ROYAL SHOCKWAVE: THE SANDRINGHAM PLOT

The Dawn Arrest

Shocking news broke right before the sacred Christmas holiday. Rumours swirled not of festive cheer, but of a calculated attack on Princess Kate, forcing the royal doctor into an urgent summons.

Early this morning, resident reporters stationed patiently at Sandringham, waiting since dawn for the royal family’s traditional church walk, inadvertently captured a history-shaking moment. Instead of King Charles’s expected radiant smile and magnificent coat, a battery of camera lenses focused on a scene of raw chaos. They caught Ali Plunkett, Queen Camilla’s most trusted personal bodyguard, being roughly escorted from the main palace gates. He was handcuffed, face pale, and shoved into a specialized, unmarked vehicle by grim-faced police officers.

The cozy pre-Christmas dinner meant to foster intimacy had turned into a political assassination tragedy when Catherine, the Princess of Wales, had violently collapsed right at the banquet table due to foul play. Prince William, in a state of absolute, ice-cold fury, had broken every century-old rule of royal silence to hunt down the perpetrator that very night.

Why would the Queen’s private protector act so viciously against the future Queen Consort, right in front of the King? Was Camilla truly innocent in this conspiracy? Or was this the opening shot of a bloody, desperate war for the throne that the public had never known?

The Poisoned Table

The dinner in question took place during the royal family’s private pre-Christmas celebration weeks ago. No reporters, no cameras, no waving to the public—just King Charles, Queen Camilla, Prince William, and Princess Kate. A small, round table was designed to create a sense of intimacy, but that night, it felt like a boxing ring camouflaged by a gold-embroidered tablecloth. Every gesture, every subtle glance, carried the weight of hidden political calculations and simmering resentment.

Princess Kate sat ramrod straight, looking elegant in an emerald green velvet dress. Despite being visibly exhausted from a dense schedule of year-end charity events, she maintained a gentle, measured smile whenever King Charles turned to speak to her.

“Tonight’s appetizer is the most special,” Camilla spoke up, her voice husky yet attempting to sound solicitous, breaking the awkward silence. She signaled for the server to place the plates down in front of everyone with a strangely decisive gesture. “Salmon with a chickpea sauce. I heard the chef has been testing this new recipe all week just to serve us privately. It’s light but very nutritious, perfect for regaining strength after busy days.”

William nodded politely, but his eyes followed Kate with deep, protective concern. He noticed a fleeting pallor on his wife’s face. The unrelenting tension between the two powerful factions in the palace seemed to have drained her vitality.

“Are you alright?” he whispered, his hand lightly touching hers under the table—a silent gesture of protection he always maintained.

“I’m fine, just a little hungry,” Kate replied, picking up her fork.

The aroma of grilled salmon, blending with the rich, creamy scent of the sauce, rose up. It was steaming, attractive, and so perfect that no one could suspect the dark secret hidden within. No one suspected. Why should they? This was Sandringham, the physical heart of the monarchy. The kitchen was controlled by security protocols stricter than the Pentagon. Every ingredient was tested for toxins; every chef had their background checked three generations back. Even the water source was monitored.

Faith in this absolute security system was the most fatal blind spot.

The Shock

Kate put the first piece of sauced salmon into her mouth. The richness of chickpeas, the sweetness of the fish… and then, a strange, sharp taste shot straight up her nasal cavity. It was not a delicious taste. It was the taste of destruction.

Her body reacted faster than her consciousness. Her immune system instantly identified the enemy and immediately triggered a violent, overwhelming cytokine storm. In just ten seconds, the tragedy struck.

The silver fork fell from Kate’s hand, hitting the porcelain plate with a piercing, shattering clang. The sound rang out like a death knell in the cavernous room.

 

“Kate!”

William whipped around, his polite smile vanishing, replaced by extreme, military-grade alertness.

Kate could not answer. She brought her hands up to clutch her throat, fingers digging into her flesh. It felt as if an invisible hand was violently strangling her trachea, crushing her lungs, blocking all airflow. Her face flushed violently due to dilating blood vessels, then quickly turned purple from the lack of oxygen. Her eyes went wide with panic, filled with tears, looking at William in desperate supplication. A dry, choked cough erupted from her chest, sounding like tearing fabric—the terrifying sound of life being stripped away.

King Charles dropped his wine glass. The dark red liquid spread across the white tablecloth like a stain of fresh blood, creating a terrifying omen. “Good God, what is wrong with her? Someone do something!” He stood up in a panicked frenzy, hands trembling, utterly unable to handle the crisis.

“Medical! Call the doctor immediately!” William roared, the sound echoing through the vast room, shattering every rule of royal composure.

The instinct of a soldier rose fiercely within him. He sprang up, his chair crashing backward, rushing to support his wife, who was beginning to swoon, her body going limp in his arms. Kate’s body convulsed in spasms. Large, angry hives began to appear rapidly on her skin, spreading from her neck down her arms. Her lips and tongue swelled frighteningly, compressing her already blocked airway.

“Anaphylactic shock!” William roared, his eyes bloodshot. He knew the signs. He knew exactly what his wife was severely allergic to. But how could it happen here, in this most private and protected of meals?

“EpiPen! Get the EpiPen here! Hurry!”

The security and medical team on standby rushed into the room like a sudden storm. Chaos reigned: the thud of military boots, sharp commands over radios, and Kate’s painful, wheezing gasps created a chaotic symphony. Doctors surrounded Kate, tearing open her sleeve to administer life-saving adrenaline.

In the height of panic, as the doctors plunged the shot into Kate’s thigh, William looked up. His eyes did not land on the doctors, nor on his father, who was so panicked he was about to collapse. He looked straight across the dining table where the most powerful woman in the room was sitting.

Camilla sat there, hand covering her mouth in a perfect picture of shock. But for a split second, William swore he saw her facial muscles relax—a morbid sense of ease, as if an audience member enjoying the climax of a play she had scripted long ago. Her eyes held no worry, only a cold scrutiny, calculating if the dosage was sufficient.

“Lock down the dining room,” William ordered, his voice ice cold, cutting through the noise. He held Kate tight, feeling her erratic heartbeat gradually stabilizing, but still dangerously weak. “No one is allowed to leave here. No one. Not the servers, and not the Queen.”

His final sentence was a direct, devastating declaration of war. The dinner had ended, giving way to a hunt for the enemy hiding right within this family. William knew no one would sleep tonight.

The Forensic Hunt

Two hours later, Kate had passed the critical stage and was transferred to the palace’s special medical suite under 24/7 surveillance. She remained in a deep, medicated coma due to the side effects of anti-shock medication and physical exhaustion.

William was not by her side to hold her hand or pray. He left that to the best nursing team. He had a more important mission: to find the person who had nearly made him a widower. His grief had been compressed, transformed into a block of cold, ruthless energy serving the investigation.

The atmosphere in the Sandringham kitchen area, usually bustling with laughter and the smell of baked goods, was now as cold and sterile as a morgue. The entire kitchen staff, from the executive chef to the dishwasher, were detained in the waiting room, stripped of all communication devices and watched by royal bodyguards with loaded guns.

In the mobile laboratory set up urgently on the grounds, William stood with arms crossed, his sharp gaze fixed on the electron microscope screen over the shoulder of Dr. Ayres, the royal family’s leading forensic and toxicology expert.

“Your Royal Highness,” Dr. Ayres spoke, his voice trembling but decisive. He knew the news he was about to announce had the destructive power of a nuclear bomb, capable of shaking the monarchy. “We have performed enzyme-linked immunosorbent assay (ELISA) and liquid chromatography-mass spectrometry (LC-MS) tests on the remaining sauce sample. The result…”

“Get to the point,” William growled, having no patience for technical terms.

“It is absolutely not pure chickpea sauce,” Dr. Ayres pointed to the spectral chart with abnormal spikes on the screen. “The content of arachis hypogaea protein—peanut protein—makes up 60% of the flour mixture used. This is a lethal ratio for someone with a constitution as sensitive as the Princess. Furthermore, this flour was processed extremely sophisticatedly to remove the characteristic odour but retain the protein toxicity.”

Peanuts. William gripped the edge of the steel table until his knuckles turned white. Fury flared in his chest. “Everyone knows Kate has a peanut allergy. That is basic medical information in the VIP protection file. This kitchen has never been allowed to import peanuts for the last ten years. Where is the protocol for checking incoming food?”

“That is exactly the problem, sir.” Chef Pierre, cowering in the corner of the room, sweating profusely enough to soak his white tunic, hurriedly spoke up to plead his innocence in panic. “I swear on my honour and my life, I ordered organic chickpea flour from our regular supplier. The packaging, labels, seals—everything clearly stated ‘Organic Chickpea Flour.’ I checked the invoice, checked the expiration date…”

The chef tremblingly held out the invoice and the crumpled empty packaging found in the recycling bin. He understood that if he could not prove his innocence, he would be the first to be convicted of attempted regicide.

William snatched the packaging. It looked completely normal. A light brown paper bag printed with round chickpeas. The words ‘Premium Organic Product’ printed sharply—a perfect camouflage. But William did not stop at appearances. He flipped the package over, narrowing his eyes at the barcode and batch information printed faintly in the bottom corner. The meticulousness of a former search and rescue pilot helped him spot the slightest anomaly.

“Scan this,” he ordered, handing the package to the digital team.

The scanner beeped dryly. Information appeared on the tablet screen, but it was a glaring red error message. “Shipment does not exist in the Royal Suppliers System,” the technician reported, his voice full of astonishment. “This barcode… it’s fake. Or rather, it was pasted over another barcode. The printing technique is very high-level, almost indistinguishable to the naked eye.”

William walked to the stainless steel table containing the remaining flour. To the naked eye, chickpea flour and finely ground peanut flour look identical. The same pale yellow colour, the same smooth texture. When cooked into a sauce with strong spices, the human palate cannot distinguish them. This was not an accidental mishap. This was a trap calculated step by step. The enemy knew the ordering process, knew the cooking habits, and most importantly, knew Kate’s fatal weakness.

“Search the trash,” William ordered coldly. “Not just the recycling bins. I want you to tear apart every general waste bin. Organic waste bin. Find everything. I want to know where this fake packaging came from. The person who made the switch surely left a trace when destroying the original packaging.”

The Betrayal

Fifteen minutes later, the tense atmosphere was broken when a guard brought in a small, torn piece of cardboard, stained with grease and food scraps. “Found at the bottom of the general waste bin behind the staff quarters, Your Highness.” On it remained a part of a postal shipping label that hadn’t completely faded.

William picked up the piece of paper with tweezers. The ink was blurred by sauce, but a few letters and numbers of the sender’s postal code were still legible: OP Farm, Little Snoring, Norfolk.

“Little Snoring,” William muttered. The name sounded harmless—a small, remote, and peaceful village not far from here. “Check who owns a farm with the initials OP in that area.”

The sound of keyboard clacking rang out in the deadly silence. Land and business registry data was retrieved quickly.

“Your Royal Highness,” the assistant’s voice choked up as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “OP Farm. The owner is Olly Plunkett.”

The space seemed to freeze. The name Ali Plunkett was not unfamiliar. He was a senior bodyguard, the man who had served Queen Camilla for the past five years. The man who shadowed her, the man trusted absolutely, who held the security keys to Clarence House. He was part of the circle of absolute trust.

William closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath to suppress the anger that wanted to destroy everything in the room. The vague suspicion from the beginning had now crystallized into a sharp, lethal blade. The enemy was not just sitting at the table. The enemy had planted their most loyal hound right into his kitchen, turning trust into a murder weapon.

“Prepare the car,” William opened his eyes, his gaze fiery but colder than ever. His usually blue eyes now darkened like the sky before a storm. “And call the Chief Constable. Tonight we go hunting. No immunity will save him.”

The Public Execution

Dawn on the day before Christmas usually brings a sacred peace. But this morning at the gates of Sandringham Palace, that peace was torn apart by wild sirens and the flashing blue and red lights of a special police convoy.

Ali Plunkett was standing guard at the east security post, hand resting on his holster, face calm as if nothing had happened. He was enjoying the feeling of underground power. He believed his plan was perfect. A little switched flour, an accidental allergic reaction due to the chef’s negligence, and he would be innocent. He was the Queen’s bodyguard. Who would dare suspect him? In Ali’s short-sighted mind, he was protected by the most powerful umbrella in England. He thought of the money in his account and the bright future once the mission was complete.

But Ali was wrong. He had vastly underestimated the wrath of a husband who almost lost his wife, and the ruthlessness of a future King when his family is threatened. He did not understand that when William was backed into a corner, he was no longer a polite prince, but a soldier defending his territory.

Two jet-black armoured Range Rovers rushed in at terrifying speed, braking hard right in front of Ali, leaving burnt tyre tracks on the snow. Before he could react or touch his radio, six armed officers from the counter-terrorism unit jumped out. Automatic rifles pointed straight at his head.

“Ali Plunkett! Drop your weapon immediately! Get down!” The megaphone blared, suppressing any intent to resist.

Reporters and paparazzi, those who always stationed themselves around Sandringham during the holidays to hunt for photos of the royals attending church, were stunned by the unprecedented scene. They frantically snapped photos. Flash bulbs blinked continuously like a lightning storm, capturing every moment of the royal bodyguard’s public humiliation. This was not a friendly royal walkabout. This was a public, brutal, and unsparing arrest—a clear political message.

Ali went pale, drained of blood. His confidence collapsed quickly, replaced by extreme terror. He slowly raised his hands, his handgun falling to the ground. He was tackled by officers into the cold snow. Cold handcuffs locked tight around his wrists, squeezing painfully to the bone.

From the second car, the door opened. Prince William stepped out. He was not in uniform, wearing only a long black wool coat. But the aura radiating from him made everyone, including the police, take a step back in awe.

William walked up to Olly, who was pinned face down in the snow, his gasping breaths creating puffs of white smoke. He said nothing, just leaned down to look straight into his eyes. That look contained no impulsive anger, but extreme contempt and a promise of unforgiving punishment. He wanted Olly to know that he knew everything. He wanted the person behind Ali, watching through the palace window, to see this scene. The rule of ‘never complain, never explain’ was dead.

“Today, I will expose all the trash to the light. Take him away,” William ordered briefly, his voice sharp as a blade, then turned and walked away, not deigning to look back at the lowly creature at his feet.

The photo of William standing tall, looking coldly at his stepmother’s trusted bodyguard being arrested, immediately went viral globally in just minutes. Headlines exploded: Purge at Sandringham. Camilla’s Bodyguard Arrested. William Declares War. The whole world held its breath, watching while the protective wall around Camilla began to crack.

The Confession of Jealousy and Hate

The interrogation room at the local Norfolk police station had no heater. Or perhaps the cold emanating from Ali Plunkett’s fear made the air freezing, penetrating to the marrow. He sat huddled on a steel chair welded to the floor, hands still cuffed to the cold metal table. The glaring white neon light on the ceiling was the only source of illumination, casting ghostly shadows on his gaunt face.

William did not conduct the interrogation directly. He stood behind the one-way mirror, observing every trembling gesture, every drop of sweat rolling down Olly’s forehead.

Inside, a seasoned MI5 investigator specializing in counter-intelligence began the work with terrifying calm. “The evidence is too clear, Olly.” The investigator threw the file on the table, the sound of paper hitting the surface ringing out dryly. “The piece of cardboard has your fingerprints. The invoice for peanut flour from your family’s farm. GPS data from your phone shows you snuck into the kitchen delivery area. You switched it. You wanted to kill Princess Kate. Why? Who ordered you?”

Ali swallowed, eyes darting around, looking for an escape. He knew he couldn’t deny the physical acts. The forensic evidence was irrefutable, but he had a trump card—a story he had rehearsed in his head. A story he believed would turn him from a murderer into an innocent victim of blind loyalty.

“I… I didn’t know she was allergic,” Olly began to cry, tears streaming down his face, a clumsy performance. “I swear I didn’t know about that.”

“Don’t lie!” the investigator shouted, slamming the table. “You are a royal bodyguard. You have been trained on biological threats!”

“But the Queen said it was a gift!” Ali screamed, voice breaking, trying to cling to the only lifeline, which was orders. “She told me. She said she wanted to make amends with Prince William. She said, ‘William and Kate really love the taste of peanuts, but the royal kitchen is too rigid, too old-fashioned to ever serve it.’ She wanted me to help her bring a bit of home flavour, a bit of rustic charm to the party, to create a surprise, to heal the fracturing stepmother-stepson relationship.”

Behind the glass, William gripped the armrest, nails digging deep into the upholstery. Heal. He sneered, a sour smile full of bitterness. The testimony sounded ridiculous but terrifying because of its twisted, subtle logic.

“She cried to me,” Olly continued sobbing, dumping all responsibility on that powerful woman. “She said she was lonely, shunned by her stepchildren, isolated in her own home. She asked me to use flour from my family’s farm because it was clean. It was delicious. I just wanted to please my mistress. I only changed the packaging so the chef wouldn’t discover it and refused to cook. I thought it was a gesture of love. I was just a soldier following orders.”

Ali’s testimony painted a perfect picture of masterful psychological manipulation. Camilla didn’t directly order a murder. She never left fingerprints on the gun. She only suggested, requested with an innocent script, exploiting the blind loyalty and ignorance—or willful ignorance—of Ali to turn him into a murder weapon. She had made him the perfect scapegoat.

“She knew perfectly well,” William whispered to himself, his gaze piercing through the glass as if to incinerate the man sitting there. “She knew exactly how severely allergic Kate is. She saw Kate struggle to breathe when she accidentally smelled peanuts five years ago at a charity event. She stood there watching with a look of curiosity. This was Camilla’s cruelty: killing through inadvertence, killing by another’s hand, and having a script ready to wipe her hands clean if exposed. A malicious move, but one William had seen through.”

The Final Confrontation

William did not wait for the police to complete the legal paperwork. He took the hot transcript of Ali’s testimony and walked straight to King Charles and Queen Camilla’s private quarters at Sandringham.

The palace corridor was long and deep. His footsteps echoed like the knock of the grim reaper. When the heavy oak door opened, the scene inside contrasted completely with the storm raging outside. The fireplace was crackling, emitting a pleasant warmth. Camilla was sitting on a velvet sofa, holding a handkerchief, dabbing her tears, looking distressed. But her eyes were still observing sharply. Beside her was King Charles, pacing the room with extreme confusion and worry, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the scandal.

“William, my son,” Charles stopped when he saw his son enter. “I heard the news about Ali. It’s terrible. I didn’t expect him to take it upon himself to do such a stupid thing. What did the police say?”

“Stop acting,” William cut off his father, his voice devoid of any social respect. He threw the file onto the tea table, knocking over a vase of white roses. The loud crash made Charles startle back while Camilla shrank into the sofa. “Ali confessed everything. You gave him that package of flour. You directed him to switch it. You orchestrated this whole damned ‘rustic gift’ play.”

Camilla looked up, eyes red, her expression of extreme suffering shifting to a defensive state. She didn’t deny handing over the flour, knowing physical evidence was against her. She chose a different tactic: attack with emotion and play the victim of circumstance.

“I didn’t know!” Camilla burst into loud sobs, clinging to Charles’s arm like a frightened child. “Charles, you must believe me. I only meant well. I just wanted the dinner to be more flavorful. Wanted to surprise the children. I’m a senile old woman! I don’t know about medicine!”

“You knew Kate was allergic!” William roared, stepping closer, causing Camilla to press herself against the King. “You were there when she was hospitalized five years ago! Don’t tell me you forgot!”

“I forgot! I’m old! My memory isn’t good anymore!” Camilla screamed back, then suddenly changed her line of attack. She stood up abruptly, pointing at William, her face shifting from distress to pent-up resentment. “And even if I remembered, so what? Did you people ever care about my feelings? Did you ever consider me a mother, a grandmother to the children, or just see me as a wrecker?”

“Don’t drag that into this to distract!” William warned, eyes burning.

“Why not?” Camilla yelled, tears streaming down, smearing her mascara, creating a frighteningly distorted face. “My daughter Laura, she admires Kate so much. She just asked for a pair of tickets to the ‘Together at Christmas’ concert. Just two tickets! I lowered myself to beg you! And what did you do? Your office sent back a cold rejection email: ‘Fully booked.’ Fully booked for the Queen’s daughter while you invite dozens of B-list celebrities!” She thumped her chest, pouring out her pathological jealousy. “My child is treated like a surplus, shunned like a beggar on the street! I just wanted… I just wanted Kate to taste a bit of that feeling. The feeling of suffocating, being uncomfortable, being rejected! I didn’t think it would be that serious! I just wanted her mouth to swell a little, to be a little ugly, so she would be less arrogant, less perfect!”

King Charles stood frozen. He looked at his wife, seeing clearly for the first time the pettiness, envy, and malice hidden behind the devoted, gentle exterior she always displayed. The reason for nearly killing his daughter-in-law, the mother of his heirs, was just because of two concert tickets and petty vanity. The naked truth left him more stunned than the betrayal itself.

The whole room fell silent after Camilla’s frantic screaming fit. She panted, believing the ‘protective mother’ act would soften Charles, evoke his compassion, and reduce the crime to accidental injury due to momentary emotion.

But William suddenly laughed. A cold, dry laugh rang out in the luxurious room. He was completely unmoved.

“You act very well, Camilla,” William said, his voice terrifyingly calm, like a judge passing sentence. “The story about Laura is very touching. But unfortunately, it doesn’t explain this.”

He pulled another envelope from his inner coat pocket, black and thick. “This is Ali Plunkett’s secret bank statement in the Cayman Islands.” William threw it down in front of Camilla. Papers fluttered to the floor. “Two days before the dinner, a sum of £50,000 was transferred to his account. The sender is a shell company, but tracing the source bleeds back to a private charity fund under your patronage. Did you pay for an accident?”

Camilla’s face drained of blood. Her confidence collapsed completely.

“And this too,” William pulled out a tabloid newspaper folded in quarters. “An exclusive article scheduled to be published tomorrow morning: ‘Princess Kate Suffers Eating Disorder: Fakes Allergy Causing Chaos at Christmas Dinner.’ The author of this article received exclusive tips and photos. From whom? From Ali Plunkett. You didn’t just want to harm her physically. You wanted to destroy her reputation before the public.”

“Bring Olly in here!” William ordered the guard standing outside the door.

Ali Plunkett was escorted into the room, hands still cuffed. Seeing the evidence of the money and the article on the floor, his mask of the deceived innocent bodyguard crumbled. He stopped crying. He lifted his head, looked at William, then at Camilla, and laughed maniacally—the laugh of a man with nothing left to lose.

“That’s right,” Ali said, his voice raw with hatred, his eyes burning with madness. “She paid me to dose the food. She wanted Kate humiliated. Wanted her to look like a sickly, crazy person, ruining Christmas. She is jealous of Kate’s shine. But I didn’t just do it for money, William. I did it because I hate you. I hate how you were born with everything. You have the throne, money, the perfect wife, beautiful children. You’ve never known the feeling of worrying about an electricity bill or watching your parents break their backs in the fields of Norfolk just to earn a few pennies.”

Ali took a defiant step forward, though held tight by the guards. “I watch you people eat meals worth my entire year’s salary. I watch you discard clothes after wearing them once. I wanted to see you suffer. I wanted to destroy that perfect shell. I deliberately increased the dosage of the flour. Camilla just wanted Kate to have a swollen face to sell smear photos. But I… I wanted her dead. I wanted you to taste the feeling of loss, the feeling of helplessness, just like we, the servants, feel every day bowing before you.”

The naked truth was exposed. It was not just a simple mother-in-law/daughter-in-law conflict. It was a toxic combination of Camilla’s female jealousy and Ali’s deep-seated class hatred. Two demons had met, feeding each other to create this tragedy.

The Aftermath

The ending came swiftly and brutally, just as the incident had begun.

With no mercy granted, Ali Plunkett was stripped of his service status that very night. Stripped of every honour he had once been proud of. He was transferred to London’s highest security prison, Bellmarsh, facing serious charges—attempted murder, breach of national security, bribery, and selling royal secrets. Given the nature of the case, his trial would be held in secret to protect the regime’s image. But a life sentence in solitary confinement was a certainty. He would spend the rest of his life gnawing on his hatred within four stone walls.

 

As for Camilla, no handcuffs were slapped on her wrists, for she was the Queen. But the punishment for her was more painful than physical imprisonment. King Charles, the man who had spent his life loving her, who had defied the world to marry her, now looked at her with the eyes of a stranger. The disappointment and disgust in his eyes were the sharpest blade, severing all ties.

“You leave here,” he said, his voice tired, aged ten years, as if his soul had been drained. “Go back to Ray Mill House and never set foot in my office or family events again. I do not want to see a murderer in my home.”

The expulsion order was unofficial but absolutely effective. Camilla was stripped of all administrative power. Her private office at the palace was dissolved that night. She kept the title of Queen on paper, but in reality, she had become a ghost, a prisoner under house arrest in her own magnificent but cold homes, completely isolated from the power she had craved all her life.

Kate looked thinner, her face still slightly pale after the severe illness, but her eyes shone with determination and resilience.

William issued a notice that he would still attend church with the royal family to maintain the image before the public, but afterward, he would refuse to attend the meal at the Big House, choosing instead to celebrate privately with his in-laws, the Middletons, following the annual ‘Together at Christmas’ concert.

That was the final and most painful punishment for Camilla and for Charles’s weakness. William had publicly chosen his true family—those who loved Kate unconditionally. He had chosen to protect his wife and children from the poison of the palace, cutting off contact with the source of envy and hatred.