***An American woman discovers she is the secret child of Prince Charles, making her the heir to the British throne.***
Victoria Clewell is disabled and can't work, so she has plenty of time to indulge in her favorite hobby: following the British Ro...
Maximilian Chaddick, reporter for the London Daily Sun, was despondent. He was due to meet with his editor in two hours. Yet again, he had no story. Well, he had some stories: Angry Widow Depends Recompense for Spoiled Potato Garden. Residents Complain Over Increased Airplane Noise at Heathrow. Fifteen-Year-Old Boy Scores Top Marks on GCSEs.
The boy scholar was his best bet, he figured. Young genius? Future potential? That was a great human interest story, right? Max could interview his parents, friends. Did he intend to go to Oxford or Cambridge, or would he rebel and attend the University of Southampton or something? Ah, the intrigue. Max rolled his eyes.
Right now, Shonda Hayworth would be in there, proposing some new eye-popping story to the senior editor. She always got the best assignments. Just last week she broke the news of the Prime Minister's affair to the world. Once Max had asked for a premium story, only to be met with, "Show me a little imagination first. Pitch your own stories. Then I'll give you a top assignment."
Max nearly jumped out of his chair as his cell phone rang. He loved his new 'Empire Strikes Back' ringtone, but bloody hell, he needed to turn the volume down. He scrambled to get the phone out of his pocket. "Chaddick here."
"Maximilian Chaddick?" said a muffled female voice on the other end.
"Yes," Max said irritably. Didn't he just say that? "To whom am I speaking?"
A pause. "I can't tell you. All I can say is... I'm an old friend of Petra Clewell."
"I don't know who that is," said Max.
Another pause. "No, I don't suppose you do. No one does."
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For one long, delicious second, hope bloomed in Max's chest. A mysterious woman who nobody knew about! Maybe she was a cold-case murder victim, or a spy working for Russia, or...The woman on the other line took a deep breath. "This relates to the Royal family."
And just like that, Max deflated. Not another kook who wanted to comment on Prince George's birthday photos or the Duchess of Sussex's parenting style. So much for his big break. "I don't cover the Royal family," Max said shortly. "You want Sarah Moore. Here, I'll transfer you." Then he remembered he was talking on his personal cell phone, not the office one.
"Wait!" said the woman. "It has to be you."
Max frowned suspiciously. "Why?"
"Your story last year, about the corruption on the Durham City Council. You refused to name your sources, even when they threatened to bring you to court."
Max leaned back in his chair. Yes, that was a coup, that corruption story. If only it was about a large city, not a backwater like Durham. "That's true. I don't name my sources if that is their request. But really, ma'am, I don't have time for this. I have a deadline."
"Trust me. This is bigger than anything you've ever covered."
I highly doubt that, thought Max. He sighed. "Fine. What have you got for me?"
And then she began to speak. And speak, and speak. Max listened with growing incredulity, the blood pounding through his veins. Oh, my God. Oh, my bloody God.
Forget whatever story Shonda Hayworth was pitching. This one was going to rock the world.
