Taking a break and traveling - thank you to all those who are reading and enjoying #SpareTheHeir!
Your follows, likes, and comments keep me inspired to continue writing.
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He’s got no poker face, Emma thought, one of the many things she loved about him.
“Nothing, yet it’s after midnight over there. That place shuts down at the stroke of five, and this is a Saturday.” Emma chewed her freshly manicured thumb, ruining the red polish.
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Emma’s head snapped forward. “Shit. They found out. We’re toast. They will squash this thing like a bug.”
“Darling, please. I’m sure it’s nothing.” James downed the last of his champagne with a slight grimace.
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Emma caught Govind checking his phone, his brow furrowed.
“Govind, what?” She asked, uneasy.
“It’s Zoe,” Govind said. “She’s coming in, something about calls from the Palace. Several.”
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Rufus, the Queen’s right hand, instructed Emma to keep calm and carry on, not rock the boat. After all, James was the spare, he all but told her. She often tasted blood from biting her tongue.
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Or when they implied that James would have done better with one of the buttery blonde aristocrats, the ones with four last names and a country manor in Berkshire.
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James always comforted Emma, like when the British tabloids swiped at her Black mother, implying that Charlene lived on the wrong side of the tracks.
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“I’m sure they will try,” Emma said, then immediately chided herself for her paranoia, even though it was hard earned.
James pulled Emma to him, caressing her smooth brown shoulders, bare in the sleeveless evening dress that Zoe assured her screamed both regal and boss bitch.
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Thank you! I need all the encouragement I can get. It helps me keep going!
He gestured to the skyscrapers surrounding them out the floor to ceiling windows. “Now, this city is in the palm of our hand. We killed it tonight. We did what we set out to do. No one can take that away from us.”
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“C’mon, Em.” James ran his hand through his thick red hair. “Remember January? We didn’t know which end was up, with my mother and brother desperate to get us out of the picture.”
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“We have the ministry sign off, donations pouring in, and,” he checked his phone, “Not a peep from the Palace.”
“Yet.” Emma said under her breath.
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James swung his chair next to her and draped his lanky frame over the back, emitting a sigh of relief. Govind pulled the ballroom door closed and pumped his fist without rumpling his Tom Ford blazer.
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After Emma shook the last hand, smiled her last smile, and personally secured a sizable donation from Melinda Gates (“We must grab lunch next time we’re both in London,” she promised), she sank back into her seat.
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The Palace, however, never missed an opportunity to micromanage them, which was part of the thrill of the evening. Emma knew the risk she and James were taking, but like her mother always said, it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
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From what Emma could tell, the Queen and her eldest son tried to pretend they didn’t exist. Out of sight, out of mind, Emma told James.
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The press ate it up, having no clue about the Christmas blowup with Prince Chester that meant the brothers couldn’t occupy the same Palace, let alone the same city after what went down.
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Queen Cordelia had sent the couple to Toronto for six months, calling it a “goodwill sabbatical” from their duties in London.
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It was James’s idea to tag the dinner onto the yearly planning meeting for the Commonwealth Games, a meeting his immediate family had no interest in attending.
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Emma still cringed at her and James’s engagement interview, a highly choreographed affair that prompted her best friend Athena to text: Blink three times if you need rescuing!
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What came second nature to her husband filled her with terror, but then again, she didn’t grow up in the most famous family in the world.
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"We are honored to be on this journey with you.”
Emma grabbed James’s hand and exhaled. Standing in front of a room full of VIPs was not exactly in her comfort zone.
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“Again, a million thank yous. Every dollar we will raise will make this vision a reality.” Emma wrapped up. “We will see you this fall in Windhoek for the first ever Girl’s Empowerment Summit, presented by Tangi Unene.
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Sure, they were aware of Emma’s preexisting advocacy when she married into the Monarchy, and James had been to Namibia a handful of times with his late father, but as Chester repeated often, the Crown had more important priorities to attend to.
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Nothing Emma described - the educational complex, the community center, the still-unapproved Summit, was on the Palace priority list.
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Emma wanted to give these girls a safe place to gather, a leg up, a way to fight the doubters. Like her father.
Emma and James spent their months in exile honing their message, and making sure the Palace didn’t meddle in their plans.
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They reminded Emma of herself at that age, the age she started swimming and set down the path that led her to this room. She certainly didn’t have this kind of support in South LA, besides her mother and Coach Mack.
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and the hornet’s nest they were about to kick up inside the Palace walls.
The video showed images of young girls in Namibia, their smiles full of hope and their eyes bright with promise.
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Emma pored over every detail, just like she used to pore over her training stats at the pool. She pushed away thoughts of the inevitable tabloid headlines: “Duchess Difficult Blindsides the Palace”, “Winthrop Charity Not Approved, Says Palace Insider”, “Golden Couple Steals Spotlight”
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She clicked the remote, launching the video presentation. She knew every frame, thanks to the weeks of work with James and Govind, honing the slides and accompanying speech.
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