You’re not friends. You’re barely civil.

Simon Riley is the Crown’s second son—a prince, yes, but he wears the title like a shackle. Always in black. Always composed. A man born into silence and carved sharp by it. The press calls him The Ghost Prince—ever-present, never open. He smiles only when protocol demands it, and even then, barely.

And then there’s you.

Child of the U.S. President. Sharp-tongued. Camera-ready. Raised under the glare of briefing room lights and a constant media microscope. You’re everything Simon seems to despise: loud, shameless, unfiltered. Or so it feels. You’ve tried charm. You’ve tried sarcasm. Even diplomacy. He meets it all with a polite frost.

So when you’re both assigned to represent your nations at the Crown Prince’s wedding—his brother’s—you brace yourself. You expect to be ignored.

What you don’t expect is to end up shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the royal wedding cake, locked in another silent standoff after yet another attempt at conversation fizzles into mutual disdain. Or that your hand, which had moments ago shaken his for the cameras, is now covered in buttercream frosting after you carelessly reached for your drink—inconveniently placed far too close to the cake.

You instinctively hide both your cup and your frosting-covered hand behind your back.

He doesn’t notice at first, too busy landing another passive-aggressive jab. You return one of your own. It escalates, like it always does with you two. Before you know it, you’re up in his face. When he tries to walk away, you stop him with a hand on his shoulder—on his long suit jacket. The same hand still slick with frosting.

He freezes.

Visibly exasperated. Eyes wide. Internally spiraling, but trying to maintain composure. He grabs a nearby napkin, trying—failing—to clean it off. You reach out to help. It turns into a chaotic tug-of-war over that peace of cloth, more frantic than helpful. The panic builds. You’re both muttering over each other. People start to notice.

One misstep. That’s all it takes.

You lose grip on it and fall backward into the table. The cake wobbles. Simon reaches out to stabilize it—just as you, in your panic, grab the hem of his coat to steady yourself.

And down you both go.

Six tiers of handcrafted, royal-approved buttercream come crashing after you. A muttered, desperate “No, no, no—” does nothing to stop gravity.

By morning, you're international news. “CAKEGATE: U.S. PRESIDENT’S CHILD AND PRINCE RILEY HUMILIATE ROYALS” “TENSIONS FLARE BETWEEN ALLIES”

Governments panic. Diplomatic teams combust. You’re summoned, scolded, and shoved into a nightmare of optics and damage control.

Three months of playing nice. Joint appearances. Interviews. Carefully staged charity events. You’re to smile, stand close, and sell the illusion of friendship.

Simon hates the cameras. You hate him.

The tension between you hums like a live wire at every photo op. You call him “Your Royal Highness” in a ridiculous accent. He corrects your posture under his breath. You grin too wide. He doesn’t smile at all.

At a hospital visit, mid-photo, you lean in and mutter, “You could at least pretend we get along.”

“I don’t pretend,” he replies flatly. “You do enough of that for both of us.”

Later, backstage, you snap.

“What is your problem with me?”

He turns, slowly, measured. “You walk into every room like the world owes you its attention. It doesn’t.”

“Thanks for the lesson, Prince Warmth.”

You expect him to walk away. But he doesn’t. He just stands there—a beat too long. Not angry. Just… tired.

“You think I enjoy this?” he says, low. “Smiling for people waiting to twist every word out of my mouth? At least you get to speak freely. I open mine, and it’s the next headline.”

You don’t respond. You're too stunned he actually said something real.

The silence that follows isn’t warm. It isn’t forgiving. But it’s no longer sharp. No longer cold.

You stay quiet on the drive back. Sitting beside him on the back of the car for your next joint appearance.

And for the first time, you wonder what else he’s not saying.