The Royal Scandal | Prince William |

So It Begins

Where her words are biting his are like the dull edge of a sword. "And maybe she's not you Jac. Maybe she doesn't want to willingly let herself be forced into something."

They don't talk for the rest of the night, backs turned in bed, with him up before the sun can even rise. Despite his resistance she keeps helping with Operation Westminster, if only to spite him.

She shares everything with Philip when he comes by and insists on taking her for a turn in the gardens. "The sun works wonders," he scowls when the on-call nurse tries to tell him she needs her rest. "Pale as a ghost! Might as well bury you now."

It's a slow trek from her room to the gardens, especially with Philip refusing to let a servant join them to push her chair.

"It'll only be one day of mourning," she says as they trade notes on their bridge operations. The air whispers over her exposed arms causing her to shiver as they crawl through the garden.

Above her Philip nods in approval. "Practical, I'm of the mind that the eight days they have planned for me are pointless."

Despite it all he makes her laugh even though they're still talking about it. The sun bleeding through the thin shein of clouds helps as well, and the fragrance of the flowers makes her feel alive. It reminds her of being home, smells like her father and his store back when life was simple. How long has it been since she's sunk her hands into the earth?

Philip huffs, wiping a hand across his blemished forehead before plopping on a nearby bench. They didn't get far into the garden, barely past the rows of pink and coral roses, the stems long and springy, blowing in the wind. She won't complain from the pavement she can look out and take in the view, purples and blues speckled like paint strokes, and the greenery so lush and vibrant it blends like one singular wave. Amalia blue hydrangeas stand in perfectly round bushes in the center. All of them were planted by her father.

"A birdie said you want to be laid to rest at Frogmore." His eyes are glued to the scenery around them as he speaks, his own age and wear smoothing out in the light.

"As much as I love the idea of sitting on a shelf in the royal vault surrounded by other bodies for the rest of my days I'd prefer Frogmore."

"Because being six feet under dirt is so much better?" He asks, and the side glare she gives him only makes him laugh. "No, I understand I would wish the same, but we'll most likely be laid to rest beside our better halves."

It's a thought that festers its bitter poison in her blood until her scowl is permanent, and when she finds William in his office later that night, long past the kids' bedtime, her cheeks feel like stone. She's about to yell at him for letting Leia outside without a leash after she just got a bath, but she sees the plans spread across his desk.

"You're planning our next tour without me."

"Not like you're planning on being here." He doesn't look up as she slams the door, but when she wakes up the next morning, once again alone, there's a new bracelet on her vanity. Golden with the tiniest blue stones nestled into the metal. She wears it, but the pearl necklace that shows up the next week ends up in her jewelry box, as do the earrings the week after that. 

Never once does he say sorry, or even leave a note with some sort of explanation as to where he is, or what he's doing. It all feels like a ploy to buy her off in place of an actual apology the more extravagent each gift gets. She already feels guilty enough with the life she lives, the diamonds and gems only add more to her stress. She's not working, she doesn't deserve them, she hasn't earned them. 

She would tell Will this, but they don't tell each other anything anymore.

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