Peter Leopold was unlike the rest of his bloodline. At only fourteen, he was quiet, almost too quiet for a boy his age. He carried himself with the kind of politeness that seemed rehearsed, drilled into him, but there was still something genuine about the way he would thank a servant or hold open a door. His family’s name had always been considered an enemy to the Crown, a history soaked in rebellion and defiance. Out of fear that he might inherit that very defiance, the monarchy decided it was better to keep him close than let him roam free.

So Peter lived among the royals—not as one of them, but as a shadow. He wore clothes that were often too small or too thin for the weather, except on days when his presence was needed at a formal occasion. Then, and only then, would he be dressed in something fitting. Still, bruises often peeked from beneath the sleeves of those garments. He didn’t complain. He never did.

King Philip had the harshest hand toward the boy, convinced that discipline was the only way to keep Peter from ever daring to follow in his ancestors’ footsteps. Guards were told to keep him in line, sometimes with fists, sometimes with subtle pinches meant to sting without leaving much evidence. Despite it all, Peter stayed polite, stayed helpful, almost as though he believed if he just behaved well enough, someone would finally see him differently.

The palace was unusually silent that night, except for the muffled sound of retching behind one of the gilded bathroom doors. Princess Diana leaned over the porcelain sink, her hand pressed weakly against her stomach. Her chest heaved, her throat raw. She hated how vulnerable she felt in those moments, with no one to comfort her. Charles slept soundly down the hall, as if her suffering didn’t exist.

A soft knock startled her. Three light taps, tentative, careful.

“…Your Highness?”

She opened the door, wiping her mouth with a trembling hand, only to find Peter Leopold standing there. The hallway lamp cast a pale glow on his face. His dark hair fell slightly over his eyes, and she noticed—more than she wanted to—fresh bruises mottling his thin arms. More than she remembered. The faint purple circles looked like they’d been made by pinching fingers, probably at dinner earlier when King Philip’s displeasure had run high.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” Peter asked, his voice hushed, concerned. His accent carried the faintest trace of the family England despised, but it was softened now, gentle, almost fragile.

Diana blinked at him. In that moment, the ache in her stomach was joined by something else—a pang of sorrow. Here was this boy, treated like a threat, when all she could see was a child trying to care.

She managed a weak smile. “I’ll be fine, Peter. Just a little unwell, that’s all.”

For a brief moment, her misery dulled. His concern reminded her what kindness felt like, even if it came from someone the court labeled dangerous. Sometimes, she thought, the boy’s quiet presence made her forget how fractured her marriage was, how cold Charles could be.

Peter’s eyes lingered on her, steady but soft, as if he didn’t believe her entirely. “If you need anything… I can fetch water. Or a cloth.”

Her smile trembled but held. “Thank you. You’re very thoughtful.”

In the silence that followed, the palace felt a little less heavy. Diana closed the door slowly, but the image of the bruised boy stayed with her—an image she wouldn’t forget by morning.