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The morning mist hung thick over the old stone walls of Kensington, but the chill inside Catherine’s heart was heavier than the fog outside. At the breakfast table, William sat stiffly, the Times crushed in his grip, the paper groaning under the weight of his frustration. Across its front page, bold black letters cut like steel: Prince George to leave Britain. A new role for the future. No sources. No evidence. Only insinuation sharpened into a weapon. Catherine knew at once—this was no careless rumor. It was the first shot in a calculated strike, aimed at what mattered most to them.
Beyond the tall glass windows, London seemed unchanged, carriages of traffic rolling steadily through autumn streets. But within the palace, the game had shifted. Their 12-year-old son had just been placed on a chessboard as a pawn. Catherine’s gaze met William’s, his deep blue eyes carved with anger and suspicion, and one question echoed in her mind: would they sacrifice their family to shield the crown, or protect their boy at any cost?
She set her teacup gently on the polished table, her hand trembling slightly. “What’s wrong, love?” she asked softly, trying to peer over his shoulder. Without answering, William slid the paper toward her. The headline leapt at her again. George, still a boy, curious, tender, unready for the storm of duty, had been thrust into a narrative of exile and reform. Catherine’s blood rushed hot. “This is absurd. Who would write such a thing? And why?”
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William moved to the misty window, his voice tight but calm. “This isn’t random. Every word was chosen. I’ve seen this game before. Someone is stirring the waters, testing us.” The shadow of Diana lingered in the room—the memory of her torment by the press, hounded into tragedy. Catherine placed a hand on his shoulder, her voice breaking with maternal fear. “But George… he reads the papers now. If he sees this—if his friends ask—he’ll doubt himself.” William took her hand firmly. “I won’t let it go that far. But we’ll need someone who knows how to fight these battles. I’ll call Anne.”
By midday, Princess Anne had arrived. At seventy, she still carried herself like a soldier, sharp-eyed and unflinching in her navy suit. William explained, Catherine adding her fears. Anne skimmed the paper, her expression unreadable, before folding it neatly. “This was no accident,” she said evenly. “It’s a test. Stay silent, and the attacks will grow. More stories, more rumors, until people believe George isn’t fit to inherit. This is politics, not journalism.”
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“Who would target him?” William pressed. Anne’s lips curved faintly. “Closer than you think. Likely within our own circle. I’ll watch. But you two—protect George. And never let the press see fear.” With that, she left, her presence as steady as iron. Catherine turned to William, her eyes pleading. “We will protect him, won’t we?” William’s grip tightened. “Not just protect him. We’ll uncover who’s behind this—and make them regret it.”
But already, the rumor was spreading. On social media, hashtags questioning George’s place in Britain were gathering thousands of reposts. And somewhere in London, cloaked in quiet satisfaction, a figure turned the pages of a carefully prepared dossier. The game had begun.
Days later, at Windsor Castle, the family gathered for a reception cloaked as formality but designed by Anne as reconnaissance. Chandeliers glimmered, glasses clinked, polite laughter echoed—but Anne’s eyes hunted through the crowd, searching for cracks. And then she found Camilla. Draped in silk, smile polished, her eyes glinted with calculation. Sensing Anne’s stare, she drifted closer, her words sweet but sharpened. “The royal family needs a fresh breeze, don’t you think?”
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Anne’s reply was steel. “The royal family needs stability. Rumors about George don’t help.”
Camilla’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh, just a friendly word with the press. The public likes new stories.”
The admission hung in the air like a poisoned dart. Anne’s heart hammered, but her face remained stone. “Be careful, Camilla,” she said quietly. “Stories can turn on their masters.” Camilla laughed lightly, as though nothing had passed between them, and drifted back into the crowd. But Anne had heard enough. The enemy was no longer faceless.
Meanwhile, William’s anger only hardened. Late one evening, he met secretly with James, an old journalist who had once aided Diana. In the amber gloom of a Soho pub, James slid him a folder—names of commentators, influencers, academics—all subtly echoing Camilla’s narrative of modernization. Behind conferences, behind op-eds, her influence spread like a net. William’s hands curled into fists as he thought of George, sleeping peacefully at Kensington, oblivious to the schemes threatening his future.
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“This is bigger than rumors,” James said quietly. “She’s building a movement.”
William’s jaw tightened. “Then we’ll dismantle it.”
Back at Kensington, Catherine watched him silently, her hand on his shoulder, sharing his resolve. Neither spoke the words, but both carried the same thought—George must be shielded, no matter the cost.
The campaign against them escalated. A conference at Oxford, funded quietly by Camilla, would argue for a “modernized monarchy.” Commentators online hinted at the crown’s need for a fresh face. And still, Catherine stood firm. When Camilla invited her to Clarence House for tea, Catherine went, knowing it was no friendly gesture.
The room was staged with charm, but the tension beneath was suffocating. Camilla leaned close, her words smooth but venomous: “Don’t you think George would be happier elsewhere? Away from all this weight?”
Catherine’s pulse hammered, but she did not waver. “George belongs here. England is his home,” she said, her voice calm, her eyes unblinking.
A flicker of surprise crossed Camilla’s face. The mask cracked, if only slightly. Catherine had held her ground.
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