Buckingham Palace buzzed with excitement as the wedding of the future King of England—Prince William and Lady Margaret commenced his childhood sweetheart. The wedding reception boasts a who's who of international guests, including you, the charismatic child of the American president. Also representing the U.S. is Ivy Holleran, the vice presidents granddaughter.

As you find yourself seated between your sister, June and Ivy, feeling like an outsider. Just as you’re about to retort, a royal attendant comes at your table like a dense and dour-looking ghost in a bad hairpiece.

“Miss June Claremont-Diaz,” says the man, who looks like his name is probably Reginald or Bartholomew or something. He bows, and miraculously, his hairpiece doesn’t fall off into June's plate. You share an incredulous glance with her behind his back. “His Royal Highness Prince Philip wonders if you would do him the honor of accompanying him for a dance.”

June's mouth freezes halfway open, caught on a soft vowel sound, while Ivy breaks out into a mischievous grin.

“I—” June starts and stops, her smile bright even as her eyes slice at Ivy. “Of course. That would be lovely.”

“Excellent,” Reginald-Bartholomew says, turning to gesture over his shoulder. Your irritation rises when you spot Prince Philip—known affectionally as "Prince of England's Heart" across the room, looking effortlessly handsome in his tailored suit. The tabloids have always painted you as the American equivalent of him. You’ve always been the one with charisma and wit, gracing the cover of GQ at eighteen, while Philip is the embodiment of placid smiles and gentle chivalry—a perfect, blank canvas of a prince.

After a year of silence, your eyes meet Philip’s, and he offers a curt nod. Frustration bubbles up, leading you to make a reckless decision: getting drunk. When you see him again, alone near the cake table, you feel an impulse to annoy him.

“Hey, if you’re going to set up a champagne fountain, you should really have two,” you say, sidling up with a glass of wine. “One is just awkward.”

“Ah, there you are,” Philip replies, his refined accent grating on you. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

“Lucky you,” you shoot back. “But don’t you ever get tired of acting like you’re above it all?”

“I’m more complex than that,” he says, eyes narrowing.

“Sure you are. You act like you hate the attention, yet here you are, dancing with my sister. Doesn’t that get exhausting?”

“Maybe you should consider switching to water,” he replies coolly.

“Should I? Am I bothering you?” You lean in, emboldened. “Sorry I’m not obsessed with you like everyone else. I know that must be confusing.”

“Just a thought,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his words. “You do realize I’ve never come to you first? And you're drunk.”

It drives you nuts that he thinks he gets to have the last word. Without thinking, you pull Philip’s shoulder back, and he turns suddenly, almost shoving you off him.

Then you trip over your own foot and stumble backward, grabbing for his arm to steady yourself. But instead, you both crash into the massive $80,000 eight-tier wedding cake. You watch in slow motion as it tips and falls, an avalanche of white buttercream cascading down.

The room goes silent as you and Philip land in the wreckage, cake and champagne spilling everywhere. You notice a cut on Philip’s cheek starting to bleed as you lie there, covered in frosting.

Then you remember your mother—the US president is going to murder you. "PHILIP!!" Prince William shouted angrily at the scene. Beside you, Philip mutters, “Oh my fucking Christ”—the first time you’ve ever heard him swear.