●▬▬▬▬๑۩۩๑▬▬▬▬▬●▬▬▬▬๑۩۩๑▬▬▬▬▬●

KENSINGTON PALACE

Ana stood in her office, holding a carefully sealed envelope in one hand, her husband's middle name, "Konstantin," written on the front in her delicate handwriting. In the other hand, she held a small, neatly wrapped gift, its purpose as personal as the letter. The thought of Andreas finding these—perhaps mid-journey, perhaps during a quiet moment—had brought her a fleeting sense of peace.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

"Come in," she called, straightening slightly.

Her valet entered with a slight bow. "You asked to see me, ma'am?"

"Yes," Ana replied, holding out the letter and the gift. "I wanted to leave these where my husband might find them. Perhaps in his luggage?"

The valet hesitated briefly. "His luggage travels separately, ma'am. I would suggest placing them in his briefcase."

Ana nodded, her decision immediate. "Of course. Well, let me know when the coast is clear."

The valet inclined his head. "Actually, now would be an opportune time, ma'am. The Duke is with his tailor and afterward has plans to join Commander Parker and the Duke of Edinburgh at the Lunch Club."

"Yes, Thursday," Ana murmured, as if reminding herself. "Of course. Thank you."

She dismissed him with a nod before exiting her office. Her heels clicked softly against the polished floors as she navigated the familiar corridors of Kensington Palace. Staff she passed offered polite greetings.

"Ma'am."

"Good afternoon, ma'am."

She acknowledged them with a slight nod, her thoughts singularly focused. Her pace quickened as she approached Andreas's private office. Upon entering, she paused briefly at the threshold, surveying the room. His desk was meticulously organized—papers aligned, pens placed neatly in their holder, the scent of leather and faint cologne lingering in the air.

Spotting the briefcase, Ana walked over and unlatched it. She slipped the gift inside first, nestling it among the documents. Then, holding the letter between her fingers, she moved to place it in the same compartment.

Her hand brushed against something unfamiliar—a photograph tucked beneath a loose page. Curious, her fingers paused. Then, with deliberate caution, she slid the photograph out.

The image was clear: a woman, elegantly posed, her expression warm yet unfamiliar. Ana's breath caught, her stomach tightening. For a brief moment, she simply stared, the photograph feeling heavier than it should in her hands.

With precise movements, she returned the picture to its original position, ensuring everything appeared untouched. The letter followed the gift into the briefcase, its placement careful, deliberate. She closed the briefcase, fastening the latch with a soft click, and stood back.

Her composure remained intact as she left the office, her pace measured, her expression unreadable. But as she walked through the palace halls, the image of the photograph lingered, seared into her thoughts.

LATER

Dinner was lively, at least for Andreas. He sat at the head of the table, animated and engaged, seemingly oblivious to the quiet distance in Ana's demeanor. His excitement was palpable, spilling over into his conversation as he relished the thought of his upcoming departure.

"It's a hell of a gamble," Andreas said, gesturing with his wine glass. "I hope you told her so."

Ana blinked, her thoughts elsewhere. "What?" she asked absently, her voice soft but distracted.

"Elizabeth, to the Prime Minister," Andreas clarified, setting his glass down and leaning forward slightly. "Pulling the pilots out of the Suez Canal."

Ana straightened in her chair, her hands resting delicately in her lap. "How do you know he even intends to?" she questioned, her tone measured.

Andreas grinned knowingly. Ana sighed, reaching for her water glass with a composed air. "Oh no, don't tell me. Contacts from your lunch club?"

"There's no need to say it like that," Andreas replied, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his voice.

Ana placed the glass back on the table, folding her hands neatly. "Well, information like that could only have come from inside Cabinet," she said pointedly.

Andreas leaned back, clearly enjoying himself. "Or high up in the Foreign Office. Or the intelligence services," he added with a wave of his hand. "Our members come from all corners, darling."

Ana's gaze remained steady, though her tone cooled. "I'm still not entirely persuaded that this club is a good thing," she said evenly.

"It keeps me busy. It keeps me informed. It keeps me sane," Andreas replied, his voice rising slightly with enthusiasm. "It's a very good thing."

He reached for his wine again, taking a sip before launching into an explanation. "Would you like to know why navigating the canal is so difficult?"

Ana glanced at him briefly, her expression impassive. "Perhaps another time," she said softly, her tone dismissive.

Unperturbed, Andreas forged ahead. He picked up a knife and a fork, holding them upright like markers on a map. "People think it's just the water pressure," he began. "But hydraulics are only the half of it. The canal is narrow." He placed the fork down on the left side of his plate. "The ships are vast, great big things," he continued, setting the knife on the opposite side.

Using a spoon, he dragged it along the edge of his plate to mimic a vessel. "The tide is diurnal one end," he explained, pausing dramatically, "seasonal at the other. The wind whips in off the desert." He tilted the spoon precariously. "Your bow's always to the weather bank."

Ana watched silently, her expression unreadable as he continued. "The pilots have to track a steady course for the best part of a hundred miles," Andreas concluded, triumphantly setting the spoon upright.

As he leaned back, a footman stepped forward, removing Andreas's glasses. He frowned, momentarily startled. "Excuse me," he said. "What are you doing? Put them back."

The footman didn't respond, retreating with the glasses in hand. Andreas chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "They're my tankers," he muttered, more to himself than to Ana. "It takes them seven years to learn how to do it."

Ana pushed her chair back quietly and rose to her feet. "Where are you going?" Andreas asked, swiveling in his seat, still smiling.

"I'm tired," Ana replied.

Andreas leaned forward, watching her walk away. "It's our last night in five months," he called after her, his tone tinged with disbelief. But Ana didn't respond, leaving him alone with his enthusiasm and his untouched wine.

NEXT DAY - AIRPORT

The interior of the plane was pristine, Andreas stepped aboard, his polished shoes clicking softly against the floor. A steward greeted him with a bow.

"Your Royal Highness," the man said, his tone professional yet warm.

"Welcome aboard, sir," another chimed in. Andreas nodded in acknowledgment. "Hello. Good to see you," he replied as he stepped deeper into the cabin.

He turned, his gaze landing on Ana and their four-year-old twins, William and Henry, who stood just inside the doorway. Ana held their hands firmly, her face calm but betraying hints of tension if one looked closely enough. Andreas approached them, his tone softening.

"Right, well. I suppose we'd better say goodbye properly," he said, crouching slightly to address William first.

Ana gave William a gentle push forward, urging him toward his father. "William," she said quietly, her voice steady but detached.

William hesitated, glancing briefly at his mother before extending his small hand toward his father in a gesture that mirrored the formality he'd been taught. Andreas looked down at the boy, then up at Ana, who averted her gaze, her eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

Andreas crouched further, his tone shifting. "Hm. We're not in front of the cameras now, are we, William?"

The boy shook his head, his voice small. "No."

Andreas smiled faintly and opened his arms. "Come here," he said, pulling William into a tight hug. "Be a good boy. Look after Henry."

"Yes, I will," William replied, his voice muffled against his father's shoulder.

Andreas turned to Henry, who didn't need encouragement. The boy stepped forward on his own, his small hands reaching up for his father. Andreas leaned, meeting him halfway. "Kiss," Andreas said softly, and Henry obliged, planting a kiss on his father's cheek before smiling up at him.

Ana's voice cut in, quiet but firm. "Come on, darling," she said, reaching for their hands. The twins turned, walking with her toward the nanny waiting just beyond the doorway.

A steward stepped forward again, nodding politely. "When you're ready, sir."

"Thank you," Andreas said, straightening his jacket.

Ana turned back toward him, her hands clasped in front of her. "Right, well, uh..." she began, her voice faltering slightly before she found her composure. "We won't keep you. Have a safe journey."

Instead of the customary kiss, Ana gave the faintest curtsy, the formality of the gesture hung awkwardly in the air, a stark reminder of the chasm growing between them. Andreas nodded, his expression unreadable, before stepping further into the plane.

Mike appeared at his side, his usual irreverent energy cutting through the tension. "Are you all right?" he asked as they settled into their seats.

"Splendid," Andreas replied curtly, though the word carried little conviction.

Mike chuckled, pulling a newspaper from his briefcase. "I tell you, the idiot that came up with the idea of marriage has a lot to answer for."

Andreas didn't respond immediately. Instead, he opened his briefcase, his hands moving methodically as he shifted papers aside. The journal Ana had gifted him sat neatly at the top. He paused, his fingers brushing over the leather cover before pulling it out. Underneath lay the letter she had written, its envelope marked with his middle name: Konstantin.

He unfolded it carefully, his eyes scanning the familiar handwriting. The words, "Always remember you have a family,"stared back at him. For a moment, his grip tightened on the paper, the sentiment hitting harder than he'd anticipated.

Mike, oblivious to his friend's introspection, leaned back with a grin. "Well, you know what they say... 'Marriage is a wonderful institution,' but let's face it, who wants to live in an institution?"

Andreas folded the letter neatly, sliding it back into the briefcase. He didn't respond, his thoughts too tangled to entertain Mike's quip. Instead, he sat back, his gaze fixed on the window.

—————————————————————————————————————————

Ana and Margaret were riding along the familiar path near the estate, the soft clip-clop of their horses' hooves the only sound between them. Ana, steady and composed on Celeste, had called her sister early that morning, hoping for a peaceful ride, but the conversation had quickly taken a different turn.

"We started at Mirabelle, and then went to the 400, and then ended up at Les Ambassadeurs," Margaret said casually, her voice slightly slurred from the remnants of a night out.

Ana raised an eyebrow, glancing over at her sister. "Who's 'we'?"

"Just Colin, Johnny, Judy Montagu," Margaret replied, her tone indifferent.

Ana's gaze sharpened. "Margot?"

"Hm," Margaret hummed, offering no further explanation.

Ana sighed, her grip on the reins tightening. "Is it possible that you're still drunk?"

Margaret let out a small laugh, her voice light but tinged with the aftermath of too much alcohol. "Do you know, I think I might be, slightly."

Ana shook her head, her tone firm but concerned. "You need to be more careful."

"Yes, quite right," Margaret drawled, clearly not taking it too seriously. "Grain and grape don't mix."

"No," Ana said, her voice hardening. "I meant about where you're seen. And with whom. You're drinking far more than you used to."

Margaret didn't flinch. Instead, she turned her gaze ahead, almost defiantly. "Why do you think that is? Because I'm unhappier than I used to be. And why is that? Because I am still unmarried. And why is that? Oh, because you denied me my perfect match."

Ana's expression softened, but there was a trace of frustration in her voice. "That's not fair. As your sister, she would have been perfectly happy for you to marry Peter."

Margaret scoffed, the sound dripping with disdain. "What?" she said with disbelief, her eyes flashing at Ana before looking away. "I'm supposed to take advice from her on matters of the heart?"

Ana was quiet for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as she pressed on. "It wasn't Lilibet. It was the Crown that forbade it. Not to mention the fact that he was a little old—not really from the right—"

"Don't you dare say 'background,'" Margaret interjected sharply, her tone cutting through the air.

Ana held her ground. "Well... I just think it might have all come back to haunt you."

Margaret let out a bitter laugh. "What, did Philip's Nazi sisters come back to haunt him? Or his lunatic mother? Or his womanizing, bankrupt father?"

Ana's face tightened, the past hanging between them like a thick cloud. "How is he?" Her sister asked quietly, wanting to change the subject.

"Who? Andreas?" Anastasia asked, her tone flat.

"Yes," Margaret responded, her voice cool.

Ana hesitated before replying, her thoughts momentarily drifting. "He's fine...I think."

Margaret smirked, glancing at Ana with an almost mocking look. "What, you don't know? Where is he now?"

"Ceylon. No, Malaya," Ana answered. Margaret smirked again. "You don't know that either."

Ana's lips tightened, but she kept her voice steady. "No. Is that bad?"

Margaret shivered slightly, more for effect than actual cold. "It's just a little odd. A little remote. A little chilly. Doesn't he write to you?"

Ana's face remained neutral, though her mind churned with discomfort. "He's not much of a writer. Neither of us is."

Margaret scoffed again, her judgment clear. "Mike telephoned from Mombasa to say they arrived safely."

Margot nodded, keeping her gaze forward. "Who's Mike?"

"Philip's private secretary."

"Oh, yes. That little Australian." Margaret's tone was sarcastic, as if the subject bored her.

"Yes," Ana said, her voice flat.

Margaret turned her attention to her sister. "What do you make of him?"

"I'm not sure I make anything of him," Ana replied, her voice calm but wary. "He's Mike. The children play together now. Andy says he'd be lost without him."

Margaret's smirk deepened, but there was something colder in it now. "Oh, just as long as he isn't lost because of him."

Ana frowned, not understanding. "What does that mean?"

"It means he's got something of a reputation."

"Who, Mike?" Ana asked, a hint of confusion in her voice.

"Yes, Mike," Margaret said, lowering her voice, almost conspiratorially. "Isn't he thick as thieves with that sinister osteopath?"

Ana tensed at the mention of the osteopath. "What osteopath?"

Margaret's voice dropped lower. "The one who knows everyone. Always arranging gentlemen's weekends here and there with... actresses and... ballerinas and..."

"Waitresses," Ana finished, her voice steady but her heart racing.

Margaret's eyes flickered with surprise, but she didn't let it show for long. "Yes. How did you know that?"

Ana didn't respond. She nudged Celeste forward, urging the horse into a faster pace, the motion a quiet reflection of her growing unease.

❥๑━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━๑❥