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The trouble began quietly—almost too quietly to notice—long before anyone realized how enormous the storm would become. A palace insider had recently mentioned that during a conversation with someone close to the family, the man seemed confused and irritated over something as ordinary as a community litter-picking outing. No one connected this small detail to the catastrophe that was about to unfold. Then, without warning, a bulletin emerged from within the palace walls, delivering a revelation so startling that it rippled instantly across the nation. Officials confirmed that a private, highly confidential DNA test had been conducted involving young Prince Louie. The results were unexpected—so unexpected that they undermined long-standing assumptions about the royal bloodline. For months, specialists had examined records, checked procedures, and cross-checked genetics behind closed doors. Now their findings had landed with a force strong enough to fracture the family’s carefully cultivated public image.
It had seemed like an ordinary summer garden party just weeks earlier. The sun glowed warmly over the palace lawns as Catherine mingled with guests and William greeted dignitaries near a marquee. Little Prince Louie, holding his mother’s hand, wandered with wide eyes through the gardens, taking in the spectacle with innocent curiosity. Photographers documented every second as they always did. Yet something subtle about the boy drew unusual attention that day. His hair gleamed in a tone people struggled to identify, and his facial features appeared strikingly distinct from his siblings. Guests whispered. Observers squinted. Cameras zoomed.
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Once photos reached social media, the comments began: tentative questions about resemblance, side-by-side comparisons of all three children, amateur analyses dissecting features, and speculative threads that multiplied faster than anyone expected. George clearly carried William’s stamp; Charlotte looked almost like a small reflection of Catherine. But Louie—Louie looked slightly apart, and people could not resist forming theories. Within hours, the internet swarmed with posts, diagrams, and conjectures, no matter how far-fetched. Television shows picked up the chatter, flashing comparison graphics but stopping short of explicit claims. Through it all, the palace said nothing.
Kate and William noticed the shifting atmosphere at the garden party. Guests lingered too long with their glances, measuring Louie with unspoken questions. Instinctively, both parents edged closer, shielding him from unwanted scrutiny. Their other two children overheard vague whispers, but their parents worked hard to shield them from the worst of the public frenzy.
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As the speculation spread across continents, friends of the couple stepped forward to defend the family. They shared memories of Louie’s early years and insisted the child was unmistakably William and Catherine’s. Still, reassurance could not slow the avalanche. Medical experts appeared on news programs explaining how siblings often inherit traits unpredictably, sometimes looking surprisingly different. Yet logical explanations struggled against the irresistible pull of scandal.
Inside the palace, communications officers debated strategies. Should they stay silent, as tradition often dictated, or confront the rumors head-on? For now, uncertainty prevailed.
Then came the letters.
The first envelope arrived one morning with no return address. Inside lay four typed pages from someone claiming to have been present at the private hospital where Catherine gave birth to Louie. The writer described an unexpected electrical failure on the maternity ward the night he was born—lights flickering out, nurses rushing, rooms being reorganized in haste. According to the letter, for a short stretch mothers and babies were moved temporarily, including Catherine and another woman who had delivered a child the same night. The precise details, times, and descriptions were unsettlingly accurate.
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A second letter appeared days later, elaborating on the other infant born near the same hour. Staff had worked under emergency lighting, carefully tending to both newborns during the outage. The possibility of confusion lingered beneath every sentence. Some palace officials dismissed the letters as hoaxes, but others worried they might contain fragments of truth.
William learned of the letters during a security briefing. His expression remained controlled, yet his tension was unmistakable. Later, at home, he showed them to Catherine. She read them silently, memories of that night rushing back—the exhaustion, the sudden darkness, nurses guiding her through dim corridors, and the quiet fear she tried to ignore at the time.
Then, another envelope arrived—this one containing photographs of the maternity wing as it existed that year, with highlighted areas and handwritten notes. Palace lawyers attempted to trace the sender but uncovered nothing. The anonymity was deliberate.
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Around this time, something astonishing unfolded miles away in a modest home. A woman watching a news segment about the royal children froze as her seven-year-old son, Thomas, padded into the room in his pajamas. She glanced from the television to her child and felt her breath catch. The similarity between Thomas and Prince Louie—features she had once chalked up to random genetics—now appeared impossible to ignore. Her husband dismissed the idea at first, but after comparing photographs, he grew quiet.
They too remembered a chaotic night at the maternity ward—the same hospital, the same date, the same power outage. They remembered the rushed movements, dim lighting, and scattered confusion. Over time, they had convinced themselves these details were normal for a complicated birth. But now? Now everything they thought they knew seemed uncertain.
After sleepless nights of conversation, the couple emailed the hospital seeking answers. Sending the message felt like stepping over a cliff.
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