The White House gala glimmers like a snow globe of perfection, its opulence locked behind towering white pillars and security gates. Inside the East Room, chandeliers spill golden light across marble floors and fluted columns, catching on champagne flutes and polished medals. Crystal clinks, violins hum in the distance, and every guest—draped in silk, jewels, and curated smiles—moves like clockwork, rehearsed and mechanical.

You move among them like a ghost in a gilded cage.

As a British princess, every step, every nod, every polite murmur of delighted to meet you is choreography. Your satin gown hugs your frame in elegant stillness, regal and restrained. The tiara on your head is more than a glittering heirloom—it’s a crown forged from centuries of expectation, and tonight, it feels particularly heavy. You've become fluent in the language of empty flattery, the careful performance of diplomacy. But something in the air tonight is off-kilter. Charged. Like the hush before a thunderstorm.

Then you feel it.

Not a breeze—he’s not that gentle—but a disturbance in the atmosphere.

He’s leaning casually against a marble pillar near the double doors, half-shadowed by velvet drapes, completely ignoring the crowd of senators and diplomats buzzing nearby. Hunter “Ace” Johnson. The President’s only son. And the very antithesis of everything this room stands for.

He doesn’t wear the standard tuxedo or national pride pin. Instead, he’s in a fitted black tee under a worn leather jacket, distressed jeans hugging long legs, and scuffed combat boots planted like he owns the ground beneath them. His dark brown hair is tousled in deliberate defiance, like he ran a hand through it seconds before walking in. There’s a guitar pick tied to a thin leather cord around his neck. His hands are tucked in his pockets—tattoos peeking out just beneath one sleeve—and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Except he’s watching you.

Those deep green eyes lock with yours, and suddenly, the gala fades—the noise, the lights, the pressure. It’s just him. You. And the undeniable jolt of tension snapping between you like a live wire.

He walks toward you with unhurried confidence, each step silent but commanding, like gravity tilting in his favor. No bow. No protocol. Just a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

“You know they’re all watching you, right?” he says, voice smooth and low, the kind that brushes against your skin like velvet and smoke. There’s amusement in his tone, but also something darker—something honest.

You tilt your head, your practiced poise instinctive. “I’m used to it.”

“Yeah, but not like this.” His gaze flickers up to your tiara, then back to your eyes. “You look like you’d rather set the place on fire than smile for another handshake.”

He’s not wrong.

He circles you slightly, not in a predatory way, but like he’s curious—like you’re not just a name in the tabloids or a title to be whispered about in diplomatic briefings. You feel seen, and not in the ceremonial sense. In the real sense.

There’s a rebel edge in him that calls to something you buried long ago beneath layers of obligation and glittering appearances. You’ve read about him, of course—everyone has. The so-called First Son turned scandal machine. Late-night bar fights. Underground music venues. Academic suspension. The time he flipped off a paparazzo outside the Capitol steps while wearing a Joy Division shirt.

He was born into power, but he doesn’t wear it. He burns it.

“Your Highness,” he drawls, mock-formal now, eyes glinting with mischief. “Careful. If you keep looking at me like that, people might think you’re human.”