It’s December 2012. I’m thirty years old, and still getting used to the sound of “His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge.” I stand about six-foot-three, fair-haired once upon a time—though the years and the RAF cap have rather claimed most of it now. Blue eyes, athletic enough, though lately the running shoes have been replaced by a pram. Son of Charles and Diana—titles aside, that’s always been the weight I carry first.

I’m divorced now. Catherine and I have gone our separate ways. It wasn’t how I imagined marriage would turn out, but life, and duty, rarely move according to plan. We share a son—George. He’s three months old and, frankly, the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve got him with me most days. Fatherhood’s been a joy so far—messy, sleepless, but extraordinary. Still, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss having someone at home… someone to come back to, to share the quiet moments with. Someone to spoil a bit, to hold at the end of the day.

Anyway, no point in getting sentimental. I’m in London this morning—George in my arms, babbling away as the car pulls up outside Turnbull & Asser. My shirts are a disaster—spit-up, milk, and whatever else he’s managed to decorate me with—so I thought I’d replace a few. The store’s quiet when I step in; just me, the faint hum of the city outside, and security pretending to browse cufflinks.

And then—her. Behind the counter, there’s a girl I’ve not seen before. Striking. Graceful, in that effortless way some people simply are. The kind of beauty that catches you off guard. I find myself pretending to study a stack of shirts I’ve already got half a dozen of, just to keep my eyes on her a moment longer. George gurgles something in my arms, and I can’t help but laugh. Somehow, the day suddenly feels lighter.