Redefining Protocol: Chapter 5

Tommy woke precisely seven minutes before his alarm was set to go off, just as he had every morning for the past twenty-two years. Force of habit, Ainsworth called it. Pathological punctuality, Augustus preferred. The medical term was probably something far more clinical, involving words like “trauma response” and “control mechanisms,” but Tommy had never been particularly interested in having his coping strategies pathologised.

He lay still, watching dust motes dance in the early morning sunlight filtering through silk curtains selected by a committee of interior designers.

The clock on his bedside table ticked steadily towards 6:30 a.m., each movement of the second hand bringing him closer to a day he’d rather avoid entirely. His eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracing the ornate plasterwork restored last summer by artisans who’d learned their craft at Windsor Castle after the fire. Someone, at some point in history, had decided that royals shouldn’t ever have to endure plain ceilings. Probably to give generations of royal consorts something to focus on while on their backs, with the heirs on top of them, performing their dynastic duty with all the finesse of a freight train.

Tommy had personally counted every cherub, rosette, and gilded flourish during his early years with Arthur.

When the alarm finally chimed, Tommy silenced it with a precise tap. Then, with the same meticulous care he’d applied to every public appearance for two decades, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, ready to face the day that would dismantle the carefully constructed facade of his life.

Showered, shaved, and dressed in a navy jumper and perfectly pressed grey trousers, Tommy made his way down to the morning room where breakfast would be waiting, arranged by staff trained to anticipate his every need. It was all so predictable, this choreography of service that had once felt oppressive but now offered a strange comfort.

The morning room was bathed in soft light, the table by the window set with a single place. Silver coffee pot, bone china cup and saucer, crystal water glass, all arranged on a pristine white tablecloth. A plate of toast, thinly sliced and perfectly browned, sat in a tidy little toast rack. A small pot of marmalade, the kind with thick chunks of orange peel that Arthur had always complained about but Tommy secretly adored. A soft-boiled egg in a silver egg cup, the top already sliced off with geometric precision.

Everything was exactly as it should be, except for one glaring omission.

No newspaper.

Every morning for twenty-two years, Tommy’s breakfast had been accompanied by the day’s papers, arranged in order of descending respectability: The Times on top, followed by The Telegraph, The Guardian, and finally, somewhat shamefully, The Daily Mail. Tommy had once joked to Daniel Caplan, his childhood best friend, that his guilty pleasure was reading The Daily Mail’s breathless coverage of his own fashion choices. Caplan had responded that there were less masochistic ways to start one’s day, like perhaps hitting oneself repeatedly in the face with a teaspoon.

Today, conspicuously, there were no papers at all.

Tommy stood in the doorway, staring at the empty space beside his plate where the stack of newspapers should have been. The absence was so obvious it might as well have been a neon sign flashing “CRISIS MANAGEMENT IN PROGRESS.”

“Good morning, Your Royal Highness,” Mrs. Crawford, the housekeeper, materialised beside him, her hands clasped in front of her crisp black dress. “I hope you slept well.”

Tommy allowed his eyes to drift toward the empty newspaper spot, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Perfectly well, thank you, Mrs. Winters.”

She followed his gaze, her face betraying nothing. “Is there something amiss with your breakfast, sir?”

“No newspapers this morning?” Tommy asked, his voice deliberately light, as if inquiring about a change in the weather rather than the coordinated suppression of what was undoubtedly the day’s biggest headline.

“I… I believe there may have been some delay with the delivery, sir,” Mrs. Winters replied, the slight hesitation betraying the lie. In twenty-two years, there had never been a delay with the newspapers. Not during snowstorms, not during transit strikes, not even during that bizarre week when seemingly all the palace staff had contracted food poisoning from an unfortunate catering incident at the staff Christmas party.

“I see,” Tommy replied, moving to his chair and allowing Mrs. Winters to assist him with a flourish of white napkin across his lap. “How inconvenient.”

He poured himself coffee, adding precisely one and a half teaspoons of sugar, stirring three times clockwise, the silver spoon clinking softly against the delicate china. The familiar ritual steadied him, even as anxiety churned beneath his composed exterior.

Mrs. Winters hovered uncertainly by the door, clearly torn between her instructions to keep the papers away from Tommy, and her innate desire to provide whatever her employer requested.

“Perhaps,” Tommy said, deliberately breaking a piece of toast in half, “you could check again? I’m particularly interested in seeing today’s coverage.”

Mrs. Winters’ face crumpled into an expression of such profound distress that Tommy almost felt guilty for putting her in this position. Almost.

“I… I believe His Majesty left instructions, sir,” she admitted finally, unable to meet his eye.

“Did he now?” Tommy remarked, spreading a thin layer of marmalade on his toast, staying focused on the task so he wouldn’t glare daggers into lovely Mrs. Winters. “And what precisely were those instructions?”

Mrs. Winters swallowed visibly. “That the morning papers should be… held until further notice, sir.”

“I see,” Tommy said again, taking a small bite of his toast and chewing thoughtfully. “And the television remote?”

“Sir?”

“The television remote, Mrs. Winters. Has that also been held until further notice?”

“No, sir,” she replied, clearly relieved to be able to answer in the negative. “The remote is in its usual place.”

“Excellent,” Tommy said, rising from his chair and crossing to the sideboard where the remote lay on a small silver tray. “Then I shall catch up on the morning news that way instead.”

He clicked the power button, and the television mounted discreetly on the wall flickered to life. Tommy turned to find Mrs. Winters looking as though she might spontaneously combust from anxiety.

“That will be all for now, thank you,” he dismissed her gently, returning to his seat as the morning show’s cheerful jingle filled the room.

The BBC Breakfast presenters beamed from the screen, their expressions carefully calibrated to convey serious journalistic credibility while still being approachable enough for viewers to imagine sharing a cup of tea with them.

“And now,” said the female presenter, her voice taking on that particular tone of faux concern that British broadcasters reserved for royal scandals, “we turn to the story that’s dominating headlines this morning. The discovery of the personal diaries of Prince Thomas, Duke of Clarence, has sent shockwaves through royal circles.”

Her male counterpart nodded gravely, though there was an unmistakable glint of excitement in his eyes. “The diaries, written when the Duke was a teenager, provide an unprecedented glimpse into the private thoughts of one of the most enigmatic members of the royal family.”

“And quite revealing they are too, aren’t they, Mark?” the woman continued, her mouth twitching slightly at the corners. “Particularly in light of the Duke’s recent… pedestrian adventures.”

A clip played, the now-infamous footage of Tommy’s near-collision with the taxi, his bewildered expression freezing in close-up as the presenter’s voice continued over it.

“This incident, which saw the Duke apparently working under the impression that traffic stops for royalty, seems less surprising in the context of these diary revelations.”

Tommy set down his coffee cup with a small clink, his hand suddenly less steady than he would have liked.

The male presenter picked up the thread. “Indeed, Sandra. The first excerpts published today in The Sun reveal a young man seemingly raised in extraordinary isolation, with little understanding of… well, let’s say, the basics of adult life.”

Sandra’s smile was positively predatory now. “The diary entry details a rather awkward encounter between the young Duke, then seventeen, and the late King Arthur, then the Prince of Wales, at a charity equestrian event. It seems the Duke, a keen horseman, completely misunderstood the Prince’s rather obvious… advances.”

“While the Prince of Wales spoke of ‘riding lessons’ of a very different sort,” Mark chuckled, actually making air quotes with his fingers, “the Duke apparently thought the Prince was genuinely interested in his equestrian technique.”

“Bless him,” Sandra cooed with all the condescension of an adult watching a child trying to poke a square peg through a circular hole. “He writes about demonstrating ‘proper pelvic positioning’ to the Prince, completely unaware of any double entendre.”

“Proper pelvic positioning,” Mark repeated, barely containing his mirth. “I’m sure that was exactly what the Prince had in mind.”

They both dissolved into poorly suppressed laughter, the kind that masquerades as sympathetic but is actually deeply cruel. Tommy sat perfectly still, his breakfast forgotten, as the presenters continued to dissect his teenage naivety with the gleeful precision of vultures picking at a particularly juicy carcass.

“Coming up after the break,” Sandra continued, her expression sobering, “we’ll be discussing the broader implications of these revelations with royal historian Dr. Margaret Holloway and omega rights activist Julian Wilde. But first, let’s check in with Phil for the weather.”

The door opened quietly, and Mrs. Brennan, a maid who had been with Tommy since his marriage to Arthur, entered with fresh coffee. Her eyes darted to the television screen, then to Tommy’s frozen expression, and without a word, she crossed the room and switched off the TV.

Tommy turned to her slowly, his face utterly blank. “Turn it back on.”

Mrs. Brennan, who had changed his sheets, brought him tea during heats, and once held his hand while he sobbed through the difficult pregnancy with Augustus, hesitated. “Your Royal Highness, perhaps…”

“Turn it back on,” Tommy repeated, his voice soft but carrying an edge that brooked no argument. This wasn’t a request from the gentle omega Duke. This was a command from Tommy, an Ashby whose bloodline had sat on the very top rung of British aristocracy since before the Norman Conquest.

Mrs. Brennan’s shoulders slumped in defeat. She pressed the power button and retreated toward the door, her eyes filled with a sympathy that Tommy found suddenly unbearable.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, returning his attention to the screen where Phil was enthusiastically gesturing at weather patterns as if low pressure systems over the Atlantic were the most fascinating thing in the world.

As the door closed behind Mrs. Brennan, Tommy sat utterly still, his composure perfect, his breakfast untouched, waiting for the weather report to end and the dissection of his humiliation to resume.

The weatherman finished with his customary cheerful sign-off, and the camera returned to the main presenters, their expressions now schooled into serious journalistic concern.

“Welcome back,” Sandra said. “We’re discussing the recently discovered diaries of Thomas, Duke of Clarence, which offer an unprecedented look into royal life and the marriage between the Duke and the late King Arthur.”

“We’re joined now by royal historian Dr. Margaret Holloway and omega rights activist Julian Wilde,” Mark added, as the camera pulled back to reveal two additional guests on the sofa.

Dr. Holloway, a severe-looking woman with steel-grey hair and pearl earrings, nodded primly. “Thank you for having me.”

“Dr. Holloway,” Sandra began, “these diaries paint a picture of a young omega who was, frankly, astonishingly naive about adult relationships. Would that have been typical for aristocratic omegas at that time?”

“Absolutely,” Dr. Holloway said. She straightened her glasses and tapped her research notes. “Leading to absolutely catastrophic results.”

“Catastrophic results,” Mark repeated, leaning forward eagerly. “Such as?”

“Well,” Dr. Holloway adjusted her glasses, “imagine discovering the biological realities of an alpha-omega coupling on your wedding night, with no preparation whatsoever. The diary excerpts published today suggest the Duke had no idea what Prince Arthur’s flirtatious behaviour even meant. One can only imagine his shock when confronted with the… physical realities of their relationship.”

Julian Wilde, a younger man with fashionable glasses and a carefully neutral expression, interjected. “This is precisely why the Omega Education Reform Act was so crucial. What happened to the Duke was essentially institutionalised abuse, setting him up for trauma by deliberately keeping him ignorant of his own biology.”

“Strong words,” Sandra commented, clearly delighted by the controversial direction. “Are you suggesting the royal family abused the Duke?”

“I’m suggesting,” Wilde replied carefully, “that the systematic practice of keeping omegas ignorant of their own bodies, particularly when they were being prepared for what was essentially an arranged marriage to an alpha, was inherently abusive. The Duke’s diaries provide compelling evidence of this practice.”

“What’s particularly fascinating,” Dr. Holloway cut in, “is that this ignorance clearly extended well beyond sexual matters, as evidenced by last week’s traffic incident. When you’ve spent your entire life with roads that have been cleared out for you, why would you think it necessary to look both ways before crossing?”

The presenters exchanged delighted glances, clearly thrilled with this cutting sound bite. “So the panda comparison was more apt than we realised,” Mark chuckled, referencing the viral memes.

“In many ways,” Dr. Holloway agreed with academic smugness. “Prince Thomas is a rare, protected specimen, maintained in an artificial environment, with little understanding of the outside world.”

Tommy sat perfectly still, his hand frozen around his coffee cup. They continued to discuss him as if he were some rare butterfly pinned to a board, his wings on display for public examination.

“And we’re hearing rumours,” Sandra added with poorly disguised excitement, “that future excerpts will reveal even more… intimate details about the Duke’s relationship with the late King.”

“Including,” Mark added, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, “his apparent shock on their wedding night regarding certain aspects of alpha anatomy.”

Julian’s expression tightened. “I think we should be careful here. These are private thoughts from a very young person who was deliberately kept ignorant. The fact that we’re treating his confusion as entertainment speaks volumes about how we still view omegas in our society.”

But his words were drowned out by Sandra’s enthusiastic pivot. “Speaking of entertainment, we’ve had an overwhelming response on social media to this story. Let’s take a look at some of the reactions…”

The screen filled with tweets, each more cutting than the last:

“Just when you thought the walking panda couldn’t get more clueless #RidingLessons #DukeOfCluelessness”

“Imagine not knowing what ‘riding’ means when an alpha prince is putting his hands on your hips. I’m DECEASED 💀 #OmegaFail”

“Theory: The Duke of Brunswick is actually an alien who’s been pretending to be human for 40 years and doing a terrible job of it #TheTruthIsOutThere”

Tommy’s hand trembled so violently that coffee sloshed over the rim of his cup, splashing onto the pristine tablecloth. He set the cup down with a clatter, his carefully maintained composure finally cracking as the full weight of his public humiliation crashed down upon him.

The television continued its merciless broadcast, but Tommy could no longer process the words, the sound washing over him in waves of white noise as he sat trembling slightly in his carefully arranged morning room, surrounded by all the trappings of royal privilege that had utterly failed to protect him from this most intimate of violations.