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The Kensington sitting room had been arranged with excruciating precision. Cream armchairs. Gold-rimmed teacups. Fresh roses. The lighting had been declared “fit for Windsor cheekbones,” and someone had sprayed a very expensive mist into the air that supposedly made skin look dewy and emotions look earnest.
Henry looked stunning, of course. Hair a little windswept, blue eyes bright, long legs crossed in one of the velvet chairs like he had nothing to hide and generations of breeding behind him to prove it. Alex was lounging beside him, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, grinning like he was about to announce the fall of a minor government.
Max, a small-time assistant cameraman and a cousin of someone’s agent, stood behind the lens, trying not to panic. The actual interviewer, a woman with a soothing BBC accent and shoes worth more than Alex’s Jeep, gave the countdown.
Three. Two. One.
“Thank you both so much for having us,” she began.
Alex leaned forward and said, very solemnly, “Hello. I’m Henry. His Royal Highness Prince of Whatsit. Duke of Doohickey. Third of his name. Breaker of protocol. Walker of Corgis.”
Henry, without missing a beat, turned to the camera and said in perfect French, “Salut, je m’appelle Alex. J’aime les pancakes et la démocratie.”
Alex frowned. “What did you just say?”
“I introduced myself as you,” Henry replied. “And added that you love pancakes and democracy. It’s accurate.”
Alex muttered, “Rude,” while the interviewer chuckled and moved on.
The first few questions were light and charming. How did you meet? (A cake-related international incident.) Who made the first move? (Henry.) What’s a typical night in your house? (Alex cooks. I pretend to help and mostly make things worse.)
Then came the question.
The one that made Alex’s smile freeze and his spine stiffen like someone had just asked to see his tax records.
“What’s something you dislike about your partner?”
There was a pause.
A beat too long.
Alex looked at her with that polite, glittering expression he used when someone said something offensive at a campaign fundraiser and he couldn’t cause a scene without sinking three polling points.
He opened his mouth, probably to say something diplomatic.
Henry got there first.
“Oh, I hate everything about him,” Henry said very seriously.
Alex blinked. “What.”
The interviewer looked delighted.
“You must understand,” Henry continued, his voice utterly calm, “I married my husband for his money. Imagine, then, the devastation I experienced when I discovered he was, in fact, broke.”
Alex choked on nothing.
“I was promised American oil baron wealth,” Henry said gravely. “Texas gold. Ranches. Dynasty. I had dreams of reclining in a private jet funded by cattle fortunes. I imagined myself as a stunningly handsome trophy husband, fanned by palm leaves, sipping imported espresso on a ranch the size of Luxembourg.”
Alex had his head in his hands.
Henry kept going, voice soft and dramatic like he was narrating a true crime documentary. “Alas. I was instead given a broke cowboy from bucktooth Austin who once paid for an Uber in nickels. I was catfished by the First Family of the United States. There were no oil reserves. No trust fund. Only a boy with very muscular thighs and a tragic addiction to coffee.”
The interviewer had frozen, mouth slightly open.
Henry turned to the camera and added, “I considered filing a lawsuit.”
“Henry.”
“And do not even get me started,” Henry said, waving a hand, “on the Apple Watch. He wore an Apple Watch with his suit on our wedding day. The photos were irreparably damaged.”
“I needed to count my steps,” Alex muttered.
“You are not supposed to be counting steps at your own wedding.”
“I wanted to know how much cardio it took to marry royalty.”
“More than you had in your budget, apparently.”
Alex was red-faced, trying very hard not to laugh. The interviewer had fully lost track of the questions.
Henry, now reclining again like he had completed a successful assassination, added, “I am currently filing for divorce as we speak.”
“You are not.”
“Watch me.”
“You’re the one who proposed.”
“That was before I knew you thought Texas barbecue was superior to French cuisine.”
Alex pointed a finger at him. “Say that again and I’ll leak the video of you crying over a brisket taco.”
Henry looked into the camera. “Let the record show that I have been emotionally manipulated.”
Alex leaned in toward the mic. “He’s eaten four Whataburgers in a single sitting.”
“I was vulnerable,” Henry hissed.
“You ordered two extra onion rings to take home.”
Henry folded his arms. “I was grieving the loss of my life-long dream.”
The interviewer finally found her voice. “So… just to clarify… you are not actually divorcing.”
Henry blinked. “Of course not. He gives excellent back rubs and I’m very emotionally fragile. I’d die alone in a gilded tower.”
Alex patted his thigh. “There it is.”
“I also like his eyes,” Henry said thoughtfully. “They’re very expressive. One of them twitches when he’s lying. It’s my favorite thing to watch in state meetings.”
Alex nodded. “He likes to lick my nose when he’s drunk. That’s my favorite thing to watch.”
“That is a lie,” Henry said immediately. “That only happened twice.”
“And yet it haunts me.”
Henry smiled at him.
The interview eventually recovered. There were more questions. They even answered some of them. But for the rest of the taping, every time the interviewer tried to steer them back to polite conversation, Henry would lean slightly into Alex’s space and whisper things like, “You still owe me a thousand pounds for that cowboy hat you ordered embroidered with ‘Duke of Booty’.”
To which Alex replied, “I paid with my body.”
When the interview wrapped, Max quietly packed up the camera equipment, looking like he’d witnessed the British Empire collapse in real time.
Alex slung an arm around Henry’s shoulders as they stood. “So, did I embarrass the crown?”
Henry kissed his cheek and said, “No more than usual.”
“Admit it,” Alex whispered as they walked out together. “You married me because I’m hot.”
“I married you because I’m stupid and horny,” Henry said. “But yes. That too.”