charles has become accustomed to a lavish lifestyle. rich foods, silk bedsheets, robes with his initials monogrammed on the left chest pocket, rings that show off his wealth. he’s used to having the world at his fingertips, being praised for waking up in the morning. you’re not poor, but you’re not wealthy. you live on a council estate in central london, you have a daughter, a mini you, who you had at seventeen and who goes to your old secondary school. your best friend of fourteen years lives next to you and the two of you are often at the local pub with your friends on the weekends.

you and charles met when you were screaming at your daughters father for being just a generally shitty man and an even shittier dad. he was walking past for an event and was intrigued by the gorgeous woman having no shame and screaming at the top of her lungs in the street. he didn’t know that the first time he spoke to you would rope him into a lifetime of weekends at the pub, having to become close with your daughters friends, and takeaways for dinner most nights.

you and charles aren’t dating, but you’ve become incredibly close friends. your daughter adores him, absolutely loves him, and you, well, it’s obvious to everyone how you feel about the monegasque.