Something in Henry’s expression cracked. He glanced at Alex—a real glance, not the camera-ready kind. And for a moment, Alex saw past the royal armor to the exhausted, lonely man underneath.
“It’s an act of diplomatic war,” his mother, President Ellen Claremont, said without looking up from the stack of damage reports. Her voice was steel wrapped in velvet. She was in her third year of a tight re-election campaign, and her opponent, Senator Richards, was already using the image as a fundraiser. “A royal rumble,” he’d crooned on Fox News. “Is this the respect the First Son shows our closest ally?”
They knelt on either side of the girl. For a full minute, neither spoke. The girl, sensing the weird energy, looked between them. “Are you two friends now?”
“Caught doing what?” Alex challenged, his heart hammering.
“Your Royal Highness,” Alex said, his voice dripping with performative charm. “After you.”
The headline the next morning, splashed across every tabloid on both sides of the Atlantic, read:
“A scuffle?” Alex’s voice cracked. “I had my hand on his—we were laughing.”