“A DNA comparison, if you consent.”
The words hit harder than the photograph.
I looked at the people around us.
Hundreds of faces.
Minutes earlier, I had been an inconvenience being publicly discarded because I had no family name.
Now those same strangers were watching to see whether my blood belonged to a king.
I hated that their interest had changed so quickly.
I hated even more that part of me desperately wanted the answer.
“Yes,” I said.
Preston reached for my elbow.
“Claire, we need to speak privately.”
I stepped away before he touched me.
It was a small movement.
The cameras caught it anyway.
“No,” I said.
His eyes widened.
He lowered his voice.
“You don’t understand what’s happening.”
I almost laughed.
For years, Preston had explained rooms to me.
Which donors mattered.
Which names opened doors.
Which mistakes would embarrass him.
Which dresses were too expensive.
Which questions I should not ask at dinners.
Ten minutes earlier, he had stood on a stage and told a ballroom full of strangers that I did not belong beside him because I lacked heritage.
Now he was frightened that I might have too much of it.
“I understand exactly what happened,” I said.
“You announced our separation without telling me.”
His face reddened.
“This is not the time.”
“You chose the time.”
That ended the conversation.
The king’s security detail cleared a private suite inside the hotel.
I agreed to the comparison there, away from the cameras.
Alistair did the same.
Then came the waiting.
Preston remained downstairs because leaving would have looked worse than staying.
Lydia stayed with him for nearly half an hour.
I learned that later from footage recorded in the ballroom.
At first she stood beside him.
Then, as reporters began asking whether she had known about the planned separation announcement, she moved several feet away.
Preston attempted to restore his political composure.
He told one reporter it had been “a deeply personal marital matter.”
Another reminded him that he had announced it from a public stage with cameras present.
He stopped answering.
Upstairs, King Alistair and I sat across from each other without knowing what to call one another.
He asked about my childhood.
I told him the truth.
Church steps in Pennsylvania.
Foster homes.
A few kind people.
A few who were not.
Scholarships.
Work.
Marriage.
