Fate collides with royal duty as William and Jeanna fight against unseen cosmic forces determined to keep them apart, risking everything for a love that defies tradition and destiny.
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In the shadowy stillness of a high-rise office that did not officially exist, tucked between timelines and truths, a group of men sat in impeccable silence. Their suits were uniform—precisely tailored, gray as morning fog—and they surrounded a long, polished mahogany table. Overhead, the ceiling glowed with a lattice of soft golden light: not lamps, but a constellation map in motion. Stars shifted, names flickered, lines redrew—a living chart of destinies, eternally updated.
They weren't ordinary advisors. These men were the architects behind appearances, the stewards of stories no history book would ever record.
At the head of the table sat Mr. Ainsley—silver-haired, sharply built, and carved from decades of secrets. His hands moved without hesitation, sliding open a leather dossier marked only with an embossed gold "W." The room seemed to lean in as he spoke.
"It appears the Prince has grown...attached," he said dryly, eyes scanning the photos inside.
One of the younger agents, Fletcher, cleared his throat. "It's not fleeting, sir. From what we're seeing—body language, emotional shifts—it's not just flirtation. He's...invested."
Ainsley didn't look up. "He was never meant to invest. Not in her."
The others remained silent as he turned the page. Photographs: Prince William across a small table from Jeanna de Waal, his gaze unmistakably drawn, his smile unguarded. The scene looked ordinary. It was anything but.
Hunter, the most calculating among them, leaned forward. "Two meetings, and already he's questioning protocol. He's not supposed to be writing his own story."
"No," Ainsley agreed, closing the dossier with a soft but final snap. "He's not."
There was a weight to the silence that followed—shared memory, perhaps. They'd seen this before.
Fletcher glanced up. "We did try to derail the lunch. Disruptions. Delays. Spillages. Nothing worked."
"She didn't blink," Hunter added. "If anything, she was calm. Graceful. Too graceful."
That word hung in the air: graceful. Dangerous, when unplanned.
Ainsley's fingers drummed softly. "His father is still pushing for Katherine. She fits every criteria. An ideal consort. Noble lineage. Tempered charm. Press-trained since birth."
He slid another dossier across the table—photos of a poised young woman smiling beside dignitaries, her posture flawless, her future seemingly carved in stone.
"Jeanna is... not that," said Hunter. "Talented, yes. Charismatic. But unpredictable. Opinionated. Untrained."
"She belongs to the world of spotlight, not statecraft," Ainsley said coldly. "And we do not build futures on instability."
The lights above shimmered faintly, one line on the constellation map pulsing between two names: William and Jeanna.
Fletcher leaned forward. "Then what's the order, sir?"
Ainsley's voice dropped, crisp as a blade. "Distract her. Flood her schedule. Increase rehearsal demands. Insert tension where we must. She'll need to choose between her career and a fantasy."
Hunter raised a brow. "And William?"
"We guide him gently back toward his path. Remind him what's expected. What's sacred. What's safe."
A long pause followed. Then Ainsley added, more quietly, "We can't afford another Diana."
The room stilled at the name, its echo touching every corner like a chill. Even the lights above seemed to pause in mourning.
Ainsley stood, and the others followed. "Our hand must never be seen. We deal in shifts of fate, not orders. No public scandal. No heartbreak in headlines. Just... a course corrected."
Fletcher picked up the dossier, his jaw tight. "Understood. I'll start with her producer. Last-minute rewrites. Extended stage time. Anything to keep her... occupied."
Ainsley nodded once. "Let William drift back. Let Jeanna be overwhelmed. The world must not feel the thread being pulled."
As the men filed out, the door closed softly behind them.
Above the table, the glowing constellation continued to shift—still charting lives, still rewriting fate—its lines quivering, stubbornly connecting two names that should never have met.
