The phone rang at 3:47 in the morning.

Kensington Palace was silent. The long corridors lay in shadow, the state rooms locked, the staff long since retired to their quarters below stairs. Y/n's private line — the one that never rang, the one reserved for the family — was screaming into the dark.

Outside, London was still. Even the traffic had paused, as if the city itself held its breath.

The line went quiet. Then, barely audible:

The words hung in the air like smoke.