Chapter Text
George steps into the corridor, adjusting his tie. His hair is perfectly styled, and his suit fits his body flawlessly, as always. Replying to a message, George enters the conference room in an unusually good mood. His personal secretary is already inside. The prince gives a quick nod and, slipping his phone away, takes his seat at the table, crossing one leg over the other.
“Good morning, Your Highness!” Pierre places a folder on the table in front of him, knowing that the prince never takes anything from anyone's hands, and George opens it without bothering to reply.
Every day feels like a fucking time loop: a brief rundown of the agenda and security, talking points for public appearances, protocol approvals, letters, short calls. George exhales heavily, skimming the pages with his eyes.
“Visit to the Yard until twelve thirty, working lunch until two, visit to the military unit at three,” Pierre places another sheet in front of George and nods toward the pen, indicating it needs to be signed. “Rehearsal for tomorrow's ceremony at five thirty. Dinner with the family at eight.”
George rubs his eyes and lets out another heavy sigh. He signs several documents and lifts his gaze to Pierre.
“I have plans for this evening, so move or cancel my morning meetings,” he says, rising from the table and smoothing his jacket.
He catches Pierre clenching his jaw, barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes. Unfortunately, he cannot afford that in the prince's presence, so he answers evenly.
“You know that's impossible, Your Highness.”
“You always manage the impossible for me,” George whispers conspiratorially, patting his secretary on the shoulder as he leaves the room. He knows Pierre probably hates him.
Prince George William of Wales, third in line to the throne, the spare heir, has always considered himself different from the others. Impeccable Savile Row suits. Coats that sit on his shoulders like armor for his status. A camera-ready smile. The measured tone of a man who has never been told no. A habit of speaking in hints and half-phrases, forcing others to guess what he truly wants. George has never liked direct confrontation, preferring to use politeness as a weapon and cold indifference as punishment.
“Good morning, Your Highness!” the driver smiles as George approaches the car.
George nods, enjoying the way people have flattered him for the past twenty-seven years, feeding an already inflated ego. And while George adores luxury and attention, he sincerely believes it is all flattery and hypocrisy, which is why he never truly trusts anyone. To the public, George is the charming, stylish, arrogant prince who supports youth initiatives. To palace staff, he is polite but makes people feel obligated. To his family? To them, George is merely a convenient, presentable member of the dynasty.
The armored car speeds through central London as George types a message to one of his friends. His social circle has always been strictly limited because of his status. George could never afford to choose friends without his family's approval – one wrong person nearby could damage the Crown's reputation. His friendships were not allowed to resemble political alliances or commercial endorsements.
Fortunately, young Lord Oscar Piastri was considered a safe option – an estate in Norfolk, family archives dating back to the seventeenth century, no scandals, composed, recognizable. The perfect candidate.
Lando was far more complicated. His constant parties had become the calling card of the young viscount, the son of the twelfth Earl Norris. They met when George studied Art History at Oxford. Lando managed to secure a place on the board overseeing the restoration of historic gardens, and they frequently crossed paths at the horse races. Eventually, George was permitted to publicly associate with the mischievous viscount.
“Your Highness, are you listening?”
George rolls his eyes and puts his phone away. The smile disappears from his face. Turning to Pierre, he presses his lips together and asks him to repeat.
The visit to the Yard, a youth support center, goes better than expected. George reads his prepared speech, catches admiring glances, and smiles his practiced smile. He shakes hands, thanks people for their work, promises a bright future, and tries to be exemplary. Perfect. George always strives to be perfect and fears falling short. He cannot afford to fail in other people's eyes. Even kings have fears.
“You did well today,” his father says at dinner, lifting a spoon to his mouth. George straightens his shoulders with quiet satisfaction.
“Sure, if we ignore the idiotic joke you made in front of the military,” Benji says, and George shoots his brother an irritated look. “Seriously, Georgie, watch your mouth.”
“Yes, dear,” his mother suddenly adds, and George's shoulders drop involuntarily. His appetite vanishes. “You should remember where you are and who you represent. There was a stumble in your speech. You can do better.”
Another evening of humiliation. George can survive that. Later, he will drown the resentment in alcohol.
Richmond looks expensive, as always. Standing at the bar in the club, George nods along to the music while scrolling through X. Politics, screenshots from a trending series, edits of himself and other members of the royal family. One of George's secrets is a private account he runs as an ordinary fan. Sometimes he posts provocative tweets about himself and his family when he is especially angry. Mostly, he just likes and reposts memes about himself.
“Chin up, mate!” Lando nearly strangles him with an arm around his neck, and George laughs, trying to push him away. “Get all that shit out of your head!”
George manages to lock his phone before turning around. Lando spills whiskey on him, and George curses under his breath, shoving the drunken viscount away. Oscar, standing nearby in his flawless black suit, merely rolls his eyes.
They drink until late into the night, long enough for George to forget that he will never quite live up to perfection.
✞
George likes galas. At them, he can blend into the crowd while still remaining close to his family. Tonight, only he and his brother Benjamin are present, along with Benjamin's wife and son, which makes it especially important for George not to embarrass himself. The heir to the throne has always set the example – the best son, the best husband, the best father, the best prince.
Fortunately, Oscar is here as well. They keep to the side, exchanging polite conversation and smiling at everyone around them. Tonight's charity gala supports projects focused on restoring natural ecosystems and urban greening. The Green Protocol sets it apart – low-carbon menus, transparent sustainability reporting – sheer boredom. They spend the evening in the halls of the National Museum, securing matching donations from major corporations and donor clubs. George is not particularly interested in the official program. He is far more curious about other people's outfits and the taste of expensive champagne.
“There you are!”
A familiar voice cuts through the crowd, and George turns in surprise, hardly believing his eyes. Lando appears before them, impeccably dressed, curls as unruly as ever, grinning brightly with a flute in hand. Oscar exhales heavily beside him.
“I don't recall seeing your name on the guest list,” Oscar says, taking a sip and slipping his hand into his pocket. Lando clicks his tongue as he steps closer, lowering his voice.
“Your bank account and perfect manners stop you from seeing past your own nose, darling.”
George rolls his eyes.
“You're unbearable,” he says lightly.
“But you'd be bored without me.”
And that is absolutely true.
The real disaster comes later. When George gets properly drunk. Standing by the appetizer table, he eats canapés while shamelessly flirting with both the daughter and the son of some count whose name he cannot remember. Someone approaches to shake his hand, but George brushes them off, unwilling to interrupt the pointless conversation. Lando has disappeared somewhere, and Oscar is parading around with his father like the perfect son, so George entertains himself however he can while everyone's attention remains fixed on his flawless, ideal brother.
“What the hell are you doing, Georgie?”
Someone grabs his elbow, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises. George freezes for a moment before recognizing Benjamin's furious face. He tries to pull away, but Benji only tightens his grip, dragging him farther from the table while smiling at guests along the way.
“That was the French ambassador. How could you refuse to speak to him? Are you out of your mind?” Benjamin shoves him against the wall around the corner, glaring at him. George straightens up, adjusting his jacket and forcing an impassive mask onto his face. “You're here to sell your face, not your ass. What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you trying to start a scandal?”
“Oh, how wonderful that you're so perfect,” George mutters under his breath, watching his brother's face redden by the second. “Go smile at them like you're not a real asshole.”
“Shut your mouth, get yourself together, and go home so no one sees this,” Benjamin snaps before leaving George alone in the dark corridor.
George hates him. Hates all of them.
He leaves the event without saying goodbye and gets into the car, hoping he will not have to see his brother's infuriating face the next morning, because he is one breath away from spitting at him. When he collapses onto his bed, his body feels boneless and his mind even more clouded than before. He does not even bother to undress, falling onto the mattress in his suit and shoes. Fuck everything!
Taking a swig straight from the bottle of champagne he brought with him, the prince pulls out his phone and opens X. He scrolls for a few minutes before stumbling upon photos of his brother and his wife from the gala. Sickeningly perfect. George feels rage coil in his chest.
Setting the bottle aside, he taps the “+” to make a new post on his fake account. Aggressively typing a single sentence, George hits “post”, tosses the phone away, and lies down. At least here, he can secretly spill everything that has been festering in his soul.
✞
George wakes to blinding light burning his eyes and someone shouting furiously. The blanket is ripped off him, and the next moment the prince crashes onto the floor. It takes him a second to realize he has been shoved off the bed.
“You think this is funny?!” Benjamin roars. “You're a complete fucking asshole, George. Have you decided to turn yourself into an even bigger joke?”
Sleep evaporates the instant George sees his brother's furious face bursting into the room. What time even is it? The valet hovers behind him, trying to calm the heir. Pierre is there too, pale as if someone has died. Somewhere in the distance, George hears the Queen's approaching voice.
Panic floods him. He has no idea what is happening. When Benjamin lunges at him again, George stumbles back, realizing his brother is about to hit him for real. The valet, taking a risk, grabs Benjamin by the shoulder and pulls him away from the terrified prince.
“You're an idiot, George. An absolute idiot.”
George's heart pounds wildly as he struggles to understand what is happening. What the hell has he done to enrage his brother this much? His mother enters the room with the same furious expression, and George's breath catches.
“That's enough, Benjamin. Step away from him,” she says sharply, positioning herself between her sons.
Pressed against the curtains, George darts his gaze across the faces filling his room, unable to understand what they want from him. Finally, he looks at his mother, and he has never seen such disappointment on her face before. Jaw clenched, she fixes him with a suppressing stare and says coldly:
“Get dressed. Now.”
She leads the raging Benjamin out. The valet throws George a guilty look before leaving as well. Alone with Pierre, George runs a hand down his face and exhales heavily.
“Will you at least tell me what's going on?” he asks quietly. Pierre sighs.
“I've been instructed to take your phone, Your Highness,” he says softly.
“What?”
“Your phone, sir,” Pierre repeats, holding out his hand without a hint of humor.
George frantically searches the bed and catches sight of hundreds of notifications lighting up the screen before Pierre snatches the phone from his grasp.
“Please, hurry. They're waiting for you in the conference room.”
George remains standing there, watching his secretary leave last. Alone, he has no idea what is happening. After dressing and washing his face, he makes his way to the conference room. The moment he steps inside, a wave of ice crashes through him. Everyone gathered fixes him with condemning looks, and swallowing the lump in his throat, George takes the empty seat across from his mother.
A catastrophe. A fucking catastrophe.
When George sees the screenshot on the screen, nausea surges violently. He clamps a hand over his mouth, afraid he might vomit right onto the table. Dropping his gaze, he presses his lips together and nervously shakes his leg beneath the table. All eyes are on him, but George is drowning in his shame. He doubts he will ever be able to look his family in the eye again.
@PrinceGeorgeOfWales: I wonder, how does Prince Benjamin enjoy playing the perfect public figure after fucking a top model in the back seat of the royal limo?
Of course, George meant to post it from his fake account, just for fun. Just to spark ridiculous rumors, knowing it would infuriate his perfect brother. When he published the post last night, George failed to notice he had done so from his official account. The post was deleted, obviously, but millions of screenshots spread across the internet.
The next two hours pass like hell.
George has to explain exactly how it happened. About the secret account. About the fatal mistake he made last night. Benji, of course, denies “this nonsense”, and unwilling to anger his brother further, George agrees that his words were lies. He says he wrote it as a joke. He cannot bring himself to look Isabel in the eye and admit that he has known all along that her husband is a cheater.
The scandal takes on a life of its own. The harder the palace tries to smother it, the more violently it spreads. Screenshots are everywhere – journalists, bloggers, diplomats. The press office releases a dry statement about a hacked account, but no one believes it.
A real crisis erupts. Benjamin demands a public apology from George, but the advisors refuse – acknowledging the damage would mean admitting there is truth to it. Opinions clash. Some insist on publicly punishing the younger prince, a stance supported by Her Majesty. Others argue the scandal should be buried quietly. Someone suggests finding a scapegoat – a staff member, an assistant, an SMM manager – but security shuts it down. If the truth surfaces, the blow will be far worse.
The next two days are chaos. George is stripped of all communication, isolated from the internet and from everyone around him, in case a single careless word leaks to the press. He is forbidden from seeing his friends. All his appearances are canceled. While the palace works tirelessly to restore Benjamin's reputation, forcing him and his wife to attend event after event, George is prepared for a statement.
George's mother and brother insist on stripping him of all public roles, but his father argues that cruelty would only turn him into a martyr. That is why, in the end, the court decides to send George into exile as punishment — what they insist on calling a “community service initiative.” What utter nonsense.
Three months.
For three long months, George is to leave the palace and move into a rented house in godforsaken Tinepool – a coastal town drowning in poverty and unemployment. No luxury. No publicity. No social media. According to a plan devised by people George hates with all his soul, for the next three months he is to oversee the Bridge Project, aimed at restoring a crumbling college. On top of that, he is expected to teach, to “instill hope and faith in young minds”. That particularly miserable idea belongs to his mother, and George will never forgive her for it.
He is neck-deep in shit. A devastating storm destroyed his life within minutes of that tweet, and now George must spend this time in hell to atone for his sins.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” the woman opposite him says, offering her fragile hand. George shakes it carefully, keeping his mask of composure firmly in place. He no longer smiles at anyone. “My name is Alexandra Saint Mleux. I will be your curator for the next three months.”
George furrows his brow, not entirely sure what that means. Crossing his arms over his chest, he studies her with a stern look.
“I thought Pierre was coming with me.”
“No. Mr Gasly remains at the palace. You will be accompanied by me and Mr Sainz,” Alexandra says, gesturing to the silent bodyguard behind her. “Are you ready?”
George exhales and nods resignedly.
They are heading to the hospital today. He and Benjamin. It will be the younger prince's first public appearance since the scandal. When George gets into the car, Benji is already inside. They do not exchange a single word.
George spends time with sick children, entertaining them and taking photos. He gives them toys and tells jokes, making them smile. On their way out, the press is waiting, of course. Benjamin flashes his best smile, keeping a hand on his brother's shoulder, and George forces himself to smile as well. He behaves with restraint, trying to appear relaxed. Nothing excessive. Perfect.
“Prince George! Prince George!” someone thrusts a microphone toward him. “Care to comment on your post?”
George freezes, casting a quick glance at his brother. Benji nods, maintaining his fake smile. Mirroring him, George pulls on the same artificial smile and turns to the breathless crowd.
“Certain statements circulating in the public sphere do not reflect reality. I love my brother, and that is all that needs to be said. We do not intend to comment on our family's private life. At present, we are focused on our work and our service to the country.”
The memorized words spill easily from his mouth, and George feels his brother nudge him forward. Security clears a path, and George exhales loudly once he is finally back in the car. His tie feels suffocating. He loosens it and pulls it from his neck. Running a hand through his hair, George leans his head back, breathing heavily. He casts one single glance at Benji, but his brother does not look back and says nothing. George is not sure he will ever speak to him again.
Two days later, George officially leaves London for his “personal mission”. It is not meant to look like a punishment, but the public knows exactly what it is. George feels a little lighter when Oscar and Lando come to say goodbye and tell him that many people online are on the younger prince's side. Many believe the palace is being cruel to him. But George knows there are also those who are surely dragging him through the mud. They think he is simply jealous of his brother.
Maybe, in some ways, they are right. But none of them will ever know.
As they enter the small town, George studies the streets through the tinted windows of the car. He presses his lips together when he sees a crowd gathered near the house rented for him.
“What the hell is this?” he asks Carlos, who is driving, but the man remains silent. Alexandra, seated beside him, tenses as well.
“Protests,” she says, and George raises his eyebrows in surprise.
“Wonderful,” he mutters, noticing the slogans on the placards held by the disgruntled locals.
«WE ARE NOT YOUR PR PROJECT»
Carlos pulls into the driveway.
“Smile,” Alexandra reminds him as she unbuckles her seatbelt. George hates all of them. He does not want to smile.
Nevertheless, when the bodyguard opens the door, the prince steps out of the car and waves at the protesters with a strained smile on his face. Receiving only angry shouts in response, George turns away and tilts his head back, surveying the small cottage as he exhales heavily.
An elegant two-storey cottage in a traditional style, faced with pale stone, arched windows, and a distinctive entrance. Not a palace, but pleasant enough, it even feels cozy to the prince. Low shrubs line the path, wooden detailing frames the garage, and there is a quaint little lantern by the door. George exhales.
“Home, sweet home.”