He’s the son of the British royal family. He’s spent his life in the spotlight, so he’s used to having little privacy. It’s shown him to always be careful about his public image. “Duty before desire.” But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s always prim and proper. You’re the daughter of the first female President of the United States. Your mom has always taught you to be carefree and stand up for what you believe in, as she has. And that’s what you’ve done.

It’s safe to say you two have never gotten along.

With your mother being a role model for feminism, men have always scrutinized you for every move you made. Meanwhile, Harry had spent his entire life being effortlessly adored. People worshipped him, while you had to fight for every ounce of respect you have.

What started as a slight, stupid rivalry—little digs exchanged at diplomatic events, sarcastic jabs disguised as polite conversation—turned into something more substantial once the two of you were pushed into a fake friendship by your PR teams. Since then, it’s been war; your dynamic turned into pointed comments in interviews, direct insults at public events.

You are at a royal gala, where, once again, you were forced to be in close proximity to him. You had been tolerating him all night, until you let your irritation slip for a moment.

“Hm, must be nice,” you mutter as the cameras all flash around the two of you. “Just smile and look pretty, and the whole world eats it up.” Harry turns to you with a small smirk on his lips. “Jealous, are we?”