shouted when it was clear Andrew would never believe it from him, and Charles wanted her to say it herself. This was not a battle he would fight for her. “Camilla!”

The room was silent momentarily, and then she reappeared in the doorway, arms over her chest. Charles turned his fiery gaze on her and saw her whither.

“Tell him the truth,” Charles commanded, his voice even.

“What are you on about?” she asked, her eyes landing on him with a daring fire he could barely fathom she had the nerve for under such circumstances.

“Camilla…” he warned.

She looked down at the floor for several seconds, and when she raised her head again, her eyes were full of tears.

“Andrew, it was your baby.”

“What?” he gasped, practically doubling over. “You said–”

“I lied. Charles and I haven’t been together since January.”

“Why would you lie about that?” Andrew asked.

“I hoped you’d divorce me,” she admitted. “And the scandal would cause so much uproar that they’d have no choice but to allow Charles and Diana to divorce too. But you decided to claim it as your own, and you just—you destroyed everything.”

Andrew sank into his chair, head in his hands.

“Then I lost it and it didn’t even matter.”

Her tears spilled, and Charles closed his eyes, trying to even out his breathing.

“Camilla—” Charles started, his heart in his throat. “I can’t believe you would…”

“Don’t start with me,” she fired. “Don’t pretend that you wouldn't have gone along with it a year ago.”

“No,” he shook his head. “I never would have gone so far as to claim someone else’s child and hurt Diana like that. Or the boys.”

“A year ago, you wouldn’t have known if it was yours or not,” she retorted.

Diana’s chair scraped against the floor at that remark and he turned to see her stand abruptly and then wince and catch herself against the table. He reached for her, but she shrugged him off.

“Di–”

“We…” she swallowed, eyes closed. “The four of us will end this conversation once and for all tonight. And Camilla…you will no longer have a place in our intimate lives. But right now—” she placed her fingers to her mouth. “I need a moment.”

She fled in the direction of the powder room and it took everything in him not to follow her.

“She’s pregnant, isn’t she?” Camilla asked softly.

Charles stared at her, neither confirming nor denying, and watched her face contort wickedly as a bitter laugh rose from her.

“Of course,” she laughed, sinking into a chair herself.

Silence fell over them for several moments, but Camilla wasn’t done. “You get to come out smelling like roses. Damn you.”

“Nothing…nothing about this has been or ever will be easy,” Charles told her. “And I hurt you…I know I did, and I’m sorry. But together, we chose to hurt her, and we chose to hurt Andrew. And I’m not going to walk down that path anymore.”

“But we were walking it together,” she said softly. “And I thought that was all that mattered.”

“It can’t be…can’t be all that matters. Because I love her, Camilla.”

“You love me,” she argued.

“I was infatuated with you, cared about you. I love her. Deeply, truly, until the day I die, love her,” he told her, his voice soft but fully confident. “And I won’t hurt her anymore. Won’t choose anyone else. Because I love her, and I want her to know that with every fiber of her being.”

A flash of burgundy caught his peripheral and he turned to see Diana standing there in the doorway, hand over her chest and smile on her face, and he extended his arm to her, inviting her back to his side. She walked toward him, arm slipping around his waist and his around her shoulders. He glanced at Andrew, who was red in the face, and he knew there would be a nasty row in this house after they departed. But he also knew Andrew would never physically hurt Camilla, or he would do something to ensure her safety after all of it.

“I wish we had done things very differently,” Charles said. “But Camilla, Andrew is right. You chose him fifteen years ago. Chose to marry him, start a life with him. And I chose Diana. Perhaps the best hope we can give one another for happiness is to let go and choose them again.”

Diana’s fingers squeezed him.

“We wish you all the best,” he told them both, but Camilla turned her head away, and Andrew’s only response was a bitter puff of air.

Charles had never been more ready to leave a room in his life, and he turned with Diana against his side, and they exited. Just before they got in the car, he turned to face her, his hand on her neck under the stars, the cold air pressing around them. He glanced at the driver, who stood with the car door open, but decided he did not care if the man was standing there. All that mattered was Diana.

“Now, do you believe me?” he asked.

She nodded. “I love you, Charles. And…and I forgive you. For all of it. Not her, quite yet, and maybe not ever. But you…Charles…”

He glanced at the driver again. “Avert your eyes.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, dutifully turning his back.

Charles pulled Diana close, hand in her hair, the other on her back, and pressed his lips to hers. She kissed back immediately, melting into his arms like chocolate, as her lips opened and his tongue entered her mouth. He didn’t pull back until he knew they desperately needed air, and she sagged against him, forehead pressed against hers.

“Your favorite is the sundial garden,” she whispered, to which he smiled.

“Perhaps that thing I’ve been waiting to feel wasn’t an eternity away after all,” he responded.

She pulled back to look at him, her blue orbs dancing. “Take me home?”

He nodded, clearing his throat and ushering her into the back of the car and following suit. The door closed behind them with a bang, and he found her reaching for his hand and sliding it back under her dress.

“If you ever do that to me under the table in the presence of your mother, I’ll punish you,” she said darkly.

Charles grinned. “Ah. You just made it that much more tempting.”

She laughed and his grin brightened as her head fell against his shoulder.

“Let’s not scandalize our driver anymore than necessary,” he whispered against her ear.

“Fine. But when we get home—”

He cut her off, hand squeezing her thigh. “When we get home, I want you to eat something.” She turned a glare in his direction. “And then I’ll do whatever you want me to with my hand.”

A smile lit up her face again. “You’re a wicked man.”

“I'm your wicked man, Diana. All yours.”

Lips pressed against his neck and his chest felt lighter than it had in years.

Chapter Text

28 March 1988

Charles watched in the driver's side mirror as Camilla’s car pulled up behind his on the side of the road. It was a dreary, rainy day, and she pulled her jacket tight around her and hurried toward him. She slipped in the passenger side in a huff of air and her typical laugh.

“Sir, how good of you to come,” she mocked with a grin, to which his lips twitched up.

“Hello darling,” he smiled, angling his body toward her.

“Oh, I missed you!” she leaned toward him, arms around his neck.

He breathed her in, nose pressed into her shoulder, squeezing hard. They lingered, and he felt a sort of apathy wash over him afresh, a feeling that had become a near and dear companion over the past weeks. He’d hoped holding her would cleanse him of it, not deepen it over his head.

She smelled of laundry soap and cigarettes, a comfortable smell he was far accustomed to and yet so very different from the scent he preferred: smells of fresh flowers and fruit. The smell of his garden and a scent his mind couldn’t help but weave around the woman who seemed to walk around in a cloud of it daily.

Diana.

It was a warm thought at first, the first in a long time; her smile and laughter, eyes dancing with merriment as she teased him about something, but quickly the image became dark, her body pale and lifeless, bruised and broken, and her hand limp in his. Then a coffin, lowering into the ground, carrying her forever away from him, never to hear her laugh or see her smile again.

He winced and urged the vision away.

Camilla chose that inopportune time to press her lips to his, and his mind faltered just a second too long before he kissed her back.

“What is it?” she asked him.

“Hmmm?” he mumbled, not quite meeting her eyes but attempting a half-hearted smile.

Her eyes narrowed at him. “What did she do now?”

“Why did she have to do anything?”

“She’s upset you somehow.”

“She hasn’t done anything,” he said, feeling a flash of anger at the accusation. “She’s not a malicious villain, you know.”

“I do know that,” she told him. “I’ve reminded you of that on occasion.”

He sighed, rubbing his fingers against his brow. God, what was the matter with him? Was this the beginning of a mid-life crisis, disrupting his normal brain function with visions of death and new lines of thinking?

“Perhaps she hasn’t done anything, but it’s about her. I know it is.”

“Darling, I just have a lot on my mind. This isn’t about anything.”

“Then this is still about Hugh?” she asked, her voice soft and kind. “Our conversation the other day?”

“I—” Charles huffed, looking out the window. “I suppose. I saw his body, Camilla. I don’t know how to—” his voice broke. “But in my mind, it isn’t his body anymore, it's hers.”

She took a deep breath of air. “Darling, Diana is alive and healthy. I didn’t intend to plant that thought in your mind.”

“I know,” he nodded and her hand rubbed his shoulder.

“You’re a good man, Charles.”

“Am I?” he laughed sarcastically.

“You’re not responsible for what happened to Hugh. And God forbid if something ever happened to Diana or the boys, you wouldn’t be responsible for that either. People die, darling. They get sick, or bombs go off…”

His eyes closed at the reference to Dickie.

“You’re not responsible to keep people alive, darling. Much as you’d like to be, you’re not God.”

“But I am responsible for how I hurt people while they are alive,” he reminded her. “And in Diana’s case…sometimes I think maybe I’m the one driving her mad.”

“Diana is responsible for her own health,” Camilla argued. “It isn’t your fault if she caves under pressure and won’t take care of herself.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. What are you to do?”

“More than I have,” he admitted.

“At the sacrifice of your own happiness?”

“I don’t even know what happiness means anymore. It’s a fickle thing I can never grasp for more than a moment at a time.”

Camilla leaned back against the seat, looking at her hands in her lap.

“Come here,” he said softly, reaching for her hand. “I’m sorry. I’ll be fine. I don’t mean to hurt you.”

She glanced up, and he lifted her face to his, lips pressing against hers. Her movements became more frantic and passionate, and as his lips found her neck, her hand reached for his belt. For the first time in ages, alarm bells sounded in the recesses of his mind, and he pulled back, hand reaching for hers and stopping her in her tracks.

“No. Not here.”

“Yes, here,” she whispered. “It’s been so long. I need you. We need this.”

Her fingers started moving again.

“Camilla—” he warned, his voice cracking with emotion.

“It’ll make you feel better. Andy’s gone. The house is empty for the next hour. If not here, then—”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’m sorry, darling. I just can’t. Not today.”

She looked like he had dumped a pail of cold water right over the top of her, and she slipped away and pressed herself up against the door, as far from him as she could possibly get.

“It’s not that I don’t want to…I just—”

A bitter laugh made its way out of her. “I understand.”

“No, you truly don’t,” he whispered.

They sat in silence for a moment.

“I suppose you’re off to Windsor this weekend,” she commented, changing the topic.

He nodded. “First to Althorp and then Windsor. It’s been too long since we’ve been to Althorp, and Diana’s been nagging about us taking the boys as a family.”

“Andrew and I will spend the weekend with his family,” she told him, to which he nodded. “When can I see you again?”

He slipped a finger under his collar, tugging slightly. “My schedule is packed these next few weeks and—”

That bitter laugh rose out of her again, and he turned toward her, eyes wide. “Camilla—”

“I can’t believe it’s happening.”

“What?”

“I’m losing you.”

“Camilla—”

“No. No, it's more than that, even. We’re losing us.”

He swallowed.

“How do we find our way back?” she whispered.

Charles blinked back his own tears, swirling his ring around his finger. “I don’t know.”

The two of them remained there.

“It’s just the loss of Hugh. The shock,” he explained. “I’ve been out of sorts since…I’ll…I’ll figure it out, Camilla. I’ll find my way.”

“I love you,” she told him. “I want you happy. She doesn’t…doesn’t make you happy.”

He looked down, picking at an imaginary piece of thread on his pants, thinking that once she had made him very happy indeed.

“I used to,” she whispered. “And I would devote myself to keeping you that way.”

“I know,” he whispered back. “But maybe I can’t think about only myself any longer.”

She slipped from the car after another kiss that felt distant and strange, brushing at tears. As he watched her car pull away, he knew he’d find his way. But to what, he had no idea.

30 September 1988

Charles lay on his back with his hand across his bare and sweaty torso, breathing heavily and staring at the ceiling, as Diana slipped from the bed, tied her celeste-colored dressing gown around her tiny frame, and disappeared to the powder room. With his wife gone from his side for a moment, his mind drifted back to just three hours before when the great commotion had broken out at Bolehyde.

Never had he dreamed that Camilla was capable of being so cunning. He thought back over the year, over how long she might have been planning such a stunt as what she had tried to pull. In March, after the accident and that fateful conversation, he had slowly pulled away. He had not intended to, but with the guilt and the torturous thoughts plaguing him, their conversations had become stilted. He’d made excuse after excuse to avoid her.

He’d never known her to be desperate nor to act on such an emotion. In fact, he’d never known her to do much on emotion at all. She was practical and level-headed. Steady. But then again, he’d never left her before—at least not like this. He hoped the idea had come to her quickly, and she’d acted out of a moment of weakness over him and that she had not gone as far as to fall pregnant with Andrew purposely. No, that itself had to have been an accident. Perhaps once she realized she was pregnant, he figured, she’d realized Andrew would never let her go unless she’d thrown the ultimate nail in the coffin of their marriage. Affairs…well, they were normal in their circle…but a love child? No one could abide such a thing from the Prince of Wales.

She’d probably thought Andrew would throw her out of the house. Not literally, of course—the man would never be so cruel. But she’d expected he’d divorce her, and the media would have a field day. Everyone would think the child was Charles’ without a word being uttered by any of them. And that would have been it. In the throws of scandal and threats of damage beyond reapair, his mother would have had no choice but to allow him and Diana to be free of one another. Even his mother would never force Diana to put up with that.

It had been fool-proof. It would have worked. But he would have been ruined, even if the child wasn’t his. And he couldn’t believe Camilla would have done that to him, betrayed him in that way, just to have him for herself.

Except that she’d admitted to it.

Ironically, it had been Andrew Parker-Bowles who’d been the hero of that particular story.

He wondered briefly what he would have done if the situation had been reversed…if Diana had come crying to him, pregnant with another man’s child. He hoped he would have done the same, and yet, in his heart-of-hearts knew he would not have. Not with the way things had been. He would have seen a chance at freedom and run straight to Camilla.

That woman he thought he’d known so well and yet now wondered if he knew her at all.

Diana returned, slipping into the bed and lying on her back next to him.

“I know you likely don’t want to,” Diana said. “But we should discuss it.”

“We should,” he nodded.

And yet, silence reigned.

“I didn’t think her capable of it,” he tells her. “And I want you to know that I’m sorry she would even consider hurting you like that.”

“Me?” she asked. “What about you?”

He rolled to his side, eyebrow raised.

“She wanted to force you to claim that baby as yours? Did she not realize what that would do to you? To the future of the monarchy? To the boys?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I can’t wrap my mind around it.”

“I—I…,” she started and then stopped.

“What?”

“I didn’t think she really loved you that much.”

“What do you mean?”

“I always felt that was a cruel joke. Star-crossed lovers. You helplessly in love with her, me helplessly in love with you, and Camilla indifferent to the whole thing.”

“Di—”

“I know. I know now. She wanted you…wants you…as much as you wanted her. If not more.”

“Enough to resort to such grotesquely desperate things?” he asked.

“Things like having your wife spied on to catch her in her affairs?” she said drily.

His eyes closed in regret. “I suppose we both did ridiculously cruel things.”

“Would it have been worth it if you could have been with each other at last?” Diana asked softly. “Could you have lived with it?”

“No,” he shook his head. “No, I couldn’t have.”

Her hand slipped up his chest, fingers tracing his collarbone, and he stared at the silhouette of her.

“Why’d you come back to me?” she whispered. “After all this time. All these years fighting. Why’d you come back to me?”

“Because I love you.”

“But you always loved her more, even when you’ve loved me,” Diana reminded him, voice pained. “I don’t understand why that changed.”

He didn’t answer, his fingers tracing the edge of her lace-rimmed robe.

“You said you thought about what would happen if I died. But I don’t understand why that was enough to turn the tide so drastically. Surely you’d thought about that before. I’m not immortal.”

He swallowed hard. He didn’t want to talk about it and plant the image back in his mind and give it roots to grow again. Not now. Not when they had the chance to be happy. Not when she was potentially pregnant. He didn’t want it to torment him any longer. The vision had served it’s purpose, brought them together, but he no longer wanted it. But she said she needed this. They needed this. Complete understanding of one another.

“You are a bright shining light,” he began. “Everything about you is the opposite of everything I’ve ever known. Life, laughter, warmth. But after the avalanche, after seeing Hugh’s body beaten up the way it was, practically frozen from the snow—” he shuddered, and she rubbed his back. “In my mind, that became you. Your body bruised and broken beyond repair. Pale and gray. Cold. Your hand grew limp in mine. And when I had the thought of how empty I would be without you when I thought about you being closed in a casket and lowered permanently into the ground. When I thought about never hearing you laugh again or seeing your bright blue eyes, when I thought of what it would look like not to be able ever to hold you again…Diana…”

A sob erupted out of him, and he reached for her, crushing her to him. She was trembling in his arms, but she was warm and alive, and he held onto her like an anchor to reality.

“The thought of living without you makes me want to die and makes it all feel like it’s not worth going on…that was all it took to make me realize what you mean to me,” Charles said, his voice rough with tears. “Darling, if I lost you…”

“I know,” she whispered. “Because it’s how I would feel if I lost you.”

He pressed his lips to her temple. “It was more than not wanting to lose you. It became this need for you that I’ve never known before. This desire to want to be with you. And I didn’t want to spend another minute away from you or causing you pain. Not while you’re still here.”

“But you didn’t come back to me even then. Not until I told you I might have cancer. Why? Why did it take that?”

“Because I’m a prideful coward. I was afraid that after all of it, you’d reject me. That you wouldn’t be able to find it within yourself to forgive me, let alone love me again. And I was afraid, and I’m still afraid, that I won’t be able to live up to it.”

“Charles,” she whispered, her own voice shaking. “My darling, I don’t think there’s a single thing you could do to make me stop loving you. And you’ve certainly tried.”

He let out a breathy laugh. She kissed him soundly on the lips.

“I understand the weight of my vows to you now, Di. Until separated by death. I will uphold that with all that I am and I have. I’ll worship the ground you walk on.”

“I don’t want to be worshiped. I want to know you won’t walk out the door the moment we disagree on something. I want to be your partner. Forever at your side, steady and faithful, and to know that you will remain. Cheering one another on. Loving you the way you deserve to be loved.”

He ran a hand through her hair, kissed her temple and then her ear.

“Together then?”

“Together,” she nodded.

1 October 1988

Diana sat in the passenger seat of the car, watching her handsome husband as he was lost deep in thought, hands on the steering wheel, his classical music filtering through the radio. A contented smile graced her lips as she chewed on her thumbnail. She was happy, and the feeling had become so foreign it had taken a lot of thought to recognize it.

Camilla, she realized, could become a distant thought now. Charles’ heart was wholly and truly hers, and she was no longer fighting so hard to believe it. She just knew, deep within her, just knew.

A thought crossed her mind, and she didn’t bother to suppress her giggle. Her husband looked over at her with a raised eyebrow.

“What?” Charles asked as he eyed her suspiciously.

“I suppose now I can tease you about your shoes again without you growling at me,” she said to break the silence.

“What about my shoes?”

“You look like you could hike through the Amazon in those galoshes, Charles.”

“It looked like it was going to rain!” he argued.

Diana raised her eyebrows and animatedly looked around at the sunshine and found her husband frowning at her.

“You know a lot of people consider me a well-dressed man.”

“Well-dressed or practical. Take your pick,” Diana countered. “I think you just happen to sometimes look very good dressed for whatever occasion you deemed practical that day. Happy accidents as the result of a ruggedly handsome frame.”

His frown deepened, and he seemed confused about how to respond to a compliment wrapped in an insult. She let him stew in it for a moment and then could no longer help but to let out a loud laugh. Charles rolled his eyes, but she saw the smile cross his face.

“You’re ridiculous,” he told her, to which her laughter increased.

“Perhaps. But you love me anyway.”

“I do,” he smiled, reaching for her hand.

But the moment was ruined by a sharp corner he took as fast as he normally did and a bout of nausea that washed over her out of seemingly nowhere. Her hand flew to her belly, and the other yanked out of his grasp to go to her lips.

“Pull over,” she commanded. “Charles. Pull over.”

He did so quickly, and she dashed out of the car into the grass, quickly losing her breakfast. Charles was at her side momentarily, hand rubbing her back and his other waving off the staff trailing behind them in another car. When she straightened, she leaned against him.

“I’m so sorry,” she panted.

“Are you alright now?”

“I think so,” she nodded.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and held her upper arm with his other, and slowly led her back to the car. He opened her door and settled her back inside and, when he joined her, pulled the car back onto the road at a slower pace.

“I think I’m pregnant,” she told him as she leaned her head back against the seat, to which he snorted with a chuckle.

“I’ve been telling you that for days,” he pointed out.

“You do realize, don’t you…” she started. “If I’m far enough along to have morning sickness…this didn’t happen in the study at Harry’s party? It happened—”

“Our first night back at Kensington,” he finished. “End of August. I know.”

“We’re lucky I wasn’t sick. That was reckless of us, really.”

“Don’t talk about that,” he winced, and she watched his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.

“Sorry,” Diana whispered, a hand across her belly. “I can’t believe it. Another baby.”

When she glanced over at him, she saw he was beaming.

“Are you well?”

“Nauseous, but I don’t think I’m going to be sick again.”

“Well…” he glanced in the rearview mirror. “If they didn’t suspect before, they do now. You’re not one to suffer motion sickness.”

“They’ve suspected since the articles after my biopsy,” she pointed out. “But let's keep it between us until we know for certain. It would be kind of nice to have something that’s just ours.”

“That does sound nice. For however long it lasts,” he smiled.

“You’re truly happy about this?”

“Of course,” he nodded. “Why do you ask?”

“You just seemed so done with having children after Harry. Our age difference perhaps, but—”

“Ouch,” he said as he smiled.

“Sorry,” she grimaced. “You’re the one who robbed the cradle.”

“Ouch!” he chuckled.

“Well…”

“Darling, I’ll have children with you as long as you’re capable if that’s what you want.”

“Let’s not get out of hand,” she laughed. “I don’t think I’d have any interest in having more children when I’m your age. But that’s exactly my point!”

“Diana, look at me,” he said softly. “I love you. I love seeing you happy. And I’ll devote myself to it. You’re the best mother I’ve ever seen, and nothing makes me happier than having another baby. Even if I turn forty this year. There’s no doubt, no regrets. I’m very pleased about this. Alright?”

She nodded, beaming at him.

“My only concern about it at all is your health, but I’m determined we’ll make the best of that we can too.”

Diana studied the sincerity of his gaze, reveled in the feeling of that blue-eyed look of love being hers' once more. And though his dark hair had gained a few more strands of grey this year, she realized he hadn’t looked as light or as young as he did at that moment for a very long time.

When they reached Andrew and Sarah’s home in Windsor, Charles opened her door for her and held out a hand to guide her out of the car. She barely had time to look up before the boys were flying out of the house toward them.

“Mama!” Harry exclaimed, hurling himself at her.

“Harry!” she laughed, catching him up in her arms and squeezing him tightly.

“Careful,” Charles cautioned, to which Diana rolled her eyes that it had already begun, but she put her son back on the ground, reaching for his face instead and pinching his freckled cheeks.

William was there next, hugging her with as much fervor. She watched Charles make a point of holding his arms out to embrace them and didn’t miss the way his eyes closed in regret at the way William approached him much more slowly than he had her.

“Hi, Papa!” Harry exclaimed.

“Why do you have on rain shoes?” William asked.

Charles scoffed, and Diana pressed her fingers to her lips to suppress a giggle.

“I thought it was going to rain,” he explained, his voice rising an octave. “It was quite cloudy at Highgrove.”

Diana beamed at her husband, and he rolled his eyes again with a grin, and the look that passed between them was nothing short of electrifying.

Chapter Text

1 October 1988

Charles stood dutifully beside his wife in his brother’s sitting room, arm around Diana’s waist as Andrew carried the boys’ bags into the room.

“Truly, they were wonderful,” Sarah tells them, bouncing a fussy Beatrice on her hip. “Though there was a thunderstorm last night around bedtime.”

Charles winced. “How did that turn out?”

“Harry had a bit of trouble, so William crawled into bed with him, and he drifted off.”’

Charles placed his hands on William’s shoulders, smiling down at his son. “You’re a wonderful older brother, Wills.”

William beamed up at him. “I helped with Beatrice too! Aunt Sarah showed me how to change her nappy and feed her a bottle!”

Before he could respond, Andrew called over to him. “William, please come help your brother clean up the toys you brought with you.”

“But he got them out!” William complained.

“Wills…” Charles raised an eyebrow, arms folding across his chest, and Diana nudged William to get him moving before he got himself into too much trouble.

“Charles, may I have a moment of your time?” Andrew asked, tilting his head toward the door.

Charles could not help how his brow furrowed, but he nodded and left Diana’s side to follow Andrew to his study. Andrew closed the door, and Charles’ frown deepened.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I hoped to speak to you yesterday when I arrived to fetch the boys, but Diana said you were in with your secretary.”

“Speak to me about what?”

“Your head of security rang me the other day to ask questions about my perspective of the incident with that photographer in July.”

Charles was taken aback. “For what purpose?”

“To quote ‘asses the reality of what happened,’” Andrew rubbed his neck. “I told him what I knew but that I witnessed it as little as you did.”

“Did he seem to be implying anything?” Charles asked his tone tight.

“I won’t pretend to guess what your head of security was implying and get in the middle of that. I just wanted you to be aware that the conversation had taken place.”

Charles’ fists clenched at his sides. “Asking for your version of the event seems to imply my version is misconstrued.”

“I imagine mine matched with yours. Though he did ask to speak to Sarah,” Andrew shrugged. “I told him no. When I asked why he was questioning it, he mentioned that you had arranged a special meeting to discuss Diana’s security and safety on Monday, and he wanted to prepare with all of the facts.”

Words would not come. Charles swallowed.

“I must admit to you, I had forgotten about it completely,” Andrew said. “Why are you still pursuing it? I thought you handled it that week after it happened.”

“Diana saw the photographer in Scotland.”

“Saw, or thinks she saw?”

“Careful,” Charles growled. “I don’t like the implications of that question.”

“Did you see him?”

“No. But there was a note that bothered me in a bouquet of flowers. Had to have been from him.”

“Charles…” Andrew sighed. “You have to admit that sounds like a stretch.”

“She was upset,” Charles explained, to which Andrew made a face and shrugged. Charles raised a finger in his direction. “Andrew, shut your mouth. She wasn’t overreacting. I was upset too. In fact, she tried to make less of it than I did.”

“Are you making too much of it?”

“How could you even ask that? She’s my wife. How could I possibly make too much of someone touching her, making her uncomfortable…”

“It’s not like he groped her,” Andrew pointed out. “He grabbed her purse.”

“There were bruises,” Charles said, voice low. “And it never should have happened. Let alone, should that man have the nerve to follow us around Wales and Scotland. He should have his rights to report on this family permanently revoked, and I will find him and ensure he’s never near her again.”

“Now, you be careful,” Andrew warned. “That sounded far too much like the Prince of Wales making a threat.”

“Maybe I am.”

Andrew watched him carefully for a moment. “You know what will happen. You increase security, and you’ll draw attention. And not the pleasant kind. There will be the talk of finances again. Of us hiding behind walls and away from reality. Buckingham will get involved. ”

“I don’t care,” Charles told him. “Her safety is worth it. Shame on anyone who would say otherwise.”

“Some people will say that if her husband took more care to pay attention and be present, there wouldn’t be so much room for photographers to take a shot at touching her.”

“Andrew!” Charles warned and Andrew held up his hands.

“I’m not the enemy here. I’m just warning you that if even your head of security questions the credibility of the threat to Di’s safety and your judgment on it, what will the public say? As the Prince of Wales, you have to consider it.”

“And as a husband? Andrew, what would you do?”

“Raise hell. But I’m in love with my wife.”

Charles would have broken eye contact with his brother a year before, some wave of shame crossing over him. But then he held it steady and watched the realization cross Andrew’s face.

“Ah. So there we are," Andrew smiled. “I’m glad you finally pulled your head out of your arse. Though I will miss Mummy’s constant look of disappointment turned your direction.”

“Are we finished?” Charles asked, looking at his watch.

Andrew nodded, and Charles signed heavily as they stepped back out of the study. The tension in his neck at the base of his skull was substantial. How was he to keep Diana safe from the photographer Charles suspected was borderline stalking her if no one would take him seriously?

He swallowed, wondering how often Diana had felt what he was feeling at that moment: unheard, unseen, discredited. Even Andrew, in that simple conversation, had scoffed at Diana’s feelings. Charles knew that as much as Diana was responsible for overreacting and being overly emotional at times, he had drawn negative attention to it over the years as some desperate attempt to gain sympathy. How else would he justify his affair unless everyone felt sorry for him living with a wife teetering on the edge of instability?

How could he take it all back? It would take time to help everyone trust her after he had worked so hard to puncture holes in her character. It would take even more time, considering the way he had swung so far on the pendulum in Diana’s direction that he would cause suspicions about his own mental state. It would take time he did not have. She was potentially endangered now.

Was Andrew right? Was it his fault? He was responsible for making her the Princess of Wales and putting her in the spotlight that had for so long put her at risk— that he had long known. He’d come to terms with that at the beginning of their marriage when he’d watched the toll it took on her to have the media singing her praises one day and tearing her to pieces the next.

But did more fault lie at his door? Had his negligence of his wife been a proponent for other men looking at her as if she was less than human, something they could possess and toss aside? He’d heard the remarks before from commentators on their relationship: "if he doesn’t want her, I’ll take her.” Was that the fire burning under the photographer who had grabbed her: the thought that she was something he could take for himself?

What lengths would that man go to in an attempt to get his hands on her again? And how could Charles prevent that from happening without added support and attentiveness from the security detail?

—————————————————————

Diana’s relating of the previous night’s events to Sarah was interrupted as she watched Charles trail back into the room behind Andrew and immediately noticed the change in his countenance. He was tense; his jaw clenched, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He scanned the room with his eyes but seemed not even to see the boys as they finished cleaning up their toys. He returned to her side, standing impossibly close to her so she had to cease swaying Beatrice in her arms.

She raised an eyebrow at him as his fingers pressed into her hip and secured her against him. He seemed far away, his gaze meeting hers, storms brewing in the blue orbs. Then Beatrice let out a wail, and he visibly flinched.

Diana handed the baby back to Sarah and then slipped her arm underneath his jacket and rubbed her fingers up and down his spine, but it did very little to relax him visibly. She noticed both Andrew and Sarah regarding him carefully, as if every adult in the room could feel the tension in her husband mounting by the second.

“Well, we should get on to Kensington,” Diana announced. “It will take a while to settle back in and the boys will be hungry soon.”

“Of course!” Sarah smiled.

“Wills, Harry, say goodbye to Aunt Sarah and Uncle Andrew!”

“And Beatrice!” Harry added.

Diana laughed. “And Beatrice too.”

The boys gave hugs, and Charles politely said goodbye before heading out the door to the car with the boys’ bags. Andrew walked with him, and Sarah followed Diana. Diana stood with the open car door, hands across the top as she smiled at Sarah.

“Thank you again,” Diana said softly. “I know it was not easy to have them underfoot with Beatrice so young, but Charles and I needed last night to be child-free.”

“I’m glad to hear he’s put that woman behind him,” Sarah said. “Though I am sorry for everything that was said and implied.”

“Thankfully, it will never be more than what it was. I don’t know that I would have survived it.”

Beatrice’s fussing grew more insistent, and Sarah returned to the house. Diana glanced to where Charles and Andrew were standing at the back of the car, speaking in hushed tones, a conversation Charles ended with the thudding close of the boot. Her eyes met his and she saw him take a deep breath before he crossed to her. He stood on the other side of her car door, his hands covering hers on top of it.

“Charles—” Andrew said, sounding exasperated. “If I can be of any help…”

“I’ll let you know,” Charles said sharply. “Di, let’s go.”

She nodded and settled into the car before he closed her door and crossed to the other side. As he started the car and turned out of the property, William recounted to her all had learned about caring for a baby. Diana turned in her seat to look toward the back as she listened to him.

“Maybe you should have another baby, Mama. I could help take care of it,” William said.

Diana smiled as she glanced once more at her husband and slipped her hand over his forearm. “Maybe.”

Charles did not respond, his eyes checking the mirrors.

“Is something wrong?” Diana asked.

He shook his head in denial, placing his hand over hers, but did not meet her gaze, and she did not believe him at all. She moved her hand up to his neck, fingers rubbing soothing circles against the tension there.

“Mama, can we play outside?” Harry asked.

Diana nodded. “For a while before we eat. And then you’ll take a nap.”

“Wills too?”

“I don’t take naps anymore, Harry,” William informed him, a slight taunt in his tone. “I’m not a baby.”

“I’m not either!” Harry pouted, arms crossing over his chest.

“You’re not a baby, Harry,” Diana assured him. “But you do still need naps. Wills did too when he was four.”

“But I want to stay up with Wills.”

“Not yet, sweetheart. Next year when you go to school.”

“No!” Harry shouted. “Today.”

Diana sighed heavily. “Harry. This isn’t up for discussion. We’ve discussed it enough times before. Wills won’t be doing anything you’ll miss out on. He has quiet time while you take a nap. He reads books or—”

“Watches a movie!” William cut in.

“A movie!?” Harry exclaimed, eyes filling with tears and brow furrowing deeply. Diana was struck by how he looked so much like his father at that moment, their facial expressions almost identical. But unlike his father, Harry began to wail.

“He’s not watching a movie today, Harry,” Diana attempted.

“But I want to watch—” William began to complain.

“That’s enough,” Charles said sharply, Diana’s gaze cutting to him as he glared at the boys in the rearview mirror. “Both of you. Stop arguing with your mother.”

Harry let out a final “Hmmph,” his arms locked in a stance of anger across his torso as he glared right back at both of his parents and then stuck his tongue out at his older brother.

“He must not have slept well,” Diana told Charles softly, turning back to her youngest. “Harry. Maybe we can all watch something after your nap or tomorrow when it is supposed to rain.”

“All of us?” William asked.

Diana decided to answer for Charles when he made no response. “Yes. All four of us.”

“Harry, if Mama has another baby, you won’t be a baby anymore," William attempted. "You’ll be a big brother like me.”

“I’m not a baby!” Harry exclaimed again.

“Why don’t we all just take a moment and not speak to one another until we calm down?” Diana suggested. “Alright? Will?”

Both boys nodded, turning to look out their windows, and Diana turned back to the front of the car, feeling nauseous from having faced the wrong direction for too long. She placed a hand over her belly, feeling a tiny roundness there that seemed to have popped out the past two days, and she could no longer attribute it to bloating or anything else. A baby. She couldn’t believe it. And apparently, it had happened on the weekend they had decided to try once more for their marriage too. If ever there had been a sign of things meant to be, surely that was it.

But Charles seemed to have lost his elation of earlier, his entire presence vibrating with anxiety and tension, and she could only hope she was not the cause of it.

As she sighed heavily, he looked at her, his eyes drifting to her hand over her belly. He raised an eyebrow at her in questioning concern, which she answered with a faint smile. She prayed he would speak to her about what had transpired to cause his distress but suspected he would not be forthright without her questioning him.

Much as she may have wanted another baby, pregnancies in the past had caused extremes in their relationship that she wasn’t quite prepared for, and she hoped he would keep his word to be there for everything instead of pulling away from her like he had done at times in the past.

When they pulled up to Kensington, the boys rushed in with excitement about seeing all of their toys in the nursery. Charles opened the boot of the car as the staff came out to get their suitcases. They entered the house, and Charles immediately went off toward the telephone and she followed, prepared to corner him, and find out what had gone wrong. She watched as he picked up the telephone and held it to his ear, freezing on the spot when he saw her standing in the room.

“Di, I need to make a call.”

“To whom?”

“It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”

She glared at him, and he lowered the phone back to the cradle.

“This again? Charles…” she sighed.

“What this are you referring to?”

Diana did not offer an answer, the one on the tip of her tongue a stick of dynamite she could not release. But it turned out she needed not, for he knew her thoughts.

“You cannot seriously think I would—”

“No. No, I don’t. I just—”

“What?” he dared.

“This moment felt familiar and…” she trailed off.

He groaned, pressing his fingers into his eyes. “Diana. I beg you to please stop assuming the worst about me.”

“Fine. Then what happened with Andrew?” she asked at last.

“Nothing,” he insisted.

“Charles. Please. One moment we were fine. Happy. Together. The next…you were cold and far away. And the thing that happened in between was a conversation with Andrew. So fill in the missing piece for me.”

“Security is asking questions about that photographer.”

“The one that grabbed me?” she asked, bile rising in her throat. “That I spotted again on our trip?”

He nodded. She felt her heart rate pick up as those incidents crossed her mind like they were happening in real-time. Quickly she lowered herself to the sofa, fixing her eyes to the floor, and noticed in her peripheral that Charles was moving toward her.

“Are you alright?” he asked, sitting beside her, and reaching for her hand.

“Why are they asking questions?” she asked in return. “I thought you said we would take care of everything in the meeting on Monday.”

“I will.”

“But why are they asking questions now? Why not wait until then? And what does Andrew have to do with it?”

“They called Andrew to ask his side of the incident in July.”

“Why?”

“Apparently, they think I am making a mountain of it.”

“You are,” she insisted.

He looked deep into her eyes, his hand squeezing hers. “But you don’t really believe that.”

Her eyes closed as she swallowed. “So, they don’t believe there is a threat?”

“I do not know what they believe or know now. Hence the phone call.”

“But you’re angry because you do not think they are taking it seriously enough,” she guessed.

He nodded and she breathed deeply, prompting him to question her. “Is this conversation frightening you?”

“The conversation….no. The photographer…I’m sure he’s harmless.”

“I don’t believe he is. Harmless would have been asking for a picture as hundreds of them do, but at a safe distance.”

“He was just—”

“No,” Charles was adamant. “Don’t say it was a mistake. If it was…he would have apologized. And he wouldn’t dare follow you on tours of Scotland and Wales.”

“Maybe it wasn’t him.”

“Diana. Don’t.” His tone was sharp and she winced. “Don’t back down on that now. I need you to be firm in what you saw.”

She sighed. “He was at a distance in a room with other photographers. He didn’t break any rules that time.”

“And how do you account for the note in the bouquet?”

Diana rubbed her temples. “I can’t. I don’t know. But there were so many people…so many bouquets…I can’t prove it.”

“No. We cannot. But he’s bound to show up again, and I’ll be damned if we don’t catch him then.”

She sighed. “Let’s go find the boys. We can discuss this on Monday. You promised the weekend would be for us as a family. Please. Just be here with us today and leave all this for later.”

———————————————————

After a full day with the boys, Diana crawled into the bed beside him moving so slowly her exhaustion was apparent, and Charles offered her a soft smile as he held the coverlet up for her so she could slip in.

“They are getting harder to keep up with,” he commented. “I’m unsure if their rapidly moving feet or words are more exhausting. Or the shifting so quickly between bickering and laughing together.”

“Mmmmhmmm,” she nodded. “Especially when Harry refuses his nap.”

“I wish you wouldn’t let him speak to you the way he does.”

“I’d rather him use his words to express frustration than his fists,” she shrugs. “He hasn’t offended me yet.”

“I want him to respect you,” he argued. “And I will continue to discuss that with him. Both of them. There are ways to express frustration with respect.”

“He’s four,” she pointed out.

“I didn’t say I expect perfection. Just effort.”

Diana leaned over and kissed him, then she yawned, reaching a hand up to stifle it, and he kissed her cheek.

“Get some sleep,” he murmured and reached over to turn off the lamp, settling down against his pillow.

“I’m fine…we can—”

“Diana,” he smiled, noting she could barely hold her eyes open. “Sleep.”

As she settled her head on his shoulder, her breathing quickly evened out, and he slipped his hand over her belly. He’d thought last night when she was wearing that gorgeous maroon dress that she was showing already, but he’d been loath to investigate his suspicions while she was awake because she would be onto him. He smiled softly as his hand cupped over her slightly protruding belly.

She must have conceived almost as soon as he had come home to Kensington with her at the end of August. A week or more ago, he’d begun noticing the tell-tale signs of her upturned nose at certain smells at mealtimes, her dizzy swaying on occasion, and the quickness to which he found her in tears. He was confounded as to her obliviousness of it all until that morning.

Perhaps she had chalked those symptoms up to adjusting to everything that had changed between. Perhaps she was afraid to get her hopes up, or his, for that matter. Regardless, he would take no further convincing, and he was relieved she was finally on the same page.

Yet the timing of it all settled like lead in his chest. After months of anxiety over her fate and his need to have her alive and safe, he was unsure how much more he could handle. The photographer could not have picked a worse time to mess with his wife, when Charles’ every thought threatened to trail back to that casket and the darkness of the visions of life without her. Her safety was at risk now more than ever before, and now he had to add a pregnancy to his list of concerns: her health and their unborn child. Oh, how desperately he needed to protect her. And how deeply he felt as though the warning signs in his mind for the past seven months and that feeling of danger in his gut that he could not escape were about to all catch up to them. His heart raced as if he had been on the polo field. It was all too much.

2 October 1988

The letter had slipped through half a dozen people on its way to her, yet there it was, in her shaking hands. She’d scanned through three other fan letters before she had come across this one and nearly lost her breakfast. The words, dirty and crude, etched in a man’s scrawl…promises of things he would do to her and teach her if she would leave her “wretched husband who appreciated her far too little…” How he had been unable to stop thinking about her since his hand had come in contact with her skin, how alive she had made him feel when she’d turned her beautiful fury on him.

Diana was frozen in her chair, certain that if she moved too quickly, she would vomit or pass out. She had insisted over and over again, trying to convince herself and Charles that he was making too much of the whole thing. But Charles was insistent that there was more of a threat from the photographer lying under the surface of events that had happened thus far.

Here was all the proof anyone would need. It seemed his worries about security not taking them seriously were unnecessary. No one would deny this had stepped far beyond the line. There were threats and fantasies of sexual encounters, violent and forced, explicitly detailed out.

“Di, the boys want to—” Charles walked into the room, stopping short when he saw her. She knew she looked like she had seen a ghost, and she had not the energy or ability to hide it. Her picturesque Sunday morning had been completely ruined, and now she would ruin his as well. “Diana? Darling…what’s wrong?”

Her mouth opened to speak, but she could not say a word. Instead, she shoved the letter in her desk drawer, the thought of him laying eyes on the words she had just read too terrifying.

He crossed the room toward her, knelt in front of her chair, and turned her toward him, his hands reaching for hers.

“Are you ill?” he asked. “Something wrong?”

“No,” she whispered, and then a sob caught in her throat, and she shoved him away. She stood, walked to the window, and hugged herself against the October chill. He watched her; she could feel his eyes on her.

“Diana. What aren’t you telling me?”

He crossed the room toward her, she could hear him coming, but she would not face him. Not when the tears were threatening to fall. But then his hands were on her shoulders and the tears slipped as she felt the warmth of his skin through her shirt. She shuddered with the tears, and then his hands were on her upper arms, turning her toward him. His grip tightened.

“What?” he demanded, his voice hoarse with desperation.

“Oh, Charles…” she cried, reaching up to cover her face with her hands.

“Is it the baby?”

“No,” she shook her head. It was no use thinking she could bury this from him, and she realized she did not really want to. For once in her life, she needed to let herself rely on him. “You were right.”

“About what?”

She pulled away from him and moved stiffly toward her desk. Opening the drawer, she reached in and pulled it out. She handed it to him with shaking hands, and he studied her face for a moment before his eyes drifted to the page. She watched the color drain from his face. Then she watched as he stumbled backward and sank to her office chair.

Minutes passed that seemed like an eternity.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“This is disgusting. Vile.”

“Yes,” she nodded.

“Diana---” his voice was strangled.

“I know,” she moved toward him and knelt before him, her hands reaching for the letter and pulling it from his grasp. She put her hands on his knees. “They are just words.”

“No. No, they aren’t,” he shook his head. “These sound more like plans than fantasies.”

Diana nodded.

“I still have the card,” he said, deep in thought, as his gaze returned to its faraway place from yesterday, the place desperate to fix all the things that could harm her. “I tucked it in my pocket. I want to compare the handwriting. We can prove—”

“Charles,” Diana interrupted. “I’m…I’m scared.”

His gaze cut back to hers, returned to the present, though the storm of fury and pain remained. He reached for her, pulling her back up to her feet and directly onto his lap. He cradled her, her head landing on his shoulder.

“It will be fine,” Charles promised. “I will make sure you have nothing to be afraid of. I will make them believe us and make them take it seriously.”

“You’ll make them?” she questioned. “How?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I will. I will protect you. I won’t let him or anyone else hurt you.”

“You’re not God,” she reminded him.

He reached for her face, holding it up to look at her. The intensity in his blue eyes took her breath away and caused a flutter in her belly that had her hand rushing there. “You and the boys and this baby are going to be safe. Do you trust me in that?”

She nodded. “And you?”

“I would put myself between you and harm. Do you know that?”

“But I would rather you didn’t. I want you to stay here with me,” she whispered. “I need you.”

He kissed her forehead. “I’m here. And I love you.”

It was not long before the boys were bounding into the room looking for him, and she was forced from his lap to paste on a smile for her children. As the four of them made their way to the nursery, she watched him discreetly tuck the letter inside his jacket before he reached for her hand and squeezed it.

The anxiety was creeping in with a crushing weight. Could she...would she endure?

Chapter Text

16 July 1981

Diana tiptoed quietly down the hall, side-stepping the creaky floorboard that was always giving her roommates away when they snuck in after a late-night rendezvous. She wouldn’t be caught red-handed, though she was slipping out of the apartment instead of in. Her jacket was zipped up high; the collar popped up against what was sure to be a chilly night.

The phone call had been a surprise, though an incredibly welcome one, and she’d jumped at the chance to do something a little daring, even if it meant being exhausted the following day.

There was no risk of getting in trouble on her end. Her roommates would do nothing but tease her. But his getting caught was another thing, plus there would surely be a media frenzy, and the prospect of having to sneak around made it that much more appealing and exciting.

She pulled the door closed as softly as possible and turned her key, the lock clicking with an echo that bounced off the walls. But then she was free, and she took off running down the stairs, her body threatening to go faster than her agile feet could take her.

His car was waiting down the street, headlights off. Well, not his car. That would be far too easy. It belonged to a friend of his, someone they could count on to keep it quiet.

Her breath puffed out in a cloud in front of her as she dipped her head and hurried toward where he waited. Just as she reached the car, he leaned across the inside and pushed it open for her. Diana slipped inside and pulled the door closed in one motion, his hands immediately grabbing her neck and tugging her in. His lips were hungry, and she felt the sigh of relief leave him as their waiting was put to an end.

“Hi,” she breathed out against him, his forehead against hers.

“Hi,” he returned.

“I’ve nearly died without you,” Diana said.

“Sorry, my love. I’ll make it up to you.”

“You said that last time.”

“And I more than made up for it then, didn’t I?”

The thought of his body against her, slick with sweat, his fingers teaching her all that he could do, and then the joining of their bodies for the first time in the twilight pouring in through the Balmoral windows, had her swallowing hard.

“You did.”

“Well, I can’t give you Balmoral tonight,” he said, starting the car. “But we can get away for a while.”

She smiled brightly.

Thirty minutes later, he was pulled off from an already secluded road, the car surrounded by trees. They’d talked the whole drive, catching up and asking random questions to make a dent in the plethora of things they didn’t know about each other. They even argued playfully over music choices while batting each other’s hands away from the radio knob until he finally gave in and let her sing at the top of her lungs while he rolled his eyes and grinned.

“Yellow,” she announced as she removed her jacket, and he turned off the car.

“What?” he asked with a laugh.

“Yellow,” she said again. “That’s the color I feel when I’m with you.”

“You feel colors?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes. And I bet you do, too, if you think about it.”

He shook his head.

“Try it. What colors make you think of being sad?”

“Well, blue, I guess. But that’s obvious.”

She nods. “And melancholy?”

He cocks his head to the side, watching her as if she’s some strange unknown creature he can’t help but be enthralled with.

“Green?” he says, unsure, his hand going across her thigh, thumb rubbing circles across her jeans. “Maybe?”

“Why green?”

“It’s just an ordinary, everywhere color. And I—”

His voice cut off, thumb freezing on her leg.

“You what?”

He shrugged. “Melancholy is my ordinary, everywhere feeling.”

“Charles…” she whispered, her hand covering his.

Again, he shrugged, and when he spoke, the deep timber of his voice caused her stomach to clench. “What color do you think of?”

“Hmmm,” she mutters thoughtfully. “I think of purple.”

“Why?”

“My mum wore purple a lot when I was little. She was a melancholy person then.”

“And what about yellow? Why is being with me…yellow?”

“Because I’m happy,” she told him. “You make me happy.”

He leaned across her, reaching for the lever of her seat and lowering it until she was lying nearly flat on her back. She gazed up at him as he brushed her hair off her forehead.

“You make me happier than I’ve been in a very long time,” he whispered, breath close to her face, eyes locked in her gaze and the look in them warm and sincere.

“Why?”

“It all fades away when I’m near you. I’m young again, the weight of it all off my shoulders, that damn crown meant for someone else. I’m just a man with a beautiful woman that I adore. And right now, all I can see is you.”

Her heart fluttered in her chest, her breath hard to find, and as his lips descended to her neck, the shiver across her skin was from more than the fact that he was slowly exposing it to the cool night air.

Before, during, and after, she knew she loved him blindly and foolishly. Naively.

She suspected he’d be the death of her, but she was gladly handing her life to him, and she’d do it again and again.

“No one can ever know we did this,” he told her as he buttoned her blouse back up for her. “You know, your maiden virtue and all that…”

“Yes, that,” she laughed.

He grinned, thumb tracing over her swollen bottom lip. “I am serious, though, Diana.”

“I’ll take it to my grave,” she whispered, a smile on her lips.

As he drove her slowly back home, she caught him looking over at her multiple times, a deep look on his face that seemed borderline…well…melancholy.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said so softly she barely heard him over the engine.

There was something lying under that statement that she felt but didn’t want to touch. Instead, she reached for his hand and raised it to her lips, kissing each of his knuckles.

He changes the subject, a devilish grin crossing his face. “You know what I think of when I think of yellow?”

Her lips turned up in a grin. “What?”

“How cute you looked in those yellow overalls you wore.”

She giggled. “Oh? What exactly was cute about them?”

“I’ll make a list. Your legs, for a start, which lead up to your perfectly formed a—”

“Charles!” she shrieked, cutting him off with her hands covering her face.

He laughed deeply. “On don’t play innocent and pretend I wasn’t just—”

“Stop!” she giggled. “Besides…I don’t have any idea what you’re on about. I’m a perfectly untouched maiden who will don a gown of white on her wedding day..”

“Oh…” he nodded. “Quite right.”

3 October 1988

Diana walked back in the door after dropping William at school, nausea twisting in her stomach. Harry’s piano teacher was there already, and she could hear him plucking the keys one at a time and much too loudly, a soft feminine voice talking over the noise. The woman would return for William’s lesson the following afternoon, having quickly determined that trying to teach one boy at the same time as the other was quite impossible.

She was nearing Charles' study, her shoes clicking lightly on the floor, when he appeared in the doorway, leaning with his shoulder against the frame. Their eyes met, his hands reaching for hers as she stepped toward him.

“I returned in one piece,” she poked lightly, hoping to lighten the mood from the argument they’d had before she left when he had voiced his opinion about her safety while driving the boys to school.

He pulled her close, his cheek pressing against hers, nose nuzzling her hair. “It isn’t a teasing matter, Di.”

“I’m not going to live my life under lock and key, Charles.”

“And I don’t want you to.”

“But you’re asking that of me,” she pointed out.

“I’ve asked no such thing,” he argued, his voice soft.

She pulled back to meet his gaze. “You’re making me paranoid, questioning whether or not I’m safe doing something I do every day. I’m a mother. I drive my son to school. I don’t want to look over my shoulder or think about disgusting men and what they want to do to me while I do so. You ruined it for me, and I can’t stand it.”

His hand went up to her neck, thumb tenderly grazing across her jawline. “That wasn’t my intention. I simply want you to be safe. To be aware of your surroundings…of the danger you’re in.”

“I’m not sure that seeing the man coming seconds before he grabs me and whisks me off to God knows where would help anything anyway.”

Charles winced. “Don’t say such things.”

“I thought you wanted me to be aware of the danger I’m in.”

“Diana, don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”

She sighed heavily.

“Charles…” she whispered. “I have to say something. You won’t want to hear it, but I have to say it.”

He waited.

“I love you,” she told him.

“I know.”

“I’m not finished,” she shook her head and reached her hand up for his face. Her thumb rubbed across his cheek, and she studied every inch of his face. “I love you. With all that I am. And I’m thankful that you want to protect me. But if it’s out of some desperate thought that you wouldn’t survive without me—”

“I’d rather be dead than face a day without you.”

Again, she shook her head. “I prayed so long for you to feel that way about me. But I need you to promise me that if something ever did happen to me…if you woke up tomorrow and I didn’t…promise me you would be strong. That you would be present in every moment with our children. That you would love them as I’ve strived to. That you would fight to make this world better for them.”

She pressed her forehead against his and watched his eyes flutter closed. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“For me. Promise you’d live each day to the fullest extent for me.”

“Diana…” his voice broke. “I don’t even want to think about it. I don’t want to put that thought out into the universe.”

“You have to. Please…” she let the tears escape. “I’m scared. Not of him…but of leaving you and the boys behind…between cancer scares, my struggles…and a photographer following a bit too closely…I’ve had to consider the possibility that I will not always be here whole and able to love the three of you the way I want to. Please don’t frighten me more by telling me you wouldn’t survive it. I need to know that you would.”

His other hand came up to her neck, thumbs under her chin, tracing backward toward her ears until they were tangled in her hair as their foreheads remained pressed together. Their noses brushed, and her eyes drifted closed as they breathed the same air.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you,” he whispered back. “And I promise…I promise you I would do it all for you. I will do it all for you now, and I would do it all for you then.”

She kissed him then. Deeply, soundly, until she tasted the salt on his lips and realized it was not her tears but his.

“Now it’s your turn to promise me something.”

“Anything,” she nodded.

“Promise me I won’t have to without you.”

She pulled back, a smile on her lips. “I still cannot believe I’m not in a dream, and you truly mean that.”

He sighed.

“What will it take for you to hear it, believe it fully?”

“Just keep saying it,” she told him. “Keep telling me you love me, and one of these days, it will sink in.”

He kissed her again. When he pulled back, there was a glint of something in his eyes.

“What?” she quirked an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” he shook his head quickly and stepped away from her a bit, glancing toward his watch. “Are you ready for all of the entourage to arrive?”

“I suppose,” she shrugged. “Though I’m not sure my stomach can handle the anxiety of waiting much longer.”

“I could distract you,” he teased.

“I just told you I’m nauseous, and that’s your proposed solution?”

“How about a walk in the garden?”

She conceded to that, and before long, they were seated around the table, her secretary next to her, Charles’ secretary across from them beside the head of security.

“I’ve called you here today to address what I believe to be a major threat to the Princess of Wales’ safety.”

“Your Royal Highness, I’d like to ask, first and foremost, what exactly the desired outcome of this meeting is?”

“Our desired outcome is increased security, both residential and in the Princess of Wales’s personal protection,” Charles clarified.

“Does His Royal Highness believe we have not achieved safety for the Princess?” the MPS Officer asked.

“Frankly, no. I am not satisfied. There was an incident in July in which a photographer laid his hands on her and there was not an officer in sight. Therefore, the man was not caught and continues to harass her. I should have raised more of an issue then, but I was advised by both of our secretaries this issue would be resolved by issuing a statement directly to the Press Corp. Now, I would like to understand why she was not being escorted by her PPO in the first place?”

“Your Royal Highness is aware, I assume, that the Princess previously submitted a request last April for her PPO to remain at the perimeter of your polo matches? That request was initially denied, but upon further insistence from the Princess and her assurance that she would notify her PPO when she was leaving the stands, it was agreed that the officer would remain at the perimeter while she was in the stands and only close in upon her removal from the area to walk across the field.”

“I was not aware,” he shot a look at Diana, who looked at her hands.

“I felt stifled,” she spoke up. “I also felt safe enough while there, knowing most everyone and—”

“Even if that was the case,” Charles cut her off. “Where was her PPO when the incident occurred?”

“From what I learned, her PPO was on holiday that week. Is that correct, Your Royal Highness?”

Diana nodded. “Charles, I’ve already followed up with them about this. There was a miscommunication, mostly my fault. I had assured him…the fill-in officer…that I would not be leaving the stands until after the final match was complete. But then Sarah needed to leave, and I thought…Well, I thought I would only be away long enough to walk her to the car.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before now?” he practically growled.

She glared at him, refusing to sink under his gaze. “Can we get back to the matter at hand?”

Diana turned back to the man across the table. “I am not one to accuse anyone of not doing their job, just as I told you in July. I thought it was an isolated incident, and I honestly believed that to be the case until yesterday. He released me as soon as I demanded he do so, and he cooperated by leaving the field.”

“Was that the end of it?” the officer asked.

“No, we saw the man in Scotland and in Wales,” Charles added.

“He was a member of the press there?”

“I believed so,” Diana nodded.

“Did he approach you or do anything to give you reason to believe he wished to cause you harm?”

“No,” Diana shook her head. “He was simply there, in the background, just like all the other photographers.”

“Then he put a note in a bouquet of flowers,” Charles said, opening the folder on the table in front of him and passing it across the table.

Both secretaries leaned forward to glance at it as the officer picked it up.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but this note is not in the least bit threatening.”

“Perhaps not in and of itself—” Charles nodded. “But yesterday that changed.”

He slid the letter across the table.

“Where did this come from?”

“It was in the regular pile of letters,” Diana explained.

The man glanced over it, cleared his throat a few times as he read, and then raised his eyes. Charles was shooting him with a smug glare.

“Care to explain to me how that made its way onto her desk?”

“I apologize, sir. This should have been caught.”

“It is unacceptable,” Charles continued, his voice icy. “That any of these incidents happened. Even had the Princess of Wales requested a larger perimeter from her PPO, she never should have been out of your sight. She never should have been able to make her way across a field through a throng of people without a single member of her security or mine being aware of the fact. And the moment this letter arrived on the property, security should have had their eyes on it as well. The envelope in and of itself is not properly addressed, which should have put it at the top of the pile for inspection.”

“You cannot expect them to catch every piece of mail, Charles,” Diana cut in. “There’s hundreds of letters each day.”

“And since the beginning, they’ve been inspected,” Charles told her. “And countless pieces have been investigated.”

This was information she had not heard before.

“Sir, while I understand that this letter was upsetting, I regret to inform you there is nothing actionable here. We will ensure more diligence in inspecting correspondence, and I will personally see to the re-training of the PPO that filled in the day of the polo match.”

“What do you mean, nothing actionable?” Charles thundered.

“There are no real threats here, no real plans, nothing that raises my concern that this is anything but a man having inappropriate fantasies about the Princess of Wales. I regret that she read it and that it caused distress, but in my professional opinion, the Princess is not in danger. Nor, dare I say, can we prove it was written by the same individual.”

Diana swallowed, watching her husband. His jaw was flexed, his hands in fists on his lap. She had suspected as much, and she wanted desperately to be comforted by the fact that the Chief of Security believed her safe. But the words in the letter made her nauseous.

“Read it again,” Charles told him.

“Sir?”

“Read it again, and pretend it’s written to your wife.”

The man across the table glanced at Charles’ private secretary, who gave a stiff nod, and then picked it up and read it again. Diana’s fingers rose to her lips as she bit them and fought back her nausea. Her heart was racing, uncomfortable by the thought that the man was once again reading those vile words about her, that those thoughts were undoubtedly entering his mind too.

“Imagine,” Charles said, leaning forward. “It’s written to your wife by a man who stands across the street and takes pictures of her when she leaves the house. In your professional opinion, is your wife safe if she’s received that letter?”

But the man’s eyes were no longer on Charles’ face. They were on her, and she knew he was taking in the paleness of her skin, the tears welling up in her eyes.

“Perhaps the Princess of Wales would like to step out?”

“Whatever you’re going to say, you can say in front of her,” Charles said firmly, his hand finding hers under the table. “If your wife received that letter, would you consider her safe?”

“No, Sir. But my wife isn’t the Princess of Wales, plastered on television and newspapers every other day.”

“I believe you’ve made my point for me. If you’d consider any woman to be in danger because of a letter of that magnitude crudeness, would you not consider the Princess of Wales, perhaps the most easily watched woman in Great Britain, to be in ten times the amount of risk?”

The room fell silent.

“I will look into the matter, sir, and file the necessary paperwork.”

“Thank you,” Charles stood to his feet, everyone else rushing to do so as well. “I expect to hear from you no later than tomorrow morning.”

“Sir, there will be the issue of funding—” his private secretary argued.

“Not a moment later,” Charles said, helping Diana from her seat. “My wife and children are at stake. You’ll spare no expense, and I don’t care what it takes or whom you make angry along the way. Get it done.”

He took Diana’s hand and led her toward the door, but not before stopping and turning back again. “For the sake of clarity, I’ll add one more thing. I haven’t forgotten the man in my mother’s bedroom at Buckingham six years ago. As far as I’m concerned, the whole lot of you were met with more leniency for your failures to keep security than I ever would have allowed,” Charles told the three men in the room. “If your negligence ever leads to another incident involving my wife or my children, know that you have already exceeded the amount of forgiveness I’ll have for such things in this lifetime. They are the center of my world, and I’m demanding you regard them as such.”

Charles pulled her away before they could respond, though she could practically hear the officer’s heart pounding in his chest. It took all she had not to jump directly into her husband’s arms in the hallway. Instead, she grabbed him by the hand and dragged him toward their bedroom. The door was barely closed behind them when her legs were around his waist and her lips on his.

“Di—” he gasped out.

“Talk later,” she shook her head. “Imagine me in my yellow overalls if you have to, just—”

He cut her off with a raucous laugh as he skipped unbuttoning anything and yanked her blouse over her head, and her knees hit the edge of the bed. She felt her heart burst with love for the man standing in front of her.

Chapter Text

15 October 1988

Diana reached her arms behind her, fingers finally grasping around the zipper of her royal blue knee-length cocktail dress. She sucked in a breath of air and gave a firm tug, but it refused to budge. She let out a low growl in frustration.

“Charles!” she complained.

He appeared in the doorway from the bathroom, tucking his white shirt into his pants, his eyebrow raised. “What did I do this time?”

“Not everything is about you,” she snapped. “Can you just..can you zip me up? It’s stuck!”

He stepped toward her and reached out, but her hands were still holding the zipper firmly, and he swatted at them.

“Well, let go,” he said, his voice tight. “I can’t zip it with you holding onto it like a vice.”

Her arms fell dramatically to her sides as he gave a firm tug. Still, it refused to move.

“I’m not going,” she announced.

“You’re the only one she’s truly interested in having there. Might as well stop trying to get out of it.”

She sighed heavily. She had been in a horrible mood all afternoon, all three of her family members and the household staff doing their best to steer clear. With Sarah’s birthday party looming over her evening, her spirits did not promise to improve. She had been hit hard with morning sickness that week, just when she thought perhaps this pregnancy would be easier. The last thing she wanted to do was put on a pleasant facade for an evening with his family, a place where she still felt like an outsider. She’d much rather curl up on the couch and watch something on the television.

“Try again,” Diana said, sucking in another breath, and he finally got the zipper to move.

When she let out her breath again, she gasped.

“I think it’s shrunk,” she told him.

“Diana,” he chided, moving to stand in front of her. “It hasn’t shrunk. You’re pregnant.”

“But I never show this early. Not this much!”

“Darling, you’re ten weeks, and it’s not your first pregnancy. Your body knows what it’s doing this time. It’s normal.”

“It’s so visible,” she whined, her hands sliding over her belly. “Everyone’s going to find out.”

“Yes, we’ll have to tell them tonight,” he nodded, eyes raking over her. “Can you breathe in that?”

“Enough,” she said.

“Can you sit in it?”

She plopped on the bed, glaring at him.

“I’m just trying to avoid a wardrobe malfunction,” Charles held his hands up in defense.

But her eyes welled up with tears. He crossed to her, bending to kiss her forehead.

“You look beautiful. Truly.”

“What if we don’t say anything? What if we just ignore it and hope they do, too? I’m not ready.”

“Why?” he asked, sitting beside her and pulling on a pair of socks.

“Because.”

Charles turned toward her, an amused smirk on his face. “Very informative. Thank you for that.”

Diana responded with a sniffle, running her fingers under her eyes to catch the welling-up tears.

“It’s time to let other people in, Di. I’m not going anywhere simply because other people find out we’re together again.”

She let out a low whimper of breath and leaned toward him, her head falling to his shoulder. “How did you do that?”

“What?”

“You knew exactly what I was anxious about when I could not even put it into words.”

His arm went around her waist, and he kissed the top of her head.

“Mama!” Harry’s voice carried through the closed bedroom door.

“Come in, darling!” Diana called out, neither she nor Charles moving a muscle.

The door opened, revealing Harry standing there in his little shorts and a button-up shirt. He put his little hands on his hips, staring down both of his parents, and Charles hummed in amusement next to her as she saw the spitting image of her own attitude on her son’s face.

“When are we going to Auntie Sarah’s birthday party?” he asked.

“Soon, baby,” she answered.

“I’m all ready!” he announced, bounding toward them. He hurled himself toward her, and she quickly reached out to catch him while Charles’ hand protectively went to her belly to block his flailing arms and legs.

“You look quite handsome,” Diana said, smoothing her hand over his slicked-over hair while he sat on her lap. “Who styled your hair?”

“Wills!” Harry explained. “He had too much hair gel and needed to share.”

Diana pulled a face, looking toward her husband, who was already standing. “I’ll go sort that mess out,” he told her. “Harry, come. You don’t have on your socks or shoes.”

When they were out of the room, Diana fell back onto the bed, running her hands over her rounded belly. She let out a slow breath of air.

“Your papa says he’s not going anywhere,” Diana said to the tiny being within her. “I’m trying to believe him. But you’re already making my moods so crazy, I’m afraid he will get fed up with me.”

Silence fell over the room, only the sound of the ticking clock answering her.

“Please be kind to me, baby,” she whispered. “I’m sure you’re a girl…you’re already much different than the others. I’ve never been this dizzy or nauseous with the boys. I know you’re worth it, but please be kind to me soon, sweetheart.”

Diana listened to the sounds of her little men and their father talking down the hall and closed her eyes, trying to gain the mental energy for the social night ahead and find the strength within to focus on Sarah’s birthday and making her sister-in-law feel celebrated.

Sometimes, she felt like Sarah was the only one in the family who didn’t hate her. Who understood her. The least Diana could do was her best to celebrate Sarah well on the last birthday of her twenties.

She must have nodded off because what felt like seconds later, she awoke to Charles’ hand on her shoulder.

“Diana,” he crooned softly. “Di…”

“Hmm?”

“Time to leave,” he explained.

She sat up, running her hands through her hair. It was enough of a reset that she felt the prickly edges of her mood had at least worn off. He pulled her to her feet as she heard the boys bound down the hall, chattering excitedly about seeing their cousins.

But as soon as they were outside, her foul mood returned in full force. As had been the case all week, her PPO was right outside the door and trailed far too closely to be ignored, and they were still on Kensington grounds. She had been followed all week, the man practically walking close enough to hold her hand while she walked William into school and tailing her in the car. William had cried on the way to school the second day that his friends were making fun of him for it and begged her to stay in the car instead of walking him in. She had nearly lost it herself after that, running straight to Charles’ arms when she returned home and begging him to reconsider. He had held her but given a firm no to her request.

Then, the day before, headlines had broken about the added expense and the money it would cost taxpayers to cover the increased wages of her security team and added surveillance officers. Reporters had followed her in droves that day while she shopped for Sarah’s birthday present, making her a nervous wreck as she not only dealt with the added dramatics but attempted to keep her belly concealed beneath her jacket.

It was ironic that the added security seemed to add extra opportunity for the photographer to slip into the fray, but when she mentioned that to Charles, it had the opposite effect she’d wanted and sent him rushing to the phone to sort through his latest concerns.

She was suffocating again. And the feeling of her clothes tightening up around her did not help.
Diana wanted to blend in like everyone else. She would give anything to be ordinary and for them to be an ordinary family. Yet it would never be. She would never be an ordinary anything, and it was the price of loving Charles. A price that many times over the years had felt on the verge of too high, and she’d wondered if she was cut out for it.

As Charles held open her car door and kept his hand on her back while she got in, she flashed back to one of the countless times she’d nearly fallen completely apart because of the people watching her every move.

25 July 1981

It had been a fine day. Nothing completely out of sorts had happened. She’d been at enough polo matches that summer to have a fairly good idea of how to mingle with the important people on the sides, when to catch a few moments with Charles between matches, and even that it was the place he was most relaxed, despite being surrounded by media. In fact, he seemed oblivious to the media most of the time until he caught her looking over her shoulder over and over and heard her complain about it.

He kept telling her she’d get used to it. Told her to think about other things. Told her to stop looking for problems where there weren’t any…that displays of anything that looked unhappy would just make it all worse.

But it was less than a week before she’d sign her life away to him forever, seal herself forever in this glass box, and the uproar of excitement everywhere she went wouldn’t let her forget it. In fact, sometimes she felt that everyone else was more excited about the wedding than she was. She just wanted it over with. Wanted the feeling of going through the motions of life without being attached to her body to go away. Wanted to stop thinking about all of them out there all the time.

She loved him. Oh, how she loved him. But was it enough?

Why couldn’t she have gone back in time and told that young girl who had first met him that being in love with the Prince of Wales was harder than she could ever have imagined? That being with him and in his presence was glorious and safe, but that being with him happened a lot less than she had thought. That even being engaged to him wouldn’t mean seeing him every day. That any time he wasn’t within arm's length, she would feel incredibly alone.

In truth, even if she could tell her past self all of those things, she knew it wouldn’t change a thing. That man was her world and had been for so long that she barely remembered who she was before him.

She wasn’t sure who she was with him either, though.

In four days, she’d be wife to the Prince of Wales. Future queen. With any luck, mother to the heir to the throne. Daughter-in-law of Queen Elizabeth II. Her title would be Her Royal Highness, Princess of Wales. But those were just titles and places in a royal family tree.

Who would Diana be apart from those things? And what rights would she have to define those things for herself?

Charles told her she would have opportunities to develop her own interests and causes. But she wasn’t fool enough to know there wouldn’t be input on those things. Parameters of what was appropriate. And nothing that would outshine the fact that her job was to support him first and foremost.

It all was quite a lot, and then she looked over her shoulder from where she was sitting there in the stands and caught sight of the photographers’ lenses pointed directly at her.

God, would it never end? No, she thought, this was only the beginning of what was to come.

“I have to leave,” she whispered to no one in particular, but Lady Penelope Romsey was sitting next to her and overheard.

“What?” Penny asked and then reached for her hand when she saw the tears welling up in her eyes. “Oh dear. What’s the matter?”

“The photographers, they’re over there,” Diana explained. “I can’t do this. I can’t—”

“Alright,” Penny nodded. “Norton, we’re leaving.”

“Leaving?” he questioned, turning toward them from his conversation. With one withering look from his wife, he was also on his feet, and Diana had the thought that she hoped to one day be able to communicate with Charles with only a look like they just had.

With Lady Romsey on one side of her and Lord Romsey on the other, she felt a little better, but all she truly wanted was to get the hell out of there.

The paparazzi did not let up as they left the seats and crossed the field toward the cars. She kept her head ducked low, occasionally having to wipe away a stray tear, cursing herself for not holding it together until she was safely away.

She heard Charles’ voice in her head from days before: “Fall apart all you want. Just don’t let them see you do it. They’ll crucify you for it.”

The thought of failing made her want to cry all the harder. Perhaps she wasn’t strong enough for this. Perhaps he should have chosen someone of a stronger mental constitution. Someone like Camilla Parker-Bowles…someone who wouldn’t annoy him so much with her childish antics and emotional breakdowns.

She sniffled, barely noticing when Norton Romsey’s hand on her shoulder was suddenly directing her in a new direction, his other hand hailing someone over to them.

“What’s happened?” She heard Charles’ voice before she saw him.

“The media is getting to her,” Penelope explained. “They are very intense on her today. Barely let up since we got here.”

“Di?” his voice was soft, his hand reaching out for hers. As soon as his warm skin touched hers, a strangled sob caught in her throat and she stepped toward him.

“I couldn’t do it,” she whispered. “I can’t do it.”

His arms wrapped around her, drawing her completely against him, her nose buried in his sweaty, musky scent that was mixed with the lemon and peppermint of his cologne.

“Thank you,” his deep voice said to Lord and Lady Romsey. “I’ll take it from here.”

And then they were alone. As alone as one could be with his private secretary standing nearby.

“Diana,” his voice was gentle but firm. “You need to pull yourself together. I understand the pressure is great but—.”

“You don’t understand. You’ve had it your whole life. I—”

“I understand,” he said again. “But you’re making it worse. You’re giving them something to take pictures of.”

“You’re being hateful,” she shook her head. “I thought you’d be more compassionate about what I’m going through.”

“Diana,” he said sharply.

A sob erupted out of her. “Please don’t yell at me.”

“I’m not–” he snapped his mouth shut. “Diana, why in the world are you being so emotional right now? It’s like you’re horm–”

Again, his mouth closed suddenly, and she glared. “I’m what?”

“Nothing. Never mind,” he shook his head. “Look, I am not your enemy, and none of it is my fault. I had to learn to put up with it too. I had to grow up with it. You have all my compassion and understanding. But at some point…Diana, I warned you about this. I asked you to consider this as the reality and whether or not you could handle it. You refused to wait to say yes. You insisted you could do it.”

“All I knew was that I loved you,” she whispered, looking up at him.

“I know that,” he said. “But love isn’t everything if you’re miserable with the rest of it.”

She reached up to wipe at her tears, and his hands moved to her shoulders.

“I won’t force you to the altar. If you truly can’t do this—”

“It’s too late for that,” she shook her head. “Everyone said it’s too late.”

“But if it’s what you want—”

“I want you,” she told him firmly, sniffling. “You know I do.”

“Then it’s time to rise to the occasion,” he responded. “You’re stronger than this. I’ve seen it. Show them.”

“I need to go home,” she whispered, feeling chastised and full of shame. She’d disappointed him. Disappointed herself.

He sighed, his hand going to the small of her back and walking her toward the car.

“Sir?” his private secretary asked.

“Not now,” Charles snapped over his shoulder.

He opened her car door for her.

“Please don’t be angry with me,” she begged. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not angry, darling. Just frustrated with the situation.”

She wiped at her eyes, and he kissed her temple, and she took a breath, her whole body shuddering.

“I’m worried about you,” he told her.

“Then make them leave me alone.”

“There’s only so much I can do,” he said, to which she didn’t say a word.

“What if they follow me?” she responded.

“They won’t. I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Get in.”

She folded herself into the car, and he closed the door. He crossed in front of the car, and she wondered briefly if he would just get in and go with her, but through the cracked open car windows, she overheard his tense conversation with his secretary.

“Sir, I thought you and Lady Diana were going to—”

“I’ll meet back up with her later. The media is upsetting her.”

“Media?”

“Over there,” he pointed somewhere behind her car, and her heart fluttered at the knowledge they were still there. “Can you do something about them?” he asked impatiently. “For the love of God, they ruin everything they touch.”

15 October 1988

“Diana?” Charles' voice cut through the fog of her memory, and she jumped.

“Sorry,” she said. “Did you say something?”

“Will asked if you remembered Sarah’s present,” he explained.

“Oh,” Diana nodded. “Yes, Will, I remembered. I had it put in the trunk earlier today.”

Satisfied, William was quickly distracted, pointing out the window at something, commanding Harry to look. She felt eyes on her and turned her head to find her husband glancing back and forth from the road to her.

“Can I help you with something?” she sassed.

“Di,” he let out a low whistle. “Take it down a notch, darling.”

She sighed. “God, I’m sorry. I just—”

“I know,” he nodded. “You don’t feel well.”

“It’s not just that,” she shook her head. “The security is driving me to madness.”

“So you’ve mentioned.”

Her head leaned against the window, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. “I can see I won’t convince you to call them off.”

“No, darling. Not this time,” he shook his head. “I’d much rather them following you than the media.”

“Let’s not pretend the media went away suddenly. They’re just pushed back a few paces.”

“You know what I mean,” Charles refused to back down.

“At this rate our latest addition won’t know if her father is you or the officer hovering over my shoulder.”

That comment earned her a harsh glare that caused her to sink in her seat a bit and bite her tongue from further remarks.

“There’s only so much I can do,” he told her. “But I am committed to doing all those things to the best of my ability. This is what that looks like for now.”

“And if you’re only making everything worse?”

“I think I’ve chosen the lesser of two evils,” Charles said softly. “I need you to be strong, Di.”

She pressed her hands to her cheekbones. “I wish you saying that was actually helpful. Do you know how many times you’ve asked that of me? What more could I possibly take?”

He glanced in the rearview mirror at the boys, who had grown quiet, and she watched him swallow. “Maybe we should table this conversation until later.”

“No need,” she shook her head. “It’ll end the same as it always does.”

25 July 1981

Diana walked into her sitting room at Clarence House, a hot meal in her belly and a much more comfortable pair of jeans and a sweatshirt on her body after a bath that had calmed her considerably after the incident at the polo match.

She glanced at her watch and realized Charles was likely on his way if things had gone according to plan. She felt a twinge of guilt that she had skipped out before doing the honor of presenting the trophy. But it was the guilt she barely had the emotional capacity for at the moment, and she set it aside, trying desperately to clear her mind and force her mood to reflect what she thought a woman mere days from her wedding ought to feel: jubilant perhaps?

Nevermind that she was hiding in the house, curtains drawn, leaving her in the dark save the lamp on by the sofa.

It had been a busy few days, and she was behind on her correspondence. She could see the stack of mail on the coffee table where she had left it the day before. Perhaps it would serve well to attempt to make a dent in the pile until Charles arrived.

She worked her way through the stack, letter by letter, newspaper by newspaper, magazine by magazine. And then it all came rushing back as her eyes ran across the headline of the Daily Mirror from the day before.

A rubbish tabloid that deserved the incinerator, Charles had told her more than once. And she agreed, but it had always been fun to read the latest gossip from the rag as a teen.

It was fun until she was the headline. “The Royal Tiff: but the stag prince stays quiet,” followed by “Charles was very cross with me says Lady Diana,” with a picture of her and Charles at the garden party days before front and center.

Perhaps that article wouldn’t have been enough to push her over the edge, but she glanced back at the coffee table and the tabloid underneath it with an unflattering picture of her and a headline about her weight.

She stared at it for a moment and then pressed her fists against her eyes, the tears coming hot and fast. God, she was so stupid running her mouth with reporters nearby. Charles was going to be furious with her for messing up yet again.

She couldn’t do this. She wasn’t cut out for it, wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t political enough.

Princess? More like a fool in a ball gown.

How could she want to run so much and yet so desperately need to stay? How could she love him so much, feel like cutting him out of her life would hurt even more than running away, and be more incredibly miserable at that moment than she’d ever felt in her life?

How could the solution also be the problem?

Her legs curled up in front of her, head resting on her knees as she squeezed as tightly into a ball as she could, pressed into the corner of the sofa. And her darling Charles chose that exact moment to enter, sending her into a new flurry of sobs as she was caught falling apart for the second time that day.

The only thing worse than her realizing she wasn’t cut out for this was him thinking it too.

He said nothing, just crossed the room, sitting awkwardly next to her on the couch. She could smell his cologne, the scent that felt like home, and she craved his warmth, but she could no more ask that of him after all but telling a reporter they’d had an argument than she could ask him to leap with joy about it.

It was no mystery what she was crying about; the tabloids were discarded right beside her, and she heard them rumple as he picked them up. Charles sighed, and her spine stiffened as she turned, still refusing to lift her head from her knees and look at him. He was probably going to yell, and she deserved it.

But he didn’t. Instead, after thirty seconds of silence, a warm hand slipped over her back, his arm encircling her and his other hand landing on her shoulder. He pulled her into him, but she resisted until his hand came to her head, and he tugged more forcefully, her body collapsing in a heap against his broad torso, her head in the crook between his shoulder and chest. She sobbed more loudly than she had ever let herself in front of him, her tears soaking into the crisp cotton of his shirt.

She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t survive being his wife if it would look like tabloid after tabloid and guarding every thought, action, and word. And yet she wouldn’t survive not marrying him either.

He was the stars in her sky, and it would be pitch dark without him. Unbearable.

“I can’t let you do this,” he whispered.

“No,” she begged. “Please. Don’t.”

“It’s destroying you, darling, and I’m the last person in the world who is going to know how to put you back together.”

It might be true. Nothing about him knew how to comfort another person, draw them in for a hug, reassure them. And yet…she was in his arms at that very moment, proving he may, in fact, be more capable of it than he thought.

“I have to call it off, Di.”

“No.”

Her fingers clamped around his shirt, drawing him even closer. And despite his words, he tilted her head up and pressed his lips to hers.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know I messed up. I’ll do better. I can do this.”

“Can you?” he asked, his voice skeptical as he brushed her tears away.

“I want to try. If you’re with me, I can do it.”

He shook his head, looking away. “I don’t know if I can be enough for you. You need–”

“What?”

“You need someone who can be more emotionally available. I don’t know how…”

“You’re doing it right now,” she assured him, surprised to hear him voice an insecurity. He didn’t seem to have a single one from the outside looking in. She buried her head against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

He sighed heavily. “I love you.”

“Do you?” she said drily.

Charles tensed under her weight, and she thought she heard his heart skip a beat.

“I do. I know you’ve been doubting that since…well…”

She pulled herself out of his arms. “You can say her name. It’s not as if I don’t know.”

He stared at her.

“Say it. Camilla.”

His eyes watched her warily. “Diana, perhaps you’re too on edge for this conversation.”

“On edge?” She stood to her feet. “I wonder…what with being followed all morning at your match, gossip rags publishing private conversations, and others commenting on my imperfections, and with the man I love saying he wants to call off our wedding…what do you expect of me to feel?”

He held up a hand to stop her. “First, I don’t want to call off the wedding.”

“You just said–”

“No, I said I will if it’s going to destroy you, not because I want to but because I can’t stand the thought of you being miserable.”

“Or perhaps you’re looking for a way out to be with your darling Gladys.”

“That would be pretty stupid considering she’s married to someone else, wouldn’t it?”

She noted he didn’t deny loving Camilla and didn’t correct her calling that woman “his darling.”

“But if she weren’t married…you’d marry her?”

“What exactly are you poking at? It’s not as if that’s something to waste time thinking about. I can’t change the past.”

“But marriages can end. If she…if they divorced?”

“You think the Prince of Wales could marry a divorced woman?”

“So what…I’m the replacement because you can’t have her?”

“No, you can’t replace something you’re entirely different than. The two of you are night and day.”

Different? Couldn’t even compare? Then how the hell was she supposed to believe he could ever love her like he did Camilla?

Flashes of their sweat-sheened skin pressed desperately together, his hands and lips exploring her, swept through her mind. Is that what he had been doing? Comparing? Realizing she fell dramatically short? All while she was blindly convinced they were madly in love?

Nausea washed over her like a tidal wave, swirling around inside her like a storm-tossed sea. Her eyes closed, her hand going to her belly, and she could practically feel the blood rushing to her head.

A warm hand grabbed hers, and she looked down at him where he sat on the couch, worried eyes looking up at her.

“Diana?”

“Will you ever—” she swallowed. “Ever love me like you love her?”

He stood, his hands going to her waist, tugging her hips toward his. “No. I love you entirely differently.”

Her teary eyes looked into his, searching as she took shallow breaths.

“This takes us back to the other question…is that enough for you?” he asked. “Am I enough for you? Am I enough for you to put up with the rest of it?”

“Am I enough for you?”

“I’m not the one that needs to be interrogated right now. I’m signed up for this life, no matter what. The question we’re coming back to is if I’m going to be enough for you or are you out?”

“I’m not out,” she told him.

“Are you certain? The next time you are asked that question, you’ll be standing in Westminster. And that–” he pointed at the tabloids. “That will never end.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m in.”

“So am I,” he nodded.

“And you’ll let her go?”

He chewed his lip. “My future has you in it.”

It wasn’t an answer, and in the years to come, she would remember and overthink all of those evasive non-answers, but in that moment, she accepted it because his lips pressed against hers with that same passion that caused her thoughts to mercifully stop in their tracks.

Five days later, the first morning of her honeymoon, when she saw the headline of the July 28th edition of The Sun, she locked the bathroom door behind her, determined to keep Charles from seeing just how much falling apart she was capable of doing.

15 October 1988

Diana’s arms were crossed over her chest as they drove, watching the grey skies and colorful fall foliage pass by, silence reigning over the car. The boys hadn’t spoken since their parent’s voices had grown tense, and Diana could not blame them. Her husband wasn’t the only one who had borne the brunt of her negative emotions that day.

She felt herself growing nauseous again, a mixture of car sickness, the hormones racing through her body, and the tension of her mood. She knew she had only a moment or two to regain her composure before she was in front of his family. She needed to do what her husband needed her to desperately do at that moment: to pull herself together and be strong.

She took in and let out a long, cleansing breath of air, feeling Charles’ eyes on her as she did so. Then she reached her hand across the console and set it on top of his, her thumb rubbing over his knuckles as she sought to make eye contact with him. All at once, their eyes met, and her own filled with tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’ve been horrible.”

“The situation is horrible. I don’t blame you for being frustrated. I am, too. But I’m doing the best I know to do to take care of you, Diana.”

“I know,” she nodded. “I love you. So much.”

He smiled deeply and genuinely. “I’m glad to hear it. I love you too.”

“And…even if I never get better about having the media so near and in my face, I want to answer a question you asked me long ago.”

“What question?” his brow rose.

“You, my darling husband, are enough.”

Recognition crossed his face. “Enough to put up with the rest of it?”

“More than enough.”