The rain tapped against the windows of my study as I stared out at the gray London skyline. The city, for all its charm and grandeur, held a darkness beneath its polished veneer—a darkness I’d come to know all too well. I call it the London Tabloid Dungeon.
The dungeon isn’t a place of stone walls and iron chains; it’s a labyrinth of ink and lies, a machine that grinds private lives into public spectacle. It’s where truth is twisted, and humanity is stripped away in the name of profit.
I’ve lived in its shadow my entire life. From the moment I was born, the tabloids had their claws in me. They weren’t content to capture moments—they had to invent them, distort them, blow them out of proportion. My mother, Diana, was their favorite target. They followed her everywhere, turning her kindness and vulnerability into a commodity.
I still remember the way she’d shield me and William from the cameras, her voice calm but her eyes pleading with the photographers to leave us alone. “They’ll never stop,” she once told me. “Not until they get what they want—or until we give them nothing to take.”
But how do you give them nothing when your very existence is what they crave?
As I grew older, I tried to play their game. I smiled for the cameras, gave them what they wanted, hoping they’d leave me alone. They didn’t. Instead, they dug deeper. Every mistake, every misstep, every moment of vulnerability—they turned it into a headline. They painted me as a reckless prince, a wild child, a broken man.
And then there was Meghan. The woman I love. I thought I’d seen the worst of the dungeon’s cruelty, but I was wrong. They came after her with a vengeance, weaponizing race, gender, and class to tear her down. They invaded our lives, twisted her words, and turned our love into a battlefield.
I remember the night we decided to leave. We sat together in the quiet of our home, the weight of the world pressing down on us. “We can’t stay,” Meghan said, her voice steady but her eyes filled with pain. “Not if it means losing ourselves.”
She was right. We left, but the dungeon followed. Even across the ocean, its reach was long. The headlines still came, the lies still spread, the judgment still poured in.
But something changed in me. I realized I couldn’t destroy the dungeon—it was too vast, too entrenched. But I could expose it. I could shine a light on its workings, show the world the damage it does.
So, I started speaking out. I told my story, our story, unfiltered and unbroken. I fought back in court, holding them accountable for their lies. I worked to protect others from their reach, from the dungeon’s relentless grip.
I don’t know if it’ll ever stop. The dungeon thrives on secrecy, on the public’s hunger for scandal. But I know this: I won’t be silent. I won’t let them define me, or my family, or the people I love.
As the rain subsided, I turned back to my desk. There was work to be done—letters to write, interviews to prepare for, battles to fight. The dungeon might never crumble, but I’d keep chipping away at its walls. For my mother. For Meghan. For Archie and Lilibet. For everyone who’s ever been trapped in its shadows.
Because no one deserves to live in the dungeon.