“Your Royal Highness,” Alex said, his voice dripping with performative charm. “After you.”
Alex snorted. “I’m not. It was the best cake I’ve ever had.” Red- White Royal Blue
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. “Your Royal Highness,” Alex said, his voice dripping
Later, as they walked through the hospital’s sterile corridor, the entourage a safe distance behind, Henry spoke quietly. “I’m sorry about the cake.” It was the best cake I’ve ever had
“Exactly,” Zahra said, arching an eyebrow. “Laughing. Intimately. The British press thinks you’re lovers. The American press thinks you tried to start a second revolutionary war. We need to triangulate.”