Redefining Protocol: Chapter 3
Content warning: Predatory behaviour by an adult alpha (Prince Arthur, 24) toward a seventeen-year-old Tommy, framed through Tommy’s oblivious teenage diary entry.
The day before publication
King James stalked through his private office in Buckingham Palace like a caged lion with a thorn in its paw. His mobile pinged for what felt like the four-hundredth time that evening, and James sincerely considered hurling it through the antique stained glass window that had survived three centuries of monarchs but might not survive his current mood.
Another bloody panda meme.
He swiped open his family WhatsApp group to find Augustus had sent a doctored road safety poster featuring their omega father’s bewildered face superimposed on a panda with the text: Remember children, look both ways before crossing… unless your bloodline goes back to William the Conqueror, then just vibe and hope for the best.
“For fuck’s sake,” James muttered, dropping onto the leather chair behind his desk with enough force to make the ancient wood creak in protest. The chair had belonged to his father, and his grandfather before that, men who’d never had to deal with the indignity of their omega parent becoming a viral TikTok sensation.
His phone vibrated again. This time it was Alice, responding to Augustus’s meme with three cry-laughing emojis and a gif of a cartoon panda rolling down a hill.
James ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he’d inherited from his father along with the throne, the country, and an omega who apparently needed to be bubble-wrapped before being allowed out in public. The day’s engagement had gone perfectly. Daddy had been his usual composed, elegant self, painting pretty flowers and making polite conversation, the perfect royal omega. No one looking at him would ever imagine that soon, the entire country would be reading about how he assumed ‘claiming an omega’ involved some sort of arcane paperwork process, ‘like registering an antique vase with Lloyd’s of London,’ not the rather more primal reality.
The thought made James physically nauseated.
For the past month, he’d been desperately trying to keep the impending diary disaster at bay. Legal injunctions. Backdoor negotiations. Threats delivered in the politest possible terms by men in suits so expensive they circled back to not even looking expensive in their simplicity. All of it useless. The palace’s legal team had explained that abandoned property was abandoned property, and the fact that a maintenance person had disposed of the diaries during his father’s “decluttering” phase only weakened their case further.
Tomorrow, the first excerpts would hit the tabloids.
His phone buzzed again. Augustus, sending a video of a panda sneezing and startling itself awake, captioned: Live footage of Dad realising people don’t stop traffic for regular pedestrians.
Something inside James snapped like an overstretched elastic band.
He jabbed at his brother’s contact and pressed the phone to his ear, drumming his fingers against the polished mahogany desktop as he waited for Augustus to pick up.
“Evening, Your Majesty,” Augustus drawled after the fourth ring, his voice carrying that particular blend of public school pronunciation and deliberate insolence he’d perfected around age thirteen. “To what do I owe the royal summons?”
“Stop it with the fucking panda memes, Augustus,” James growled, abandoning all pretense of regal composure. “Just stop it.”
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, then a low chuckle. “Hello, brother dearest. I take it you’re not enjoying my carefully curated content?”
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s objectively hilarious. Daddy nearly got flattened by a taxi because he thought traffic would magically part for him like he’s royal Moses.”
James pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache building behind his eyes. “They make Daddy feel bad, Augie. Stop it. People are laughing at him.”
The nickname, which Augustus had long outgrown but which James deployed in moments of stress or manipulation, landed with precision. There was a pause, then a slight shift in Augustus’s tone, the irreverence giving way to something more cautious.
“Daddy seemed fine at dinner last night. He was the one who showed me the remix someone made with ‘Move Bitch Get Out The Way’ playing over his near-death experience.”
“That’s his public face,” James replied, lowering his voice despite being alone in the room. “You know how he gets. He’ll laugh along and act like it doesn’t bother him, but it does.”
“Jamie,” Augustus said, using James’s childhood name with deliberate effect, “what’s really going on? Dad’s been memed before. Remember when a candle accidentally set fire to his morning suit cuff during a State Banquet with the Swedes? He had those photos framed.”
James hesitated. His protective instincts warred with the knowledge that Augustus would find out soon enough anyway. Possibly tomorrow, over his morning coffee, along with the rest of the nation.
“There’s something coming,” he said finally, his voice tight. “Something bad.”
“What, worse than Daddy at forty attempting pedestrian crossing and failing spectacularly? Has he been caught doing lines of coke off the Sovereign’s Sceptre With Cross?”
“It’s not a joke, Augustus. It’s serious.”
The silence that followed carried more weight than Augustus’s usual sarcasm. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its flippant edge. “Jamie, you’re actually scaring me now. What’s happened?”
James opened his mouth to explain when a soft knock at the door interrupted him. His communications secretary, Winters, entered without waiting for a response, looking like a man arriving at his own funeral.
“I’ve got to go,” James said abruptly. “Just… no more panda memes. Please.”
He hung up before Augustus could respond, slipping the phone into his pocket and straightening his posture into something approximating kingly composure. “Yes, Winters?”
Winters, a rail-thin beta with the pained expression of someone perpetually anticipating disaster, cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, I’m afraid we’ve received word from The Sun. They’re requesting comment on… well, on the matter we’ve been monitoring.”
The matter they’d been monitoring. Such a bloodless way to describe the complete and utter evisceration of his father’s privacy.
“And?” James asked, though he already knew the answer.
“They’re publishing the first excerpts tomorrow morning. Front page. To start drumming up interest for the book publication.”
James stared at his secretary, feeling the weight of the crown his father had placed on his head last year pressing down like it was made of neutron star material rather than gold and jewels.
“I’ve taken the liberty of acquiring an advance copy of tomorrow’s article,” Winters continued, producing a folded paper from his inside pocket. “One of the sub-editors owed me a favour.”
“Let’s see it then,” James said, extending his hand.
Winters hesitated. “Perhaps Your Majesty should prepare yourself. The tone is… unfortunately sensationalist.”
“Just give it to me, Winters.”
The secretary placed the mockup into James’s waiting palm. The garish red logo of The Sun screamed across the top of the page, and the headline made James’s stomach clench: “ROYAL RIDING LESSONS: Teenage Duke’s Equestrian Confusion with Prince Arthur.”
James scanned the article, his jaw tightening with each paragraph. The reporter had transformed his father’s innocent confusion into something tawdry and cheap. They’d included a stock photo of a teenage Tommy in riding gear, looking impossibly young and vulnerable beside an inset image of Prince Arthur in his polo uniform.
Then came the diary excerpt itself, printed in a stylised font meant to mimic handwriting:
18 April 2001
Bloody hell, what a day. The charity showjumping showcase was exhausting in ways I hadn’t anticipated, and not just because of Galaxy’s pre-competition jitters.
I was up at 5 this morning checking on her. She’s been off her feed lately, just a bit, and I wanted to make sure she was properly settled before the crowds arrived. Found Roberts (the new stable hand) trying to give her the wrong feed mix. Had to explain, with what I hope was remarkable patience, that Galaxy is particularly fussy about her morning feed and needs the precise mixture I’d left clearly labelled. Some people simply cannot read instructions.
Galaxy was magnificent once we got going, though. Perfect form over the triple bar. I could feel her gathering herself underneath me, that moment of perfect suspension before she launched. There’s nothing quite like it. I’d rather be on horseback than anywhere else on earth. Grandmother says it’s not dignified for someone of my “particular designation” to be so obsessed with “beasts,” but frankly, horses make infinitely more sense than people.
The event itself was predictably tedious. I managed to avoid most of the small talk by staying with Galaxy until Porter told me to “stop fussing like an old woman.” Bit rich coming from someone who once made me ride the same circle for two hours because my heels weren’t down properly.
The Prince of Wales made an appearance, of course. He’s patron of the charity, after all. I’ve met him a few times now at various functions Grandmother has dragged me to, and he always makes me feel strangely wrong-footed. Today was particularly odd.
He shook my hand for what felt like ages, congratulating me on “a magnificent seat.” Said he’d been watching me handle Galaxy with great interest.
Then things got weird. He started going on about my “expert handling of stallions between my legs” which was just factually incorrect, so I pointed out that Galaxy is a mare. He smiled in this way that made me think I’d said something either very clever or very stupid, and I couldn’t tell which.
“Have you ever tried riding bareback on a stallion, Your Grace?” he asked. “It can be quite exhilarating.”
I told him I don’t particularly enjoy bareback riding, as proper pelvic positioning is extremely important for both rider and horse, and I’ve found a good saddle helps a long way with that. He laughed, properly laughed, which seemed an odd reaction to basic equestrian knowledge.
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said. “Proper pelvic positioning is extremely important.”
Porter suddenly appeared at my elbow looking slightly panicked, which was strange because Porter is usually unflappable, even that time Galaxy got loose and ended up in the tea tent at the Henley Show. He tried to steer me away, but the Prince physically moved him aside, which is just not done, even if you are first in line to the throne.
“I’d be happy to help you find your proper pelvic positioning bareback, if you’d like to learn,” the Prince continued, and since he seemed genuinely interested in riding technique, I demonstrated my positioning. It’s all in the hips, after all.
To my complete surprise, he put his hands on my hips, facing me directly, and moved me into what he called “a rhythm that led to optimal performance.” Then he placed his hand on the small of my back, encouraging me to arch slightly, which he insisted was “extremely conducive to the ridden stallion’s performance and pleasure.”
It felt oddly intimate, but I assumed this was just how royals behave. They’re famously hands-on with their horses. Positively live on them when they’re at their Estates.
“Beautifully done, Duke,” he said, finally dropping his hands. “I can only imagine how much more freely you could manoeuvre out of those breeches of yours.”
What a strange thing to say… and there was something in his tone I couldn’t quite interpret. A bit like when Grandmother speaks in that special voice she reserves for omega-related matters, where the words seem straightforward but there’s a whole secondary conversation happening that I’m not privy to.
Porter finally managed to insert himself between us, looking red in the face.
“He’s seventeen, Your Royal Highness,” he said pointedly, “and still in his final year at Eton.”
The Prince looked startled, then apologetic, then amused, all in such quick succession I nearly missed it. He excused himself shortly after.
Porter wouldn’t explain what had happened when I asked, just muttered something about “bloody alphas” and “inappropriate comportment” before sending me off to cool down Galaxy.
I’m still not entirely sure what transpired. Was the Prince being improper? Or was Porter overreacting? Perhaps it’s just royal eccentricity. Grandmother says the Arundels have their own way of doing things, which is why she’s so keen on me spending more time in their orbit because she would like me to be good friends with Prince Arthur.
The Omega Support Worker they’ve assigned me at school, Ms. Philips, keeps hinting that I need to be “more aware” of how alphas perceive me, but it’s all so vague and unhelpful. If there’s something specific I’m meant to understand, why not just tell me directly? All this circling around subjects is exhausting.
In any case, Galaxy took home the blue ribbon, which is what really matters. I’ve hung it on my wall next to the others. Thirty-seven now and counting. Perhaps if I focus on collecting enough ribbons, everyone will forget about my “exceptional omega status” and just let me ride in peace.
Fat chance of that, though. Grandmother’s already hinting about some garden party at Windsor next month that I “simply must attend.” Apparently, the Prince specifically requested my presence. I do hope we can talk some more about riding, so I can correct him on a few key points.
James read through the entry, watching his father’s teenage naivety unfold in real time. The technical equestrian details. The complete obliviousness to Arthur’s advances. The earnest confusion about “proper pelvic positioning.”
By the time he reached the final lines—I do hope we can talk some more about riding, so I can correct him on a few key points—James felt physically ill.
“This is…” He searched for the right word. “Obscene.”
“Indeed, sir,” Winters agreed, looking like he’d swallowed something particularly unpleasant.
James threw the mockup onto his desk and stood, unable to remain still. “He was seventeen, Winters. Seventeen. My father was twenty-four. A grown man making sexual advances to a teenager who clearly had no bloody idea what was happening.”
“The press will undoubtedly focus on the Duke’s… innocence, sir.”
“You mean they’ll mock him mercilessly for not understanding he was being propositioned.” James ran a hand through his hair. “They’ll turn him into a joke. A punchline. The omega who thought ‘riding lessons’ actually meant riding lessons.”
Winters remained perfectly still, a skill he’d perfected through years of witnessing royal meltdowns. “The palace’s official position is that we do not comment on stolen private papers.”
“And unofficially?” James demanded.
“Unofficially, sir, we need to prepare for what else might be in those diaries.”
James stopped his pacing. “On a scale from one to constitutional crisis, how bad is this one?”
Winters’ face remained impressively neutral. “This particular excerpt? I would hesitate to assign a numerical value without further information, sir.”
“That’s not an answer, Winters.”
“I’m afraid I lack sufficient context to provide an accurate assessment, sir,” Winters replied, the careful evasion of a man who’d spent his career avoiding saying the wrong thing to the wrong royal.
James dropped back into his chair. “There’s worse, isn’t there? You think there’s worse.”
“Sir,” Winters said, stepping closer to the desk, his voice lowering, “the legal team will need to speak with your father. We need to know what to expect.”
James stared at the mockup again, at the crude cartoons the tabloid had commissioned to illustrate his father’s confusion. A bewildered omega with exaggerated wide eyes being taught to “ride” by a leering alpha prince.
He sighed, resignation settling over him like a heavy cloak. There was no avoiding it. He would have to be the one to tell his father that his teenage diaries had been found. That his confusion, his naivety, his private thoughts were about to become public property.
“I’ll speak to him tonight,” James said finally.
“Very good, sir. Should I arrange for the family solicitors to be present?”
“No.” James shook his head firmly. “This isn’t a legal discussion. I won’t have him surrounded by suits for this conversation.”
Winters nodded, recognising a royal decision when he heard one. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
As his secretary retreated, James pulled out his phone and pulled up his father’s contact. His thumb hovered over the call button for a long moment before he put the phone back down.
Some things couldn’t be done over the phone. Some conversations needed to happen face to face, no matter how painful.