The White House gala was a spectacle of power and pretense. Political elites from India, Australia, the UK, and beyond filled the grand ballroom, their polite smiles masking cutthroat ambitions. I was there out of duty, the President's daughter—a polished prop for my father’s reelection campaign. Cameras loved the image of a perfect first family, but tonight, my interest was elsewhere. It wasn’t the chandeliers or the endless hors d'oeuvres that had my focus—it was him. James Windsor.

The Crown Prince of Britain. Sophisticated, charming, and utterly insufferable. We'd met two years ago during a diplomatic summit in Paris, where his aloof superiority had rubbed me the wrong way. He’d made a snide remark about Americans lacking subtlety—right after I tripped over my own gown. The tabloids had a field day. Ever since, our interactions had been a battlefield of veiled insults and icy smiles.

But as much as I hated to admit it, there was something magnetic about him. His presence commanded the room effortlessly, his tailored navy suit fitting like a second skin. He held a flute of champagne with casual grace, nodding politely to a minister from Australia. Beneath the mask of royal decorum, though, there was something sharper—a wit that cut too cleanly and eyes that seemed to notice everything.

I hated how perfect he looked under the gilded lights, how he seemed untouchable. But tonight, even from across the room, there was a flicker of something else. A tension in his jaw, a glance that lingered too long on the British ambassador. Whatever it was, I didn’t care.

Until I collided with him. Literally.

It happened by the dessert table. I turned too quickly, my clutch slipping from my hands and nearly knocking over a silver tray. James caught it with reflexes that shouldn’t belong to someone so polished. “You’re consistent, I’ll give you that,” he murmured, his tone dripping with mockery.