37. How Redford Lost it’s Shield #3
It’s not true. None of it’s fucking true but it’s close enough to the reputation I nurtured with my own fucking hands—and I know how easily people will believe it if it goes live.
The words blur, and I scroll right until the end, where the embedded media block sits.
At first, I don’t even realise what I’m looking at.
It comes in pieces. On the windowsill in one of the pictures is the tutu-shaped mug Francesca got for Tommy.
Beyond it, I can make out the stove, the island with a bottle of water and my phone on it.
But on the counter, I spot Francesca’s bare legs around my hips, her head tipped back with my face buried in her chest. They’ve blurred the bits that would make it unsuitable to post. Anyone with eyes can see what we’re doing, though, and I can fill in every missing piece from memory.
I’m going to throw up all over the back seat. Someone was there. Someone was watching us just like on the night of the ball.
EXCLUSIVE: Leaked stills show Prince Eric Atherbourne engaging in explicit activities with the duchess-heir in her private residence. Sources say such behaviour was frequent and encouraged by palace officials to destabilise an already vulnerable woman.
I stare harder at the main image and see myself fully clothed in comparison, between the legs of a half-naked Francesca.
That moment of trust, reducing her to nothing but an explicit image for the public to dissect.
The cruellest thing is how ordinary it is too.
Sheffolk is built on abnormality, on drowned women, curses and ghosts.
Every single thing I ever experienced was outrageous, to say the least, so much so that my want for Francesca is almost boring in its simplicity.
My most human motive, and they’ve contaminated even that.
STAY, STAY, STAY. If I don’t keep spelling it, I’m going to burst out of my skin.
The sirens roar as we pull up at the airfield. Anthony slides out to convene with Hartlynd and his company, but I’m glued to the seat. All I can see is Francesca in her cottage, seated on her little couch as she reads this same thing. It isn’t a wonder why nobody at Redford is answering me.
Why would they if they received the same email Anthony did? They’ve had hours to sift through this filth, to call in representatives and do damage control in case this leaks.
They’re lifting the drawbridge they’ve lowered to let the enemy in.
She’ll be mortified. Devastated . How cruel is it then that they’ve painted me as the villain again, but in doing so, they’re ruining the one person on this planet who deserved to be wrong about me?
I want to call her up and beg her to believe me when I say I didn’t know somebody was at the window.
But what difference does it make when the result is the same?
The photos won’t vanish just because I didn’t know, and the article won’t unwrite itself if I claim it’s a lie.
I’m still in this car and she’s still clamped within the jaws of Redford, and in that distance, her traitor has room to move.
Anthony’s voice rumbles from a few metres away, breaking my pathetic train of thought.
He’s gesturing towards the car, explaining something, and Hartlynd is getting irritated.
My eyes burn, and it takes a second to realise I haven’t been blinking.
They drift towards the jet with the Crown’s sigil glinting, and I imagine my father sitting there, sipping brandy.
This is exactly what I did to him, isn’t it?
I once stood in his study, referencing a dossier brimming with information that would ruin his mistress, tarnish his reputation, and end his marriage.
Now I’m seated with a smaller dossier in my hand, written by a faceless man—aimed at me this time.
If this gets published, they’ll feed on her , not me.
Abandoning Sheffolk, however, would be both mercy and betrayal. I’d be handing the traitor the match and walking away with her good reputation in my hands, all while leaving her body bound to that pyre of an estate.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The phone in my hand pings, and the sound reduces me to dumb want. It’s pathetic how quickly I search for her contact name, but it isn’t BASKERVILLE that pops up, but the same unknown number as before.
No missed call alert, just voicemail. I hit play and lift it to my ear. The car fills, not with a voice, but a string of beeps, precise and both long and short with measured intervals. The pattern catches my attention before I can dismiss it as spam or an automated system glitching.
Dots and dashes.
Morse.
Suddenly I’m back at the palace library, my twin tossing cheesepuffs at me and Henrik complaining about how hot it is.
It’s summer again, and there’s a worn paperback on codes spread out before us.
My whole ability to remain upright is built on that code and I see it being hijacked, turned towards me and shoved down my throat like a threat.
I mark the letters under my breath, listening carefully, because it’s all I can do.
“You… no .” Replay. “You didn’t think…” I rewind to where I’ve left the gap, starting from the beginning.
Out of habit, I listen to the whole thing twice more, searching for anything I missed.
The beeps drown out the sound of someone calling my name.
When the last beep fades away, the sentence sits there complete, and the rest of the world continues to run around it.
Even as it curdles in my chest. The car door opens, and I’m guided down the strip.
Wind bites at the back of my neck as I follow him, and each step feels heavier than the last. A small group of staff waits by the stairs, Anthony stopping to speak with them.
The doorway into the cabin is framed with warm light, beckoning me closer.
I cross the threshold, and the scent of my father’s cologne nearly knocks me sideways.
His back is to me, head tilted towards the window, but he doesn’t turn, doesn’t even acknowledge my presence.
A stewardess awkwardly gestures towards a seat.
I turn instead to look out the doors, picturing a castle and its inhabitants sealed inside, with everyone convinced that I was sent to break them.
Anthony clambers up the steps, his presence narrowing the exit.
There’s no going back now, so I take my seat, tapping the code into the leather arm.
Redford is nowhere in sight but it’s all I can see.
The image of Francesca is so painful that I force myself to meet my father’s gaze to chase it away.
That pure disappointment hits like electricity, two defibrillators jolting me back into reality.
Because yes, Father , I’m disappointed too.
My absence is exactly what the traitor wants: a haunted castle without its newest prisoner, a duchess-heir without her inconvenient prince.
This is not where I’m supposed to be. I shouldn’t be walking towards him and the Crown when something in my shoulder blades tugs me north.
Towards her.
The note in my pocket feels like lead and the images from the article burn the inside of my skull as the pattern continues to beep, begging me to do something.
But the illusion of a choice dissipates as soon as the fuselage doors hiss shut.
All I’m left with is a line of code and the knowledge that Francesca’s traitor knows me well enough to understand I’d be able to interpret it.
So it plays on a loop, beeping out a truth he wanted only me to hear; the taunt lands perfectly in the space between me and the girl I left behind. Somewhere along the way, I lose the word I’ve been clinging to for the past fifteen years.
The code against my leg is longer than four letters because STAY has fallen silent. In its spot sits a stranger’s sentence, and I leave Sheffolk with that warning replaying in my head.
YOU DIDN’T THINK I’D MAKE IT THAT EASY TO COME BACK, DID YOU?
To be continued.