Part 2: The baby screamed until the palace waitress held him, but when he pulled her locket to reveal the dead princess's face, the entire royal wedding plunged into pure terror.

Within ten minutes, the grand wedding hall was emptied of all guests. Sirens wailed outside the palace perimeter as dozens of armored police vehicles arrived, sealing off every entrance and exit.

The media was already circling like vultures outside the palace iron gates, their helicopter blades chopping through the rainy sky.

Alexander escorted me, Margaret, and baby Oliver through a private underground passage straight into the Sovereign’s private residential wing. The heavy steel-reinforced doors sealed shut with a pneumatic hiss, shutting out the chaos of the outside world.

The nursery was quiet, smelling faintly of lavender, baby powder, and old books.

Oliver finally loosened his grip on my shirt. He looked up at my face, blinking his huge hazel eyes, and reached out a tiny, soft hand to touch my cheek.

"Mama?" he whispered, his tiny voice cracking.

A sharp, painful lump formed in my throat. I glanced desperately at Alexander, not knowing what to do. "I... I don't want to confuse him. I’m not his mother."

Alexander walked over slowly, kneeling beside the armchair where I sat holding his son. Up close, I could see the dark circles beneath his eyes—the exhaustion of a man who had spent two years carrying the weight of a shattered family and a fractured kingdom.

"He was only eight months old when Eleanor died," Alexander said, his voice husky. "He doesn't remember her face clearly. But he remembers her scent. He remembers her voice. And her eyes."

Alexander looked directly into mine, his gaze intense and unwavering.

"You have her eyes, Clara. Exactly her eyes."

Margaret sat on a plush sofa nearby, nursing a hot cup of tea brought by a silent, loyal maid. "They were identical in every medical sense, Alexander. Even their fingerprints had mirror similarities."

"Why didn't you come forward sooner, Margaret?" Alexander asked, though the anger had faded from his voice, replaced only by sorrow. "Why wait until the altar?"

"Because Duke Sterling controlled the royal intelligence network," Margaret replied, her voice solemn. "If I had landed at Heathrow a month ago, Clara and I would have disappeared without a trace. A car accident. An unexplained overdose. I had to wait for an event where the entire world’s cameras were pointed at Victoria and her father. An event where they couldn't bury the truth in the dark."

"And who uploaded the files?" I asked, looking at my phone, which was still buzzing endlessly with notifications. "Who sent me the messages?"

Alexander looked down at the floor, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.