SAD NEWS — 4 HOURS AGO! A NIGHT OF SHOCK AND GRIEF IN BUCKINGHAM PALACE

It was just after dusk when the iron gates of Buckingham Palace trembled under a sudden, violent pounding. Guards spun around in alarm, only to see Prince Andrew staggering forward, his face ghost-white, his coat half-buttoned, his breath torn and uneven as if he had sprinted through the entire city.

“Let him through!” someone shouted.

Andrew stumbled past the gates, collapsing to his knees on the cobblestones. His hands shook uncontrollably as he tried to speak, but only a hoarse, broken gasp escaped his lips. Within moments, a cluster of royal aides rushed toward him, but Andrew pushed them away, chest heaving, eyes wild with panic and grief.

Inside the palace, Princess Beatrice had just returned from a private meeting. The second she heard her father’s voice echoing down the hall, she froze.
“No… please no…” she whispered, dropping her handbag as she ran toward him.

When she reached Andrew, he lifted his trembling arms toward her. His entire body shook. And then, like a dam bursting, Beatrice let out a scream so sharp the palace walls themselves seemed to absorb it.

“Daddy—what happened? Where’s Mum?”

The royal banners — normally deep crimson and gold — were already being lowered. Within minutes, staff began replacing them with white mourning flags that fluttered weakly in the grey London wind. News spread through the palace corridors faster than footsteps could carry it. Servants paused mid-stride. Advisors stood still. Even the stone-faced security officers bowed their heads.

Beatrice pressed her face into her father’s shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. Eugenie appeared moments later, tears streaking her cheeks the instant she saw the look in Andrew’s eyes. Kate stepped quietly into the hall, covering her mouth as the scene unfolded. William arrived soon after, laying a steadying hand on Beatrice’s back as she collapsed against him.

And then—
Andrew’s voice cracked through the silence like a lightning strike.

With a heart-shredding wail, he screamed:

“MY WIFE, SARAH FERGUSON HAS—”

But the rest of the sentence shattered into a cry so raw, so full of grief, that no one could decipher the final word.

Beatrice fell to the floor beside him, her fingers clutching the hem of his coat, begging him to breathe, begging him to speak, begging him to finish.

Camera crews outside the gates stopped where they stood. Not a single reporter dared raise a microphone. The wind itself felt still. The palace lights dimmed.

Inside, William made the instant decision to block all press statements until the family understood what had happened.
“Shut every outlet down. No leaks. No cameras,” he commanded, his voice strong but trembling at the edges.

Beatrice tried again, voice shaking:

“Daddy… Mum has what? What happened to her?”

Andrew buried his face in his hands, unable to lift his head. His shoulders shook violently as he tried to form the words.

But before he could speak — palace officials closed the doors. The broadcast signal was cut. Every window was sealed.

And the world was left holding its breath, wondering what truth had broken a prince beyond recognition.