Х

The morning light filtered through the lace curtains of Coleherne Court, casting soft, dappled shadows across the pale blue duvet. Diana Spencer adjusted the pillows behind her back, sinking deeper into the plush mattress. She was still in her pajamas—a simple silk set that felt cool against her skin—feeling the kind of lethargic contentment that only comes from being twenty years old and hopelessly in love.

On the bedside table, a half-empty cup of Earl Grey sat forgotten. Her focus was entirely on the small television set perched on the dresser across the room. With a lazy flick of the remote, she surfed through the morning broadcasts, past the weather reports and the sitcom reruns, until a familiar silhouette caught her eye.

She froze, the remote hovering in mid-air.

It was him.

The news program was broadcasting a pre-recorded segment, an outdoor interview conducted on the windswept grounds of a country estate. Charles looked different than he had during their last meeting—a polo match that had ended in quiet drinks and whispered promises. Today, he was the Prince of Wales in full diplomatic form.

He was dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit beneath a heavy wool overcoat, the collar turned up slightly against the breeze. But it was his face that held her captive. For the first time, she saw him wearing a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles. They sat firmly on the bridge of his nose, giving him an air of scholarly intensity she hadn't yet witnessed in person. His hair, usually tamed by pomade, was being playfully tousled by the wind, a single stray lock falling over his forehead.

Diana leaned forward, her heart doing a nervous little dance against her ribs. They had been on four dates—four magical, whirlwind encounters that had left her breathless—and yet, seeing him like this, framed by the cold reality of the television screen, made him feel both closer and more distant than ever.

The interviewer, a sharp-featured man in a trench coat, gestured toward the horizon. "Your Royal Highness, the public is increasingly concerned about the current economic downturn. How do you see the role of the monarchy evolving to address the anxieties of modern England?"

Charles adjusted his glasses, a gesture that felt incredibly intimate to Diana. She watched the way his fingers moved, remembering how they had felt holding hers.

"I believe," Charles began, his voice carrying that rich, resonant baritone that always sent a shiver down her spine, "that the monarchy must serve as a constant. While the tides of economics and global politics shift—and they are shifting quite violently at present—the Crown represents a continuity of identity. It is not merely about tradition for tradition's sake, but about providing a sense of belonging to a people who feel increasingly fragmented by the modern world."

Diana sighed, resting her chin on her knees. She didn't particularly care for the intricacies of fiscal policy, but she could listen to him speak for hours. There was a poetic cadence to his speech, a way he weighed each word before letting it go, as if he were aware that every syllable would be etched into history.

"You speak of global politics with a certain gravity," the interviewer pushed. "Do you feel the weight of the Commonwealth’s expectations?"

Charles looked away from the camera for a moment, his gaze fixed on something in the distance. The wind caught his coat, billowing the fabric. "One cannot help but feel it. But it is a weight I have been prepared for since birth. The challenge is not in carrying the weight, but in ensuring it does not crush the humanity out of the person beneath the crown."

He paused, a small, weary smile touching his lips. "I try to find the balance between the Prince and the man. It is a delicate dance, I assure you."

Diana felt a lump form in her throat. She wanted to reach through the screen and smooth that stray lock of hair back into place. She wanted to tell him that she saw the man—the one who loved gardening and architecture and quiet moments—even when the rest of the world only saw the Prince.

The interview shifted to more personal territory, the kind of questions that made the palace press office break out in hives. "And what of your own life, Sir? The public is naturally curious about the future. About a possible Princess of Wales."

Diana held her breath. The silence on the screen seemed to stretch for an eternity.

Charles looked down at his hands, then back at the interviewer. The glasses caught the light, obscuring his eyes for a split second. "My life is, as always, a matter of public record and private struggle. I hope for a future that brings not just stability to the realm, but a sense of peace to my own heart. Beyond that, I think some things are best left to time."

The segment ended, cutting back to the brightly lit studio where two presenters began chirping about the afternoon weather. Diana clicked the television off. The silence of the apartment rushed back in, heavy and expectant.

She sat there for a long time, staring at the blank screen. Her mind replayed the interview, but mostly, it replayed the image of him in those glasses. He looked so vulnerable yet so composed. She felt a surge of protectiveness that surprised her.

A knock at her bedroom door startled her out of her reverie. Her flatmate, Carolyn, poked her head inside.

"Di? Are you still in bed? You’re going to be late for the kindergarten if you don't hurry."

Diana blinked, shaking off the spell. "I’m coming, I’m coming. I just... I saw him on the telly."

Carolyn stepped into the room, a knowing smirk on her face. "The Prince? How did he look? Still looking like he’s carrying the world on his shoulders?"

"He was wearing glasses," Diana whispered, as if it were a state secret. "He looked... brilliant. So thoughtful. They were asking him about the economy and world politics, and he knew everything, Carolyn. He spoke so beautifully."

Carolyn sat on the edge of the bed, her expression softening. "You’ve got it bad, haven't you? You’re not just fluttering; you’re soaring."

"Is it that obvious?" Diana asked, pulling the duvet up to her chin.

"You have a look about you," Carolyn said gently. "Like you’re looking at a map of a country you’ve wanted to visit your whole life. Just be careful, Di. That map has a lot of forbidden zones."

"I know," Diana said, her voice small. "But when he speaks, it’s like he’s the only person in the world who understands what it’s like to be lonely in a crowd. I think... I think I could make him happy. If they let me."

"Then get up, get dressed, and go be the girl he fell for on those four dates," Carolyn encouraged, standing up and heading for the door. "The Prince of Wales might be worried about the economy, but I suspect he’s more worried about when he’ll see you again."

Diana smiled, a genuine, radiant glow lighting up her face. She hopped out of bed, her feet hitting the cold floor, and hurried to the wardrobe. She chose a floral skirt and a soft knit sweater, something that felt like the girl he knew, not the icon the world expected.

As she brushed her hair, she caught her reflection in the mirror. She thought of Charles in his glasses, standing in the wind, talking about the role of the monarchy. She realized then that she didn't just love the idea of him. She loved the complexity of him—the way he hid his sadness behind duty and his intellect behind tradition.

She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, but paused at the television one last time. It was dark now, a black glass void, but in her mind’s eye, she could still see him.

"I'm listening, Charles," she whispered to the empty room. "I’m always listening."

The walk to the Young England Kindergarten was brisk. The London air was nippy, smelling of damp pavement and exhaust, but Diana barely noticed. She felt as if she were floating. Every time a black town car passed her, her heart skipped, wondering if he might be inside, behind tinted windows, perhaps reading a briefing or staring out at the city with those same serious eyes she had seen on the screen.

When she arrived at the school, the chaos of small children acted as a grounding force. She knelt on the floor, surrounded by toddlers in smocks, helping them with their finger painting.

"Look, Miss Diana! I made a sun!" a little boy named Toby shouted, holding up a yellow-smeared piece of paper.

"It’s beautiful, Toby," she said, her voice warm. "It’s so bright. It looks like a new day."

"Why are you smiling so much?" a little girl asked, tilting her head. "Did you have a sweetie for breakfast?"

Diana laughed, a clear, bell-like sound that made the other teachers look up. "Something like that, Sarah. I saw something very special this morning."

Throughout the day, the image of the interview stayed with her. She found herself wondering if he was still in that coat, or if he had moved on to a formal dinner, or a meeting with the Prime Minister. The sheer scale of his life was daunting, a vast ocean compared to her quiet pond. Yet, in those four dates, he had made her feel like the ocean was something they could navigate together.

By the time she returned home that evening, the sun was setting, painting the London sky in bruised purples and golds. The flat was quiet; her roommates were out for the evening. Diana made herself a piece of toast and sat by the window, watching the streetlamps flicker to life.

The phone rang, the shrill sound echoing in the hallway. Diana jumped, her heart racing. She hurried to answer it, her hand trembling slightly as she lifted the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Diana?"

The voice was unmistakable. It was the same baritone she had heard on the television, but now it was softer, stripped of the formal projection required for an interview. It was the voice of the man, not the Prince.

"Charles?" she breathed, leaning against the wall for support.

"I hope I'm not calling at an inconvenient time," he said. There was a slight hesitation in his tone, a shyness that always disarmed her. "I realized I hadn't spoken to you since the weekend, and I found myself... well, I found myself wanting to hear your voice."

"I saw you today," she said, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. "On the news. The interview about the economy and the monarchy."

There was a short, self-deprecating laugh on the other end. "Oh, heavens. I hope I didn't bore you to tears. It was a rather grim morning for it, and the wind was doing its level best to dismantle my hair."

"You weren't boring at all," Diana insisted. "You were wonderful. You sounded so... wise. And Charles?"

"Yes?"

"I liked the glasses. You looked very handsome in them. Very distinguished."

A silence followed, but it wasn't an uncomfortable one. She could almost feel him smiling through the line.

"You saw those, did you?" he asked quietly. "I usually try to avoid them in public. I feel a bit like a confused owl."

"Not an owl," Diana said firmly. "A Prince. A very thoughtful one."

"Thank you, Diana," he said, his voice dropping to a lower register. "That means a great deal to me. Truly. Sometimes it feels as though I’m speaking into a void, or to a crowd that has already decided what I’m going to say. Knowing you were watching... it makes the 'void' feel a little less empty."

"I'll always watch," she promised. "And I'll always listen."

"I should like to see you soon," Charles said, the pace of his speech quickening. "There is a performance at the opera next Tuesday. Or perhaps something quieter? A drive? I find I’m quite tired of being 'on display' after today."

"Something quiet sounds perfect," Diana replied, her heart swelling. "Just us."

"Just us," he echoed. "I shall have my office coordinate the details. Goodnight, Diana."

"Goodnight, Charles."

She hung up the phone but kept her hand on the receiver for a long moment. The apartment felt different now—no longer just a place where she lived, but a sanctuary where she could wait for a future that felt both terrifying and magnificent.

She walked back to her bedroom and looked at the television set. It was just a box of wires and glass, but it had shown her a glimpse of the man she was prepared to follow into the eye of the storm. She reached out and touched the screen, right where his face had been.

The wind might blow, and the economy might shift, and the world might demand everything of him, but Diana Spencer had decided. She would be the one standing beside him, whether he was wearing a crown or just a pair of tortoiseshell glasses.