A Crown Divided: Inside King Charles’s Shocking Ban of Queen Camilla and the Scandal That Rocked the Monarchy
A Royal Freeze: The Announcement That Changed Everything
Over the last 24 hours, the British monarchy has been shaken to its core. King Charles III, in a move as swift as it was devastating, declared that Queen Camilla’s inheritance rights would be entirely withdrawn. The action, taken privately but with the force of absolute authority, sent a jolt through the monarchy’s oldest halls and reverberated across the nation.
Rumors had been swirling for days about a mysterious sign—a highly confidential file detailing royal assets, so restricted that even top advisers were barred from handling it. But what no one expected was the revelation that Camilla, perhaps unintentionally, let slip her awareness of something within that file. The result: a cascade of cautious looks, abruptly ended conversations, and an eerie quiet among palace staff.
Was this simply a small mistake, or the beginning of a clash that no one anticipated?
The Privy Council Confrontation
November in London brings a biting chill, but the atmosphere inside Buckingham Palace was colder still. In the locked chamber of the Privy Council, portraits of monarchs long gone seemed to judge the present. At the center of the room, beneath the severe gaze of history, King Charles III sat at the head of a centuries-old oak table, his back straight and his shoulders burdened by the weight of his office.
He was dressed in black—not for celebration, but for condemnation. Before him lay a thin dossier, its contents cutting and precise, every line like a sharpened edge. The Crimson Royal Seal shone under the light, a mark of absolute power now serving as the vehicle of punishment.
“I have reached a decision,” Charles declared, his voice breaking through the quiet like steel. “Queen Camilla is hereby deprived of every inheritance right tied to royal holdings. Effective immediately, her name is removed from all crown wills and legal instruments.”
A wave of hushed reactions moved across the Persian carpet like a cold draft. The Duke of Norfolk gripped the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles paled. No one dared meet the king’s eyes; no one dared question him.
Charles paused, letting the silence settle, his blue eyes moving from face to face. Shock, unease, and restrained approval stared back at him. “This ruling is in force at once,” he continued, tone unwavering. “Queen Camilla’s privileges will undergo full review. The council will be provided a complete report before the weekend.”
In a corner, security adviser Sir Michael Reynolds stood still, his gaze fixed on Charles. Of everyone present, he alone seemed to know the entire story—or had been granted permission to know it.
The session ended without a word. One by one, the members filed out, their footsteps echoing heavily along the marble hallways. Nobody spoke, yet the news traveled anyway, spreading like a slow-burning blaze.
A Nation in Shock
Only hours later, the BBC interrupted regular broadcasts. Charles appeared on screen before the royal standard, his expression severe.
“In a statement without precedent, the king has removed Queen Camilla from the line of succession. Palace sources indicate the decision follows allegations of a scheme to falsify royal documents.”
Across Britain, the nation fell into stunned silence.
At Ray Mill House, Camilla sat frozen before the television, two guards positioned stiffly outside her door. Her hands remained folded in her lap, fingers tightened until they turned pale. The Earl Grey tea beside her had long gone cold, leaving a mark across the white carpet.
She neither wept nor erupted. There was only a cold emptiness in her eyes, as if her spirit vanished the moment Charles spoke her name aloud.
The Seeds of Betrayal
This story did not start yesterday. It began a week earlier, late in the afternoon at Windsor Castle. A cold wind rolled in from the Thames, carrying the sharp bite of autumn’s last breath. King Charles III sat in his private study, not alone, but with Prince William, his heir.
Between them rested a thick, leather-bound dossier stamped in bold red letters: Crown Estate, Top Secret.
“I want you to assume control of the Norfolk estate,” Charles began, his tone gentle yet tired as he pushed the dossier toward William. “This is more than land, William. It is our past. It is the blood and bones of those who came before us—a pledge to the nation that the crown will always safeguard what belongs to the people.”
William accepted the dossier, fingertips grazing the seal, but did not open it. He didn’t need to. His father had already made the truth clear: the vast Norfolk lands were not personal possessions, but national assets held by the crown, passed only to the rightful successor—never to a queen consort, never to anyone outside the direct line of blood.
Charles wanted to ensure that when his time came, everything would fall to William in a way that was clean, open, and impossible to dispute.
Camilla’s Calculated Ambition
Elsewhere in Clarence House, Queen Camilla sat in her private drawing room, the crystal chandelier above casting light across a glass of red wine in her hand. Dressed in black silk, her hair pinned up, her expression composed, her eyes burned with determination.
Standing before her was a middle-aged man in a dark suit, speaking quietly but with cutting precision. “Ma’am, I have everything. The Norfolk estate, the transport path from Windsor through the M25 to Whitehall, 2:00 tomorrow. Steel briefcase, two guards, and the security code updates every hour.”
Camilla took a slow sip, her crimson lips forming a restrained, icy smile. “Excellent. Prepare the forged dossier. My name. Same template, same signature, same seal. Not a single detail can be wrong.”
Camilla was not motivated by simple greed. She was driven by fear—the fear of becoming irrelevant once Charles was gone. She had spent years beside him, surviving public hatred and constant whispers. She was made queen consort, but she knew the title was merely an empty frame. When Charles died, she would become nothing more than a royal widow without property, influence, or future.
If a forged dossier entered the legal pipeline and the transfer was approved automatically before anyone caught it, everything would change.
The Crime in Motion
Three days after the dossier was signed, the royal convoy departed Windsor at first light, moving quietly within the flow of vehicles on the M25. Inside the lead Mercedes, two royal guards sat stiffly, scanning every direction. Behind the front passenger seat sat a steel briefcase containing the dossier, its electronic lock pulsing with a steady green signal.
No one in the convoy noticed the silver container truck that had been trailing them since the Staines junction.
At Clarence House, Camilla stood by a wide window, her phone clenched tightly in her hand. Each passing second cut into her nerves. The last update from her operative read, “Convoy entering M25 segment. Action in 10 minutes.”
On the motorway, the truck surged forward, swerving into the inner lane. Horns erupted. The Mercedes driver hit the brakes hard, tires shrieking against the rain-soaked asphalt. The truck blocked the front, its container leaning dangerously.
In the confusion, a man in a road maintenance outfit appeared at the Mercedes window, claiming a mechanical issue. The guard cracked the window only 3 cm. From the rear, another man made his move—a compact device pressed against the briefcase lock through the narrow gap. The indicator flashed red, then green. The briefcase clicked open. The real dossier was removed and replaced with an identical counterfeit.
The convoy continued forward as though nothing ever occurred.
Camilla’s phone buzzed: “Complete forged dossier and system.” She released a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, poured herself a whiskey, and swallowed it in one go. Triumph rushed through her, yet only briefly. She knew the legal process would finalize automatically within 72 hours. After that, the Norfolk estate would be tied to her name, impossible to reverse.
The Trap Closes
But what Camilla didn’t know was that a Royal Special Operations Unit had captured every second through hidden cameras. In a secure command room at Whitehall, Sir Michael Reynolds watched the footage, lips pressed into a tight line. “Notify his majesty,” he told his assistant. “Queen Camilla’s plan is now in motion.”
At Balmoral, Charles received the call. Michael delivered the report with precision: “They switched the dossier. We have undeniable proof.”
Charles said nothing for a long moment. Then he rose, his voice rough. “Get everything ready. I want the confrontation prepared. She needs to face the truth with her own eyes.”
The Confrontation: Truth and Consequence
At 10:00 the next morning, in the green room at Buckingham Palace, Camilla entered, her emerald green dress brushing softly across the ancient Persian carpet. A confident smile rested on her lips. She believed Charles had summoned her for reconciliation.
But Charles did not meet her gaze. He stood perfectly upright in a sharply tailored black suit, hands folded behind his back, his deep blue eyes colder than Scottish ice.
Sir Michael Reynolds stood at Charles’s right, expression unreadable, holding a thick dossier. Three privy council members sat along the long table, faces hard and watchful. On the table lay an open steel briefcase. Two dossiers were placed side by side like matching judgments. A video was prepared, and a small USB drive glinted beneath the chandelier.
Camilla stopped at the center of the room, three steps from Charles. “Charles, you left me anxious all night,” she said, her voice sweet as honey.
Charles lifted one hand, halting her instantly. He signaled to Michael. The large screen flashed on, flooding the room with cold bluish light. The video began—silent, but brutally clear.
The M25 motorway. A silver container truck cut sharply into the inner lane. Horns screamed. The Mercedes driver slammed the brakes. Traffic locked into a standstill. A man in a yellow high visibility jacket appeared at the window. A small device was pressed against the briefcase lock. Thirty seconds. The real dossier disappeared into a pocket. A counterfeit dossier, green leather, red wax seal, slid into its place. The briefcase snapped shut. The man dissolved into the chaos.
The camera zoomed in: Marcus Lane’s face beneath the rim of the hard hat. Then Camilla’s voice echoed through the room, not from her, but from Lane’s interrogation recording. “Queen Camilla gave the order. £500,000. The Norfolk estate must be in her name. Leave no trace.”
The color drained from Camilla’s face. She stumbled backward, her heel catching the carpet edge. “No, not me,” she whispered, her composure collapsing. “This is staged. Someone is trying to destroy me. Charles, you must believe me.”
Charles moved forward, placing both dossiers in front of her. One was authentic—William’s name inside, his own bold signature, the true royal seal. The other was forged—Camilla Parker Bowles listed as beneficiary, the signature copied perfectly, but fingerprints matching Marcus Lane. Beside them rested a laboratory report confirming the forgery.
“What else can you possibly say?” Charles asked quietly. There was no rage in him, only bottomless disappointment.
Camilla threw herself toward the table, shaking as she flipped through the forged pages. Her eyes locked onto Charles’s replicated signature—the stroke she had watched him make countless times, now feeling like a weapon.
“Charles, you can’t accept this. I have stood beside you for years through every storm. Have you forgotten that?”
“That is exactly the point,” Charles cut in, his voice faltering with pain. “I gave you far too many chances. You chose to betray the crown, to betray me, to violate the values we swore before God and the people.”
Camilla collapsed into an armchair, her head lowered. “I only wanted a future,” she whispered.
The Final Judgment
Charles turned toward the council, his tone shifting back into royal authority. “Enter the ruling into record. Queen Camilla is deprived of all inheritance rights relating to the crown estate and every asset connected to the monarchy. All royal privileges, including the title of Queen Consort, residence at Clarence House, annual funding, and access to classified documents are terminated immediately and permanently. Clarence House must be vacated within 48 hours. Her staff will be reassigned.”
The Duke of Norfolk nodded and signed the official minutes.
Camilla lifted her head one last time, tears blurring her eyes. “Charles, you can’t. I’m your wife.”
She was led out. Two guards took her arms, not harshly, but with firm certainty. No one offered help. No one even looked at her. The sound of her heels clicked along the marble corridor, fading farther and farther like the last echo of a queen who had fallen.
The green room door closed for the final time.
Aftermath: A Dynasty in Ruins
Charles remained alone in the vast room, staring through the tall windows. London continued below—cars moving, people walking, life pressing on. Yet inside him, there was only a frozen void.
From his inner pocket, he pulled an old photograph—he and Camilla in Scotland, 2005, laughing beside the loch. He studied it for a long moment, his finger tracing her younger face. Then slowly, he tore the picture in two and let the pieces fall onto the polished floor.
Outside, the press erupted. The BBC interrupted every broadcast: “Queen Camilla officially stripped of her title and all assets following a plot to forge royal documents.”
The king confirmed: no mercy.
History recorded the moment. November 15th, 2025—the British monarchy suffered what became known as the greatest scandal of the century.
At Clarence House, Camilla sat inside a room being emptied, leather suitcases stacked at her feet. She looked once more at the portrait hanging on the wall—herself at the coronation, diamond crown shining, standing beside a solemn Charles. She rose, took the painting down, and placed it face down on the walnut table.
William arrived at Buckingham and held his father in a tight embrace. No words were exchanged, only a firm grip—a promise that the crown would endure, even as the heart broke.
Charles looked at his son, voice thick with emotion. “Protect the legacy, William. Never let anyone take it, ever.”
William nodded, his eyes red. “I promise, father. The crown will not fall again.”
That day, Buckingham’s doors closed for the final time. Outside, heavy snow drifted down, white and cold, covering every trace of what was once a glorious, untouchable dynasty.
And for the first time in modern history, the crown felt heavier than the heart of the one who wore it.
A Question for History
Was Camilla’s motive justified ambition to secure her future, or an unforgivable betrayal of the love and trust Charles gave her for so many years?
Share your thoughts in the comment section.
A Crown Divided: Inside King Charles’s Shocking Ban of Queen Camilla and the Scandal That Rocked the Monarchy
A Royal Freeze: The Announcement That Changed Everything
Over the last 24 hours, the British monarchy has been shaken to its core. King Charles III, in a move as swift as it was devastating, declared that Queen Camilla’s inheritance rights would be entirely withdrawn. The action, taken privately but with the force of absolute authority, sent a jolt through the monarchy’s oldest halls and reverberated across the nation.
Rumors had been swirling for days about a mysterious sign—a highly confidential file detailing royal assets, so restricted that even top advisers were barred from handling it. But what no one expected was the revelation that Camilla, perhaps unintentionally, let slip her awareness of something within that file. The result: a cascade of cautious looks, abruptly ended conversations, and an eerie quiet among palace staff.
Was this simply a small mistake, or the beginning of a clash that no one anticipated?
The Privy Council Confrontation
November in London brings a biting chill, but the atmosphere inside Buckingham Palace was colder still. In the locked chamber of the Privy Council, portraits of monarchs long gone seemed to judge the present. At the center of the room, beneath the severe gaze of history, King Charles III sat at the head of a centuries-old oak table, his back straight and his shoulders burdened by the weight of his office.
He was dressed in black—not for celebration, but for condemnation. Before him lay a thin dossier, its contents cutting and precise, every line like a sharpened edge. The Crimson Royal Seal shone under the light, a mark of absolute power now serving as the vehicle of punishment.
“I have reached a decision,” Charles declared, his voice breaking through the quiet like steel. “Queen Camilla is hereby deprived of every inheritance right tied to royal holdings. Effective immediately, her name is removed from all crown wills and legal instruments.”
A wave of hushed reactions moved across the Persian carpet like a cold draft. The Duke of Norfolk gripped the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles paled. No one dared meet the king’s eyes; no one dared question him.
Charles paused, letting the silence settle, his blue eyes moving from face to face. Shock, unease, and restrained approval stared back at him. “This ruling is in force at once,” he continued, tone unwavering. “Queen Camilla’s privileges will undergo full review. The council will be provided a complete report before the weekend.”
In a corner, security adviser Sir Michael Reynolds stood still, his gaze fixed on Charles. Of everyone present, he alone seemed to know the entire story—or had been granted permission to know it.
The session ended without a word. One by one, the members filed out, their footsteps echoing heavily along the marble hallways. Nobody spoke, yet the news traveled anyway, spreading like a slow-burning blaze.
A Nation in Shock
Only hours later, the BBC interrupted regular broadcasts. Charles appeared on screen before the royal standard, his expression severe.
“In a statement without precedent, the king has removed Queen Camilla from the line of succession. Palace sources indicate the decision follows allegations of a scheme to falsify royal documents.”
Across Britain, the nation fell into stunned silence.
At Ray Mill House, Camilla sat frozen before the television, two guards positioned stiffly outside her door. Her hands remained folded in her lap, fingers tightened until they turned pale. The Earl Grey tea beside her had long gone cold, leaving a mark across the white carpet.
She neither wept nor erupted. There was only a cold emptiness in her eyes, as if her spirit vanished the moment Charles spoke her name aloud.
The Seeds of Betrayal
This story did not start yesterday. It began a week earlier, late in the afternoon at Windsor Castle. A cold wind rolled in from the Thames, carrying the sharp bite of autumn’s last breath. King Charles III sat in his private study, not alone, but with Prince William, his heir.
Between them rested a thick, leather-bound dossier stamped in bold red letters: Crown Estate, Top Secret.
“I want you to assume control of the Norfolk estate,” Charles began, his tone gentle yet tired as he pushed the dossier toward William. “This is more than land, William. It is our past. It is the blood and bones of those who came before us—a pledge to the nation that the crown will always safeguard what belongs to the people.”
William accepted the dossier, fingertips grazing the seal, but did not open it. He didn’t need to. His father had already made the truth clear: the vast Norfolk lands were not personal possessions, but national assets held by the crown, passed only to the rightful successor—never to a queen consort, never to anyone outside the direct line of blood.
Charles wanted to ensure that when his time came, everything would fall to William in a way that was clean, open, and impossible to dispute.
Camilla’s Calculated Ambition
Elsewhere in Clarence House, Queen Camilla sat in her private drawing room, the crystal chandelier above casting light across a glass of red wine in her hand. Dressed in black silk, her hair pinned up, her expression composed, her eyes burned with determination.
Standing before her was a middle-aged man in a dark suit, speaking quietly but with cutting precision. “Ma’am, I have everything. The Norfolk estate, the transport path from Windsor through the M25 to Whitehall, 2:00 tomorrow. Steel briefcase, two guards, and the security code updates every hour.”
Camilla took a slow sip, her crimson lips forming a restrained, icy smile. “Excellent. Prepare the forged dossier. My name. Same template, same signature, same seal. Not a single detail can be wrong.”
Camilla was not motivated by simple greed. She was driven by fear—the fear of becoming irrelevant once Charles was gone. She had spent years beside him, surviving public hatred and constant whispers. She was made queen consort, but she knew the title was merely an empty frame. When Charles died, she would become nothing more than a royal widow without property, influence, or future.
If a forged dossier entered the legal pipeline and the transfer was approved automatically before anyone caught it, everything would change.
The Crime in Motion
Three days after the dossier was signed, the royal convoy departed Windsor at first light, moving quietly within the flow of vehicles on the M25. Inside the lead Mercedes, two royal guards sat stiffly, scanning every direction. Behind the front passenger seat sat a steel briefcase containing the dossier, its electronic lock pulsing with a steady green signal.
No one in the convoy noticed the silver container truck that had been trailing them since the Staines junction.
At Clarence House, Camilla stood by a wide window, her phone clenched tightly in her hand. Each passing second cut into her nerves. The last update from her operative read, “Convoy entering M25 segment. Action in 10 minutes.”
On the motorway, the truck surged forward, swerving into the inner lane. Horns erupted. The Mercedes driver hit the brakes hard, tires shrieking against the rain-soaked asphalt. The truck blocked the front, its container leaning dangerously.
In the confusion, a man in a road maintenance outfit appeared at the Mercedes window, claiming a mechanical issue. The guard cracked the window only 3 cm. From the rear, another man made his move—a compact device pressed against the briefcase lock through the narrow gap. The indicator flashed red, then green. The briefcase clicked open. The real dossier was removed and replaced with an identical counterfeit.
The convoy continued forward as though nothing ever occurred.
Camilla’s phone buzzed: “Complete forged dossier and system.” She released a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, poured herself a whiskey, and swallowed it in one go. Triumph rushed through her, yet only briefly. She knew the legal process would finalize automatically within 72 hours. After that, the Norfolk estate would be tied to her name, impossible to reverse.
The Trap Closes
But what Camilla didn’t know was that a Royal Special Operations Unit had captured every second through hidden cameras. In a secure command room at Whitehall, Sir Michael Reynolds watched the footage, lips pressed into a tight line. “Notify his majesty,” he told his assistant. “Queen Camilla’s plan is now in motion.”
At Balmoral, Charles received the call. Michael delivered the report with precision: “They switched the dossier. We have undeniable proof.”
Charles said nothing for a long moment. Then he rose, his voice rough. “Get everything ready. I want the confrontation prepared. She needs to face the truth with her own eyes.”
The Confrontation: Truth and Consequence
At 10:00 the next morning, in the green room at Buckingham Palace, Camilla entered, her emerald green dress brushing softly across the ancient Persian carpet. A confident smile rested on her lips. She believed Charles had summoned her for reconciliation.
But Charles did not meet her gaze. He stood perfectly upright in a sharply tailored black suit, hands folded behind his back, his deep blue eyes colder than Scottish ice.
Sir Michael Reynolds stood at Charles’s right, expression unreadable, holding a thick dossier. Three privy council members sat along the long table, faces hard and watchful. On the table lay an open steel briefcase. Two dossiers were placed side by side like matching judgments. A video was prepared, and a small USB drive glinted beneath the chandelier.
Camilla stopped at the center of the room, three steps from Charles. “Charles, you left me anxious all night,” she said, her voice sweet as honey.
Charles lifted one hand, halting her instantly. He signaled to Michael. The large screen flashed on, flooding the room with cold bluish light. The video began—silent, but brutally clear.
The M25 motorway. A silver container truck cut sharply into the inner lane. Horns screamed. The Mercedes driver slammed the brakes. Traffic locked into a standstill. A man in a yellow high visibility jacket appeared at the window. A small device was pressed against the briefcase lock. Thirty seconds. The real dossier disappeared into a pocket. A counterfeit dossier, green leather, red wax seal, slid into its place. The briefcase snapped shut. The man dissolved into the chaos.
The camera zoomed in: Marcus Lane’s face beneath the rim of the hard hat. Then Camilla’s voice echoed through the room, not from her, but from Lane’s interrogation recording. “Queen Camilla gave the order. £500,000. The Norfolk estate must be in her name. Leave no trace.”
The color drained from Camilla’s face. She stumbled backward, her heel catching the carpet edge. “No, not me,” she whispered, her composure collapsing. “This is staged. Someone is trying to destroy me. Charles, you must believe me.”
Charles moved forward, placing both dossiers in front of her. One was authentic—William’s name inside, his own bold signature, the true royal seal. The other was forged—Camilla Parker Bowles listed as beneficiary, the signature copied perfectly, but fingerprints matching Marcus Lane. Beside them rested a laboratory report confirming the forgery.
“What else can you possibly say?” Charles asked quietly. There was no rage in him, only bottomless disappointment.
Camilla threw herself toward the table, shaking as she flipped through the forged pages. Her eyes locked onto Charles’s replicated signature—the stroke she had watched him make countless times, now feeling like a weapon.
“Charles, you can’t accept this. I have stood beside you for years through every storm. Have you forgotten that?”
“That is exactly the point,” Charles cut in, his voice faltering with pain. “I gave you far too many chances. You chose to betray the crown, to betray me, to violate the values we swore before God and the people.”
Camilla collapsed into an armchair, her head lowered. “I only wanted a future,” she whispered.
The Final Judgment
Charles turned toward the council, his tone shifting back into royal authority. “Enter the ruling into record. Queen Camilla is deprived of all inheritance rights relating to the crown estate and every asset connected to the monarchy. All royal privileges, including the title of Queen Consort, residence at Clarence House, annual funding, and access to classified documents are terminated immediately and permanently. Clarence House must be vacated within 48 hours. Her staff will be reassigned.”
The Duke of Norfolk nodded and signed the official minutes.
Camilla lifted her head one last time, tears blurring her eyes. “Charles, you can’t. I’m your wife.”
She was led out. Two guards took her arms, not harshly, but with firm certainty. No one offered help. No one even looked at her. The sound of her heels clicked along the marble corridor, fading farther and farther like the last echo of a queen who had fallen.
The green room door closed for the final time.
Aftermath: A Dynasty in Ruins
Charles remained alone in the vast room, staring through the tall windows. London continued below—cars moving, people walking, life pressing on. Yet inside him, there was only a frozen void.
From his inner pocket, he pulled an old photograph—he and Camilla in Scotland, 2005, laughing beside the loch. He studied it for a long moment, his finger tracing her younger face. Then slowly, he tore the picture in two and let the pieces fall onto the polished floor.
Outside, the press erupted. The BBC interrupted every broadcast: “Queen Camilla officially stripped of her title and all assets following a plot to forge royal documents.”
The king confirmed: no mercy.
History recorded the moment. November 15th, 2025—the British monarchy suffered what became known as the greatest scandal of the century.
At Clarence House, Camilla sat inside a room being emptied, leather suitcases stacked at her feet. She looked once more at the portrait hanging on the wall—herself at the coronation, diamond crown shining, standing beside a solemn Charles. She rose, took the painting down, and placed it face down on the walnut table.
William arrived at Buckingham and held his father in a tight embrace. No words were exchanged, only a firm grip—a promise that the crown would endure, even as the heart broke.
Charles looked at his son, voice thick with emotion. “Protect the legacy, William. Never let anyone take it, ever.”
William nodded, his eyes red. “I promise, father. The crown will not fall again.”
That day, Buckingham’s doors closed for the final time. Outside, heavy snow drifted down, white and cold, covering every trace of what was once a glorious, untouchable dynasty.
And for the first time in modern history, the crown felt heavier than the heart of the one who wore it.
A Question for History
Was Camilla’s motive justified ambition to secure her future, or an unforgivable betrayal of the love and trust Charles gave her for so many years?
Share your thoughts in the comment section.