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The sun was an unwanted intruder, a golden spear piercing through the heavy velvet curtains of the Prince of Wales’s private chambers. It illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air and the wreckage of a royal evening: a discarded silk tie draped over a mahogany chair, a single cufflink glittering on the carpet, and the Prince himself, sprawled facedown across the silk coverlet.

Charles was twenty-five, the future King of England, and currently, he felt like a man who had been trampled by the Household Cavalry.

An hour earlier, his personal protection officer had practically carried him through the servant’s entrance of his residence, navigating the labyrinthine corridors with the practiced stealth of a smuggler. The night had been a blur of gin, jazz, and the frantic, hollow laughter of his inner circle—friends who didn’t care about the crown, only the vintage of the scotch.

The door creaked open. Roger, Charles’s most trusted advisor, stepped into the room with a stack of documents and a sense of purpose that died the moment he smelled the air. The room reeked of stale cigarettes and high-end botanical gin.

Roger’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of the heir to the throne, still in his evening suit, which was now a roadmap of creases.

"Good God," Roger whispered, his face paling. He turned to the guard standing stoically by the door. "What on earth happened? He was supposed to be resting for the Queen’s birthday celebrations."

"He was out until five, sir," the guard replied softly, his voice devoid of judgment but heavy with fatigue. "The club in Mayfair. Then a private residence in Chelsea. He didn't stop, sir. Not once."

Panic, sharp and cold, seized Roger’s chest. Today was the centerpiece of the Queen’s birthday festivities—a private, intimate gathering at Buckingham Palace. It wasn't a state affair, but in many ways, it was more dangerous. There were no cameras to hide behind, only the sharp, discerning eyes of his mother and the formidable gaze of the Duke of Edinburgh.

"Your Highness," Roger said, stepping toward the bed and shaking Charles’s shoulder. "Charles, you must wake up. Now."

A groan emerged from the pillows. Charles rolled over, squinting at the light. His hair was a bird’s nest, and his eyes were bloodshot. "Go away, Roger. Tell the world I’ve contracted the plague. Or gout. Gout sounds appropriately regal."

"You have exactly one hour to be at Buckingham Palace," Roger said, his voice rising in pitch. "The jeweler has delivered the brooch you commissioned for Her Majesty. It is waiting in the car. You cannot miss this."

"I don't want to go," Charles muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes. "My head is vibrating. I’m fairly certain I can hear the grass growing outside, and it’s far too loud."

Roger didn't argue. He looked at the guard, and with a silent nod of mutual understanding, they both grabbed an arm. They hauled the future king to his feet. Charles stumbled, his legs feeling like cooked noodles, as they marched him toward the en-suite bathroom.

"The cold water, sir," Roger commanded the guard.

For the next twenty minutes, Roger was less an advisor and more a miracle worker. While the guard readied a fresh navy suit, Roger supervised the scrubbing of the Prince. He forced Charles to drink three glasses of water and a concoction of lemon and salt that made the Prince gag.

"You smell like a distillery," Roger hissed, vigorously rubbing a towel over Charles’s damp hair. "We’re going to use enough cologne to knock out a horse, but you must stay downwind of your father."

Charles leaned against the marble sink, staring at his reflection. He looked older than twenty-five. The weight of the last six months was etched into the lines around his mouth. He had been drinking more—much more—but he was careful. He was always on time for meetings; he always knew his briefs. The alcohol was the grease that kept the gears of his public life turning, or so he told himself.

"I can handle myself, Roger," Charles said, his voice rasping. "Stop fussing. I’ve delivered speeches on less sleep than this."

"This isn't a speech, sir. This is your mother," Roger replied, his eyes dark with worry. "She sees everything."

As they hurried toward the waiting black car, Roger checked his watch. They were already ten minutes behind schedule. The drive to the Palace was a blur of nausea for Charles. He slumped in the leather seat, clutching the small, velvet-lined box containing a sapphire brooch.

"Remember," Roger warned as the car turned into the Palace gates. "Keep your back straight. Speak only when spoken to if you feel the room spinning. And for heaven’s sake, don't touch the wine."

"Calm down," Charles said, straightening his cuffs with trembling fingers. "I’m a professional, aren't I?"

Roger watched him step out of the car. He felt a pang of guilt. He knew the Prince was struggling, but the machinery of the monarchy didn't allow for "struggling." It only allowed for performance. Roger resolved to address the drinking soon—perhaps tomorrow—but today, the performance was all that mattered.

The courtyard of Buckingham Palace was bathed in the soft glow of a London afternoon. The gathering was held in the private gardens, away from the prying eyes of the press. It was a sea of pastel dresses, military uniforms, and the high-pitched chatter of his younger siblings and cousins.

Charles took a deep breath, plastered a mask of polite interest onto his face, and stepped onto the grass. The noise hit him like a physical blow. The clinking of silverware, the laughter of Princess Anne, the barking of the corgis—it all felt like needles under his skin.

He spotted his mother standing near a rose trellis, looking radiant in a primrose yellow suit. Beside her, his father was mid-anecdote, gesturing with a gin and tonic.

Charles approached, his gait steady despite the rolling of his stomach. He stopped before the Queen and offered a low, graceful bow.

"Happy birthday, Mummy," he said, his voice smooth and practiced.

He held out the gift. The Queen smiled, her eyes softening as she took the box. "Charles. We were beginning to wonder if you’d been kidnapped by those polo friends of yours."

"Perish the thought," Charles said, forcing a boyish grin. "I simply wanted to ensure the setting was perfect before I brought it over. The jeweler was... meticulous."

He watched her open the box. The sapphires caught the light, and for a moment, the genuine pleasure on her face made the pounding in his head recede.

"It’s exquisite, darling. Thank you." She leaned in to kiss his cheek.

Charles held his breath, terrified she would catch the scent of last night’s debauchery beneath the layers of expensive cologne. She pulled back, her expression unreadable for a split second, before she was pulled away by a greeting from a visiting cousin.

Charles let out a long, silent exhale. He moved through the crowd like a ghost in a well-tailored suit. He spoke to his aunt, Princess Margaret, who gave him a knowing, slightly mischievous look that suggested she recognized a hangover when she saw one, but she said nothing. He teased his younger brothers, Andrew and Edward, and listened to his father grumble about the state of the national economy.

By the second hour, the adrenaline was wearing off. The sun was too bright, and the effort of maintaining a pleasant expression was becoming agonizing. His throat was parched, his mouth tasting like copper and ash.

He drifted toward the long buffet table. A waiter appeared at his elbow with a silver tray.

"Champagne, Your Highness?"

Charles hesitated. Roger’s warning echoed in his mind. But his head was screaming, and the bubbles promised a temporary reprieve from the sharp edges of reality. He took a glass. Then another. The cold liquid slid down his throat, numbing the dull ache behind his eyes.

"You look a bit peaked, Charles," a voice said behind him.

He turned to see his father, Prince Philip, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

"Just a long week of engagements, Papa," Charles replied, taking a cautious sip of the champagne. "The investiture planning is taking quite a bit out of me."

"Hmph. Make sure you aren't burning the candle at both ends," Philip said, clapping him on the shoulder with enough force to make Charles’s vision swim. "Your mother appreciates you being here. Don't ruin the mood by falling into the shrubbery."

"I have no intention of doing so," Charles said stiffly.

The rest of the evening was a test of endurance. Charles navigated the conversations with the skill of a tightrope walker. He laughed at the right times, asked the appropriate questions about his cousins' schooling, and remained upright. To any outsider, he was the picture of the dutiful son.

But inside, he was counting the minutes. He felt a profound sense of isolation, standing in the heart of his family, yet separated by a thick, alcoholic fog. He looked at his mother, laughing with her friends, and felt a sudden, sharp pang of regret. He wanted to be the man she thought he was—the steady, reliable heir. Instead, he felt like a fraud held together by starch and sheer willpower.

When the sun finally dipped below the horizon and the guests began to thin out, Charles made his excuses.

"I think I’ll head back, Mummy. A bit of a headache," he lied—or rather, told a partial truth.

"Of course, dear. Get some rest," the Queen said, patting his hand. "You did well today."

The drive back was silent. Roger sat in the front seat, his shoulders tense. He didn't say a word until they arrived back at Charles’s residence.

"You pulled it off," Roger said, opening the car door. "But we are going to talk about this, Charles. Tomorrow. Without the champagne."

Charles didn't look at him. "Goodnight, Roger."

He stumbled into his bedroom, the silence of the suite a blessed relief. He didn't bother with the lights. He stripped off the suit, leaving it in a heap on the floor—a sacrilege his valet would have to deal with in the morning—and collapsed into the cool sheets.

As sleep finally claimed him, the last thing he thought of wasn't the party, or the brooch, or the crown. It was the terrifying realization that he was already looking forward to the first drink of the next morning to make the world stop shaking.

He closed his eyes, and the darkness was finally, mercifully, quiet.