Two-hundred and nineteen thousand— That's how many hours it has taken to get to the inevitable dreaded moment— a moment of despair.

During my childhood, I spent countless hours exploring the vast gardens and hidden rooms of the magnificent manor. It was a world of endless wonder and excitement, for a kid, where every corner held a new adventure. The privilege of having the latest fashionable clothing and receiving a top-notch education added to the enchantment of my upbringing. An enchantment presumed by those looking in, an enchantment viewed to me as a disservice. By the age of five, I was already considered bilingual, a testament to the extraordinary opportunities that surrounded me. Growing up among influential individuals, including parliament members and future leaders, painted my world with shades of prestige and influence. As the seasons changed, so did our abode, and one of my fondest memories was residing in Hillsborough Castle, nestled in the picturesque County Down. The sprawling 100-acre gardens became my playground, where I would lose myself in nature's embrace. Even though my security team might have groaned at my endless playfulness, those moments of freedom and exploration shaped the essence of my childhood.

Picture this: a glorious manor with gardens that stretch as far as the eye can see. Every nook and cranny of those rooms held secrets waiting to be discovered. The secrets that those rooms hold are rarely spoken of, nor have they been fully disclosed.  There are hidden nooks and crannies, stumbling upon forgotten artefacts and family secrets. Some rooms have secret passageways, concealed behind bookshelves or ornate tapestries. Others hold hidden compartments, revealing long-lost letters and intriguing history. The Palace is like stepping into a world of intrigue and adventure, where every corner whispers stories of the past, both good and bad. Secrets that slowly reveal themselves in the worst of lights.

Then there's Windsor Castle, established on an immense hill next to the River Thames, 20 miles west of London. My time spent at Windsor is normally during Easter, during Royal Ascot and the Order of the Garter in June, and during Christmas, depending on my parents ' schedules. Windsor is old, Windsor Castle is the oldest and largest inhabited castle in the world, to be quite frank, it creeps me out. There are over 10 royal monarchs buried in St. George's Chapel, which is located in the Lower Ward of the castle and it bothers me every time I have to stay there. There are dungeons at Windsor Castle that were used as bomb shelters during WWII. It's hard to believe there was a time when the empires were under attack and  Windsor stood tall with its war chambers. Chambers that were also used for torture.

Everything is mapped out on the palace grounds, everything besides the war chambers. Not many people are aware of the chambers, only the King, Queen and security personnel know where they are. I know by default, a story I will not dive into right now.

The role of the chambers in facilitating torture has been neglected for centuries and overlooked by many. Torture was used to extract confessions from those accused of crimes years ago, they were also used as hostages to barter amongst other nobles. Torture was more highly organised and more widespread during the Spanish Inquisition times. Torture is what we are going through but in a more modern era.

Prisoners could be tied to chairs and cut or pierced with implements, they could be stretched on a rack or submerged in water, and some methods even included exposing a victim to the elements or making use of rats.

Despite the endless travel, the odd childhood perspectives, and the random knowledge of the castles I have collected over the years, things have been relatively tranquil and extraordinary-ish.

Up until now...

I am surrounded by members of royalty, including dukes, princes, princesses, duchesses, and baronesses. They have all gathered here at my mother and father's request, particularly my mother who enjoys hosting informal meetings in the palace. While many people find joy in hosting events, I am not one of them. I have been involved in hosting events since I was a child. I remember sneaking away from the maids and staff to peer over the stairs and admire everyone's beautiful attire. I used to dream of the day when I could be the centre of attention. However, now that I am in that position, I long for simpler times when I could run freely in the gardens without worrying about what hat was appropriate for each occasion. I know what is about to happen, I may be naive, but I know all too well how this is about to go. "Kensington Palace can now publicly announce additional details about the forthcoming tour of Belgium this spring. We now know that the tour will begin in April. The visit to Belgium will allow us to continue a relationship between two Royal Families by meeting The King and Queen. This tour, coming shortly will also allow, Princess Anastasia Annette, Duchess of Edinburgh, to begin her royal duties as soon to be, her Royal Highness, Queen of England."

And there it is, the epitome of a surprise welcoming to my reign.

I stare at my Father as he announces the plans for the next few weeks, plans that are about to change my life. By my father, the King of England, expressing his not directly worded and unknown, abdication means that I will be reining sooner than I had thought, sooner than I had wanted. I thought I had years to go. Most Kings rule until their deathbed. I stand statue-like, unaware of how it is deemed okay to announce the news without telling me first. It isn't even direct, I have to read between the lines to see what he is doing. I am sure they had to go through the Kensington Palace publicist to do this.

Then again, the King outranks everyone and can deem anything acceptable.

I hadn't intended to begin my royal duties so soon. I don't want the duties of Queen at all. I don't want to be Queen, I thought I made that relatively clear. My Father was misguided by my responses and unwilling nature to detour this moment with every moment possible.

Everyone has this impression that having a royal title is a blessing and an achievement everybody who isn't born into it desires. Every girl dreams of becoming a princess and wearing the tiara. Still, royalty isn't about carrying a crown and parading around in lovely gowns that cost more than the average apparel. Being born into royalty and not having a typically normal life, in my opinion, is more of a curse than a blessing.

As someone with a title, I've had to mature faster than most. My tea parties were not like those of other children; mine included teddy bears and a security guard keeping a close eye on me. I'm held to higher standards and there are days when I wish those expectations would lessen. I don't want to follow royal protocol for every occasion or ensure that my hair is perfectly brushed for the Queen's Sunday morning breakfast. I don't want to constantly be shadowed by a security team or use secret tunnels to move around the palace unnoticed. I never asked for my title, and while it comes with power, I don't want to be defined by it. Unfortunately, I have no choice but to represent the family name within the monarchy.

It would have been more considerate to inform me in another manner, but the king and queen felt this was appropriate. Sometimes, they forget that their roles as monarchs should not interfere with their duties as parents.

After my father's speech, the guests mingle and discuss various topics. I often overhear interesting conversations, but amidst the glamour and formality, it can be difficult to find genuine connections.

I smile graciously as my father and Uncle come towards me. For a moment, I think about travelling in the opposite direction, but I know I can't, it would be too informal and cause too much of a scene.

God forbid the princess ever makes a scene.

"Anastasia," my father grins, giving me his signalled glare that is a good indication that he wants me to stay and not run off like my thoughts want me to.

"Father," I respond courteously, my eyes side-eyeing towards my security guard who is observing intently as he stands with his back to the wall, his hands folded in front of him as he stands tall with nystagmic eyes. I swear his eyes never miss a beat.

"Princess Anastasia, it's an honour to see you again," Syrus smiles sarcastically.

Syrus isn't the typical Uncle who chased me around the fields and played hide and seek— Well, he did— But it was not accompanied by a doting uncle full of love for his niece. It was more hatred and disgust. His hide and seek included leaving me hidden in a storage room for an hour.

I hold back the heavy sigh that's desiring to escape my lips and I force myself to proffer him a genuine smile, "It's nice to see you." I lie through my teeth to save myself from having to listen to my father express his disappointment in me.

"I hear you're becoming Queen soon." He mutters bitterly.

"She is, and every Queen needs a King by her side." My Father presses.

"Actually—" I begin, but I stop when I see my father's eyes narrow to crinkled stilts and his lips purse into a fine line. I am forced to bite my tongue on my true thoughts, "Actually, every good Queen needs a well-fitted crown," I half-heartedly joke, attempting to recover from the fact I want to tell him a Queen doesn't require a King, it's merely just suggested a Queen has a King.

My Uncle chuckles, "I'm sure they'll see fit to your crowning needs." ... "I think you are doing fine to stay single."

"Mhm," I hum, unsure of what more to say.

I swallow hard the moment my father and Uncle walk away and I finally have a minute to breathe and process the things that have occurred.

I make my way around the crowd of individuals and wander out of the ballroom area, I must escape. If I flea now, I could probably leave the Palace before I am stopped. "Princess," I hear my name being called but I don't want to turn around and face the music. Damnit, he is always on my fucking heels. "Princess," the voice again summons and I can't help but disregard him.

"Princess Anastasia, stop right there," the tone of voice my bodyguard uses causes me to stop, and it's not out of fear or because of the fact he only has to say one word before the whole palace is in lockdown and I can't move. It's because I know that tone of voice anywhere, it's sincere and it's laced with nothing but concern.

I turn around on my heel as my bodyguard shifts his eyes around, "Where are you going?" He knows exactly where I am going— anywhere but here.

I lift my shoulders into a shrug. I don't have a destination— it is more so me hammering my heels against the marble flooring until I find some common ground where I can ultimately breathe again. "You know you can't roam the palace right now."

I don't think he understands I do not care about protocol and the boundaries inflicted upon me.

"Yes," I sigh, "I know the rules and the protocol and the safety precautions," I murmur with a heavy breath. Fuck the precautions. Fuck this monarchy.

His eyes relax, and he glimpses around to make sure we are alone before he clears his throat, "What's wrong?"

I inhale a deep breath and blow out slowly, "I can't talk about it here," I respond in a whisper, my eyes already beginning to gloss over as the rippling thoughts of everything hitting me all at once.

He nods and examines the area around us, "Come with me," he instructs, tenderly urging his hand to the small of my back before escorting me away.

We stay reserved as we walk a few halls and pass several doors to various quarters while he keeps his integrity and stays alert.

We stop at the all-so-familiar place of the balcony, and he opens the doors and enables me to step out before he is right behind me and closes the doors. "We aren't allowed here."

"Never stopped us before," he responds, "Everyone is down in the West Wing. This is the East, and there's a guard right below us. I'm trained, you know?"

I nod and chuckle, I am aware he is trained for a reason, the man is trained in the use of firearms and unarmed combat, advanced driving and emergency first aid as well as close protection basics; I have all faith in him. I shouldn't, but I do.

There's a reason he's my bodyguard, he's intelligent, he has swift reflexes and he knows every position of every security member in every residence of ours. Let's not forget I have seen him practising with the 9mm Glock 17 pistols— the man is more accurate than my father— and my father has quite the shot.

I take a moment to lean against the balcony railing, my gaze fixed on the gardens below. The moonlight dances on the petals of the flowers, casting a dreamlike shimmer. The tranquillity of the night envelops me for the first time, and I can't help but feel a sense of awe at the beauty that surrounds me. It's a scene that feels straight out of a fairy tale—- a fairytale that I don't want to be in.

"Congratulations on becoming Queen so soon." He is sarcastic and raises a brow, "Didn't know that was going to come up, did you? Thought I'd be told."

I shake my head, "No, I didn't. Thank you for your concern, I don't need your judgment, too."

There's too much involved with it. I don't think I can physically do this. It's easy for someone to say they want to be a Princess or a Queen because it's made out to be a glamorous lifestyle but it comes with harbouring a lot of stress and responsibilities.

I can't expect anyone to understand what's surging through my thoughts at the concept of reining a country. But I can expect him to be a little bit more understanding. We all knew the inevitable was coming,

"Anastasia, I will never fully understand this world, but—"

I cut Harry off, promptly, "There are no buts, Harry!" I raise my voice. "What do you think comes after he hands me the damn crown? A Queen who reigns alone? No. They don't want me to rule, they want to roll the stone and push me into silence."

Britain has had several monarchs through the centuries, though far more Kings than Queesn have ruled. There have been eight reigning Queens.

How many of them ruled without a King?

One. Elizabeth I, Queen of England and Ireland.

Harry grows withdrawn for a moment, his eyes fading to grey as he comes to realise just what I'm trying to tell him. Me becoming Queen abolishes mine and his relationship.

He's not royalty.

The monarch and the people wouldn't regard him as fit to be King, they don't regard me as fit to be Queen.

"Well, do you want me to propose now or later?" Harry questions in a joking way. His humour perhaps being the only thing to come to mind with this matter.

I roll my eyes, "You are not ready for that torture."

"You sure? I might have a torture kink," he responds cheekily and I shake my head.

It is over now. It was fun while it lasted.

"I guess this is where it ends," I heavily sigh, looking over at him with regret.

Regret is one hell of a hard pill to swallow. It sinks itself in the bottom of my heart, occasionally twisting like a knife, a grave reminder that wearing my heart on my sleeve and putting emotion over logic is tragic. I shouldn't have started this. I should have been wiser, and more diligent with my emotions and how I decided to spread them between us. I should have had more sense than drag him into something he cannot be accepted into.

Harry's hand falls to the small of my back, "Do I get a say in any of this?"

"No," I respond, holding back a small smile.

He chuckles, "You've lost your damn mind if you think I don't," he whispers in my ear quietly.

Before I can respond, his hand moves swiftly from its position on my back, and I feel his body shift. I glance over my shoulder to see my mother standing in the doorway, a martini glass in her hand. "Did I interrupt?" she mischievously smiles, gliding the olive off her toothpick with her teeth before indulging in the flavour of it. A stout vodka martini with an olive— her signature drink.

"Always," I respond with a smile. This woman is always lurking in the shadows, she sees everything and she knows everything— I am not fully convinced that she isn't aware of the fling between me and the security personnel.

She raises a brow before looking Harry up and down, "You're with me," she points towards him, "I don't like who's on my service. He keeps taking my drinks," she informs us.

"What makes you think I won't?" Harry questions.

"You're higher up in command, you're handsome— not stupid," my mother responds. "Chop-chop, I have a bartender waiting, and a crowd of people I need to pretend to like."

My mother is a quiet Queen consort. She is loved by everyone in the public, and she attends almost all events, but she chooses to stay quiet. She's the one who is usually sipping on gin or vodka in the corner, watching and observing. A lot of the time, dignitaries and higher-ranking officials choose to gravitate towards my father and me— they leave her alone— much to her liking, at least that is how it seems.

Why she remains so silent, I cannot say. She is a brilliant woman, one whose potential is vast enough to command a reign so formidable she would be feared across lands. Yet her quietude suggests a subtler strategy, a silence imposed not by her own choosing but by the machinations of those who fear her ascent to power.

"Come on, Princess, it's time to go back," Harry opens the door for me with a warming smile painting across his lips. He's cheerier than I am. "I'll burn this monarchy to the ground before I let it destroy us," he whispers just for us to hear. While he gets to watch my mother sip vodka and slither towards the back of the crowds undetectable by most, I get thrown into the lion's den, head first.

Will he really burn it down for me? I hope so. I would like to see it burn and end it all.

♔♔♔