Henry gave him a tight, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “After you, Mr. Claremont-Diaz.”
The photograph was a disaster of biblical proportions. It wasn't just that Alex Claremont-Diaz, the First Son of the United States, had his hand firmly planted on the backside of Prince Henry of Wales. It was that the flash had caught them mid-laugh, mid-stumble, and mid-catastrophe, their faces flushed a brilliant, undeniable scarlet. The pristine white of Henry’s dress shirt was smeared with the remnants of a large slice of Victoria sponge cake, and Alex’s own navy blazer was hanging off one shoulder like a flag at half-mast. Red- White Royal Blue
“Your Royal Highness,” Alex said, his voice dripping with performative charm. “After you.” Henry gave him a tight, polite smile that
Then: “I don’t know. But for the first time in my life, I desperately want to find out.” It wasn't just that Alex Claremont-Diaz, the First
Zahra, the White House Communications Director, typed furiously on her tablet. “The Palace is apoplectic. They’re demanding a joint statement clarifying the ‘spontaneous and regrettable physical altercation.’ They want to frame it as a harmless scuffle.”
The truth, which Alex would never, ever admit out loud, was far more scandalous than a fistfight. There had been no punching. There had been a stolen moment, a whispered joke about the archbishop’s hat, and then Henry’s hand had found his waist, and Alex’s body had forgotten it belonged to the American political machine. He had laughed—a real, unguarded laugh—and leaned into the prince like he was the only solid thing in a spinning world.