Red- White Royal Blue Apr 2026

“Your Royal Highness,” Alex said, his voice dripping with performative charm. “After you.”

“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.”

“Caught doing what?” Alex challenged, his heart hammering. Red- White Royal Blue

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

Alex stared at the screen for a long time. Then he typed back: “What are we doing, Henry?” “Your Royal Highness,” Alex said, his voice dripping

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.

Henry picked up a blue one. “Tentative allies.” Intimately

The backdrop was the Royal Wedding of the year. The crime scene: a forgotten linen closet off the main gallery.

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.”