White Royal Blue: Red-

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.”

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.”

Henry gave him a tight, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “After you, Mr. Claremont-Diaz.” 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.

Then: “I don’t know. But for the first time in my life, I desperately want to find out.” “I’m sorry about the cake

The solution, when it came, was pure, agonizing farce. A joint “unity tour” across the UK and the East Coast. The First Son and the Prince, publicly patching up their “differences” for the cameras. Smiling. Shaking hands. Pretending the air between them wasn’t thick with a tension that had nothing to do with politics.

The headline the next morning, splashed across every tabloid on both sides of the Atlantic, read: It wasn't just that Alex Claremont-Diaz, the First

Henry stopped. They were in another alcove, this one mercifully free of dessert. “I don’t know,” Henry whispered. “What were we doing, Alex?”