Chapter 4
The early morning light filtered gray and cold through the tall stained-glass windows of the Privy Council chamber, casting long, colored patterns across the massive oak conference table. The room was packed with the kingdom’s most senior advisors, military generals in full dress uniform, and legal experts holding thick leather-bound dossiers. The atmosphere was thick with tension, smelling of stale coffee and suppressed panic. At the head of the table sat King Edward, his expression carved from stone, flanked by the Prime Minister, whose nervous fingers tapped a relentless rhythm against the polished wood.
"The morning editions have hit the stands," the Prime Minister began without preamble, sliding a folded copy of the Times across the table toward the king. The headline screamed in bold, black letters: ROYAL FRACTURE: PRINCESS STRIKES KING ON LIVE TV. Below it was a high-resolution still of Cassandra’s hand raised near Edward’s face, a captured moment of apparent violence that defied all attempts at diplomatic spin. "Social media engagement has surpassed two hundred million mentions. Public sympathy is fractured, but a significant margin is calling for a formal inquiry into the royal family’s internal stability."
Edward did not look down at the newspaper. He had already read every word before dawn. "The official line remains unchanged," Edward said, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the council. "The princess suffered a sudden neurological episode brought on by exhaustion, resulting in a loss of motor control during the anniversary toast. The physical contact was entirely accidental. The palace physician has already signed off on the medical addendum." A sharp-faced legal advisor adjusted his spectacles, clearing his throat nervously. "With respect, Your Majesty, the public is not entirely convinced by the medical angle. The video footage is remarkably clear. When you shouted at her—"
"When I shouted at my daughter, I was acting as both a father protecting his family and a king maintaining order," Edward interrupted, his tone leaving zero room for debate. "The matter of the broadcast is closed. My primary concern now is the implementation of her immediate relocation to Balmoral Estate. Preparations must begin before noon." The Prime Minister exchanged a worried glance with the head of internal security. "Is exile the wisest course, Sire? Rumors will only multiply if she disappears from the public eye so abruptly. Some members of Parliament are already whispering about mental instability running in the bloodline."
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Edward leaned forward, resting his knuckles on the table, glaring at the men who served him. "You let them whisper. Let them talk of madness, let them invent whatever conspiracy suits their political ambitions. But no one—no minister, no journalist, and certainly no member of this council—will question the integrity of this crown while I sit upon it." The council members fell silent, cowed by the sheer force of the king's unyielding will. They knew when a line had been drawn. As the meeting adjourned, Edward remained seated in the empty room, staring at the empty chair where his daughter had once sat, wondering if he had just signed the death warrant of his own family.
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