At first, I assumed someone important had moved into the neighborhood. Maybe a politician. Maybe a military official. Norfolk was not exactly a stranger to uniforms and government personnel.
Then the vehicles stopped directly in front of my house.
I frowned.
My first thought was that something terrible had happened—a family emergency, an accident, a military incident. In my line of work, unexpected visitors rarely brought good news.
I stood and walked toward the window.
Six black SUVs.
Several uniformed men exiting.
Not American military.
Not local police.
Something else.
My pulse quickened.
One of the men approached my front door. A moment later, the doorbell rang.
I took a breath and opened it.
And there they were.
Royal guards.
Real royal guards standing on my front porch.
For a second, I honestly wondered if I was dreaming.
The lead guard stepped forward.
“Commander Emily Carter?”
“Yes.”
He nodded respectfully.
“His Majesty requests your presence immediately.”
I blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
“His Majesty requests your presence.”
I stared at him.
The sentence made no sense. There were not many kings in Virginia.
“I’m afraid there must be some mistake.”
“There is no mistake, ma’am.”
He produced identification, official credentials, security authorization, royal seals. Everything appeared legitimate.
I looked from the credentials to the guard, then to the vehicles behind him, then back again.
“Why would His Majesty want to see me?”
The guard’s expression remained professional.
“I was not informed of the details.”
Of course he was not.
That would have been too easy.
By then, my neighbors had started noticing. Curtains moved. Front doors cracked open. A teenager across the street stood openly in his driveway, staring.
I could not blame him.
Royal guards arriving at your neighbor’s house was not exactly a common occurrence.
“Can I have a few minutes?” I asked.
“Certainly, Commander.”
I stepped inside and closed the door. Then I leaned against it, trying to make sense of what was happening.
Nothing made sense.
I had not attended the wedding. I had not spoken to Rachel. I did not know the royal family.
At least, I did not think I did.
After several moments, I changed clothes. Not because anyone instructed me to, but because military training had conditioned me to present myself properly. If someone important wanted to meet me, I was not showing up in gardening clothes.
I put on my Navy dress uniform—the same uniform Rachel had once called embarrassing.
