Chapter 6 - BENEATH THE CATHEDRALSaint Aurelia’s Cathedral looked entirely different without a wedding.
Three hours earlier, millions had watched Caroline walk through its bronze doors.
Now police vehicles blocked the square.
Royal guards controlled every entrance.
The flowers remained.
Thousands of white roses.
Gold ribbons.
Caroline and Julian’s monogram.
A celebration frozen halfway through becoming a disaster.
We entered through a side door.
My white Navy uniform drew looks from every guard we passed.
Nobody questioned my presence.
That was almost funny.
Yesterday, my uniform was supposedly too embarrassing for a royal wedding.
Today, it was walking directly into the center of a national security investigation.
King Edmund led us down a narrow staircase behind the sacristy.
Julian followed.
Colonel Vale and four guards surrounded us.
“Why did Dad say you met here?” I asked.
Edmund ran one hand along the stone wall.
“Because your father’s rescue of me was not our first meeting.”
I stared.
“You said he saved you at sea.”
“He did.”
“But you knew him before?”
“Only briefly.”
He explained that when Dad was twenty-four, his ship visited Bellmare.
Dad toured the cathedral with several American sailors.
Edmund was nineteen.
He had slipped away from his security detail to spend an afternoon pretending he wasn’t a prince.
They met in the crypt after both got lost.
“They argued about baseball for twenty minutes,” Edmund said.
I blinked.
“Dad hated baseball.”
“Exactly. He told me it was ‘three hours of waiting for twelve minutes of activity.’”
Despite everything, I laughed.
That was Dad.
Edmund smiled.
“We had lunch. I never told him who I was.”
“Then years later he rescued you.”
“Yes.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“Immediately.”
“What did he say?”
Edmund chuckled.
“Still hate baseball?”
For one beautiful second, my father was alive between us.
Then we reached the crypt.
The atmosphere changed.
Stone tombs lined the walls.
Kings and queens slept beneath carved marble.
Colonel Vale checked his weapon.
“This area should be empty.”
A guard approached from ahead.
“Your Majesty, we found Sir Alistair’s access card.”
“Where?”
“Near the old maritime chapel.”
Edmund looked at me.
That had to be it.
The maritime chapel sat beneath the eastern transept.
Small.
Forgotten.
A mosaic of ships covered one wall.
Dad loved ships.
I studied the room.
“If he hid something here twelve years ago, where would it survive?”
Julian pointed toward a bronze plaque.
It commemorated sailors lost at sea.
I stepped closer.
At the bottom were dozens of small engraved plates.
One stood out.
USS HAMILTON — FRIENDSHIP VISIT, 1987
Dad’s ship.
I touched it.
The plate moved.
“Vale.”
Colonel Vale came over.
We removed two screws.
Behind the plaque was a cavity.
Inside sat a waterproof package.
King Edmund whispered, “Robert.”
My hands shook as I pulled it free.
A hard drive.
Documents.
And another photograph.
Dad and Edmund at nineteen and twenty-four, sitting on cathedral steps holding paper cups and laughing.
I stared at Dad’s young face.
Then applause exploded above us.
We all froze.
Julian looked toward the ceiling.
“What is that?”
Music started.
Wedding music.
Colonel Vale grabbed his radio.
“Report.”
Static.
Then:
“Sir, the public broadcast has resumed.”
Julian’s face changed.
“What?”
A guard held out his phone.
The live wedding broadcast was back online.
But the cathedral altar was empty.
Instead, a title appeared:
A MESSAGE CONCERNING THE FUTURE OF THE CROWN
Then Sir Alistair Crane appeared on screen.
He sat in an unknown room.
Perfect suit.
Perfect posture.
Calm expression.
“Citizens of Bellmare,” he began.
King Edmund whispered, “Dear God.”
Alistair continued.
“Today should have been a celebration. Instead, our nation has witnessed foreign influence reach into the heart of our monarchy.”
A photograph of me appeared.
My official Navy portrait.
Then Dad.
“Commander Emily Carter and her late father have maintained an undisclosed relationship with His Majesty for decades.”
I stared.
Alistair was turning us into the villains.
Documents appeared.
Payments.
The same ones Marcus had shown Caroline.
Alistair claimed Dad had accepted secret royal funds.
Claimed I had exploited Julian’s rescue.
Claimed the wedding was stopped because I demanded recognition.
“He’s lying,” Julian said.
“He doesn’t need everyone to believe him,” I answered.
“Just enough.”
Alistair knew exactly what he was doing.
Create chaos.
Make the king look compromised.
Make Julian’s marriage look manipulated.
Make me look like an American military officer interfering with a foreign monarchy.
Then Alistair said:
“For decades, King Edmund has concealed evidence that could invalidate the current succession.”
Edmund became still.
Alistair held up a document.
“The Crown Prince’s claim is legally defective.”
Julian stared at the screen.
“What?”
Alistair smiled sadly.
“I did everything in my power to prevent this scandal from destroying our nation.”
The broadcast ended.
Almost immediately, bells began ringing across the city.
Not wedding bells.
Emergency parliamentary bells.
Edmund swore.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Under Bellmarian law, a credible succession challenge automatically triggers review by the Council of State.”
“How fast?”
“Immediately.”
Julian looked at his father.
“Alistair planned this.”
Edmund nodded.
“He wanted the wedding interrupted.”
I frowned.
“Then why work through Caroline to keep me away?”
“Because if you weren’t here,” Julian said slowly, “we wouldn’t have Dad’s archive.”
Exactly.
Alistair had two paths.
If I stayed away, he controlled the evidence.
If I came, he triggered public chaos before we could verify it.
Either way, he intended to seize the narrative.
I opened Dad’s package.
Inside was a handwritten index.
One entry was underlined three times.
CRANE ACCOUNT — 2004–2014
Another:
DNA FILE — FALSE
Julian saw it.
His face changed.
“What DNA file?”
King Edmund looked confused.
“I don’t know.”
I plugged the drive into Colonel Vale’s secure laptop.
Folders appeared.
Most were readable.
Dad had documented everything.
Payments from shell companies to journalists.
Bribes to palace staff.
Fabricated medical records.
Then we found it.
A folder labeled SUCCESSION.
Inside was a report claiming Julian was not King Edmund’s biological son.
Julian stared at the screen.
Nobody spoke.
The report showed genetic markers.
Dates.
Names.
A private laboratory.
If authentic, Julian had no legal blood claim to the throne under Bellmarian law.
Edmund gripped the table.
“This is impossible.”
Julian looked at him.
“Are you sure?”
The question hurt them both.
Edmund turned.
“You are my son.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“I know.”
Silence.
Then I saw another file.
ANALYSIS — CARTER
I opened it.
Dad had investigated the laboratory.
The genetic report was fraudulent.
Samples had been switched.
The technician responsible received $280,000 through a company linked to Alistair Crane.
Julian exhaled.
Edmund shut his eyes.
But there was more.
Dad had obtained the actual DNA result.
Probability of paternity:
99.9987%.
Julian laughed once.
A broken sound.
“Congratulations,” I said quietly. “You’re still a prince.”
He looked at me.
“Today keeps improving.”
Then Colonel Vale’s radio crackled.
“Sir, Council of State has convened.”
Edmund straightened.
“How long until they vote?”
“Less than two hours.”
“On what?”
“Temporary suspension of Crown Prince Julian’s succession status pending investigation.”
Julian stared.
Alistair had timed everything.
If Julian were suspended before the truth emerged, the next eligible claimant would become acting heir.
I looked at Edmund.
“Who’s next?”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
I already knew.
Lord Marcus Vane.
Caroline’s adviser.
The man who convinced her to erase me.
Not because he cared about her wedding.
Not because my uniform embarrassed anyone.
Because keeping me in Virginia kept my father’s evidence buried.
Julian looked toward the cathedral stairs.
“We have two hours.”
“No,” I said.
Everyone looked at me.
I held up Dad’s drive.
“We have whatever time Alistair thinks we need.”
Julian frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“He expects us to rush into the Council with this.”
“It proves the report is fake.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“So Dad warned us Marcus isn’t the architect.”
I looked at Edmund.
“Alistair wants Marcus elevated.”
The king’s face changed.
“Why?”
“That’s what we haven’t figured out.”
I turned back to the files.
There was one last folder.
IF JULIAN FALLS
I opened it.
Inside was a single document.
A birth certificate.
Not Julian’s.
Marcus Vane’s.
King Edmund stared at it.
Then he whispered:
“That cannot be real.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
His eyes rose to mine.
“Because according to this…”
May you like
He swallowed.
“Marcus is my half-brother.”
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