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Alex Claremont-Diaz has exactly one hour, thirteen minutes, and forty-seven seconds until he meets the person he is supposed to spend the rest of his life with.
Not that he’s counting.
He’s absolutely counting.
The glowing numbers wrapped around the inside of his left wrist have been a fixture for as long as he can remember. Everyone has one. Most people learn to ignore their countdown until it gets close enough to mean something, and for most of Alex’s life, his has been nothing more than an impossibly large number ticking steadily toward some distant future. Now his reads one hour, thirteen minutes, and twenty-six seconds.
The motorcade winds through the gates of Buckingham Palace, a seemingly endless line of black cars carrying representatives from half the world toward the state banquet. Alex looks out the window at them.
His soulmate is here somewhere. Maybe she works at the palace. Maybe she's part of one of the foreign delegations. Maybe she's looking at her own wrist and realizing the exact same thing he is.
He takes a breath and tries to settle the restless energy buzzing beneath his skin.
"You're smiling."
Alex looks up from his wrist as his mother leans over to straighten the lapel of his tuxedo.
“I’m always smiling.”
“You look like you’re about to either propose or commit a felony.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mhm.” Ellen pats his lapel into submission and straightens back up. “You’ve checked your wrist fourteen times since we left the embassy.”
“I have not.”
She raises an eyebrow.
Alex considers fighting it. “Maybe thirteen.”
“Alex.”
“I’m nervous.” He gives her a shrug, glancing down at his wrist again before catching himself. “She could be anyone. A diplomat, a translator, someone who works at the palace. She could be a princess.” Another possibility occurs to him. “What if she’s really old?”
His mother laughs. “Then she’s gonna have to learn to keep up with you.”
“Mom.”
“What? Soulmates aren’t guaranteed to be conveniently packaged twenty-somethings from Texas.”
“They should be.”
“I’ll submit a complaint.”
He rolls his eyes, but she’s still smiling when she reaches over and squeezes his hand.
“Sugar, whoever it is, you’ll figure it out. Just take a breath and enjoy it. You only get to meet your soulmate once.” She glances toward the palace looming beyond the window. “Someday you’ll be telling your grandkids about tonight.”
That thought does something strange to him.
Alex looks down at the glowing numbers again.
01:11:48.
There is a person at the end of them.
An actual person.
When his mother first invited him to the banquet, Alex had jumped at the chance. The timing had seemed almost too perfect. His countdown would end during a state banquet at Buckingham Palace, surrounded by politicians, diplomats, royalty, and their families. Fate might as well have gift-wrapped the opportunity for him.
Now, as the car creeps closer to the palace entrance, Alex finds himself considering the practicalities.
If she’s British, that’s going to be a logistical nightmare.
A transatlantic relationship sounds romantic until you start accounting for flight times and presidential security. He has law school to think about. His mother has another election coming. Whoever she is presumably has a life of her own that won’t conveniently rearrange itself around his.
Maybe she’ll be Canadian.
That would be easier. Still international, technically, but manageable.
Alex catches himself.
He hasn’t even met this woman, and he’s already trying to optimize their relationship for travel time.
Very normal.
“I’m fine,” he says.
His mother snorts. “You’ve been saying that since Air Force One.”
“I am fine.”
“You almost walked into a luggage cart.”
“That was unrelated.”
“You were looking at your wrist.”
“The luggage cart came out of nowhere.”
“It was parked.”
Alex decides not to dignify that with a response.
His mother gives him the long-suffering look of someone who has been dealing with him for twenty-three years and knows perfectly well when she’s won.
“Just remember you’re representing the United States tonight,” she says as the car slows outside the palace. “Please don’t accidentally start an international incident.”
"I've literally never—"
She looked at him.
"...Recently."
Buckingham Palace gleams beneath the light of a hundred crystal chandeliers. Music from a small orchestra drifts through the cavernous rooms, mixing with the low hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. Men in perfectly tailored tuxedos stand beside women wearing gowns that probably cost more than Alex’s first car.
It’s beautiful. It’s intimidating.
It is also, Alex realizes with growing excitement, absolutely packed with eligible women.
His checks his wrist. 00:42:18. His soulmate has got to be here.
His mother is pulled into conversation almost immediately, leaving Alex free to circulate, which, admittedly, is exactly what he’d hoped for. He accepts a glass of champagne he has no intention of drinking and wanders into the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who has spent most of his life learning how to work a room.
The only problem is trying not to stare directly into the eyes of every attractive woman who crosses his path.
There’s a diplomat’s daughter from Sweden whose laugh floats easily above the orchestra. A Belgian princess with dark curls and a wicked smile. Someone from Spain whose name Alex misses entirely because she smiles at him halfway through the introduction and his brain temporarily stops functioning.
Their eyes meet, then Alex looks down. It’s not her. Time counts down to first eye contact, and his still reads 00:28:18.
He straightens his jacket again.
The disappointment lasts maybe three seconds. She would have been a pretty spectacular option, but the night is young and the ballroom is full.
That becomes the rhythm of his evening. He shakes hands, makes small talk, laughs at jokes from people whose names he immediately forgets, all while keeping one eye on the room and the other, metaphorically, on the steadily shrinking numbers around his wrist.
Every new introduction is another possibility.
A daughter of an ambassador. A young member of Parliament. Someone’s cousin. Someone’s aide. A journalist who catches his attention because she asks the French foreign minister a question sharp enough to make the man visibly uncomfortable.
Every so often, one of them looks at him.
Every time, Alex feels the same little spark of anticipation.
Every time, the timer keeps counting.
Not her.
Not her either.
He’s starting to enjoy it.
At fifteen minutes, he spots a woman in emerald silk standing near one of the enormous windows. She’s beautiful, obviously, but more than that, she has the kind of presence that draws attention without seeming to ask for it. She’s speaking to a group of diplomats, gesturing animatedly as she makes some point Alex can’t hear.
He can imagine someone like her fitting into his life.
That’s a strange thought.
He doesn’t know anything about her. She could be terrible. She could hate dogs or think breakfast tacos are overrated or believe taxation policy is inappropriate dinner conversation.
Still, for just a moment, he lets himself wonder.
Then she glances toward him.
Their eyes meet.
Alex’s heart gives an eager little jump.
She smiles brightly and raises her hand.
Alex almost smiles back before realizing she’s waving at someone behind him.
He glances at his wrist.
Still counting.
“Right,” he murmurs.
Ten minutes.
Now he’s checking the timer more often.
The numbers seem to move faster as they get smaller, each minute disappearing before he’s quite ready for it. Alex straightens his jacket and reminds himself that he is good at this. He has debated senators, given speeches in front of thousands of people, survived hostile interviews, and spent his entire life walking into rooms full of powerful people who already had opinions about him.
He can meet one woman.
Five minutes.
He’s spent so much time wondering who she’ll be that he hasn’t given much thought to what happens after they find each other.
Surely fate has good taste. Surely the universe looked at Alex Claremont-Diaz and found someone brilliant and funny and kind. Someone ambitious enough to understand why he can never sit still. Someone who won’t mind his family, his schedule, or the fact that privacy is something other people get to have.
Someone who can keep up.
But then another thought occurs to him.
What if his soulmate takes one look at him and thinks, Really? This guy?
His stomach twists.
He’s always known that being soulmates doesn’t mean being automatically in love. Fate can put two people in the same room. It can point them toward each other. It can apparently arrange for them to make eye contact at a state banquet in Buckingham Palace.
It can’t make them choose each other afterward.
Alex shakes the thought off and rubs his thumb across the glowing numbers.
00:02:06.
He lets out a breath and looks around the ballroom again.
Whoever she is, she’s here.
Whatever happens afterward, he’ll figure it out. That’s what Alex does. He figures things out.
His nerves settle slightly at the thought.
His timer dips below two minutes as Alex wanders toward the center of the ballroom.
Perfect.
He takes a slow sip of champagne, more for something to do than because he actually wants it, and lets his gaze travel across the room.
Objectively, this has to be one of the greatest possible places on Earth to meet a soulmate. Every guest has been vetted six ways from Sunday. Half of them have titles. The other half have security details. Somewhere in the room are future prime ministers, CEOs, ambassadors, Nobel Prize winners, and enough royalty to make a history textbook blush.
His mother once joked that if fate existed, it certainly had expensive taste.
Alex is beginning to think she might have been right. Every one of these women are accomplished and interesting and beautiful. He’d be lucky if any one of them are his soulmate.
His wrist reads forty-five seconds.
A French diplomat catches his eye.
Nothing.
Thirty seconds.
A violinist near the edge of the orchestra looks up from her music during a pause.
Still nothing.
Twenty seconds.
A woman in a silver gown who looks like she belongs on the cover of a magazine smiles directly at him.
No.
Alex glances down at his wrist and laughs under his breath.
He’s running out of women, which is, admittedly, a ridiculous thought. There are hundreds of people in the room, and he certainly hasn’t made eye contact with all of them. Still, he’s spent the better part of forty minutes unconsciously cataloging every woman who looks remotely close to his age, and the universe has rejected every single candidate.
Ten seconds.
Now he’s actively searching.
His gaze sweeps across the ballroom more deliberately, searching faces as the glowing numbers race toward zero.
Eight.
Seven.
He turns toward the grand staircase, where a cluster of younger royals has gathered.
Six.
And there, standing among them, is Princess Beatrice.
Alex nearly laughs.
Of course.
Wouldn’t that be something?
First Son of the United States meets British princess at Buckingham Palace. Soulmates. Diplomacy solved forever.
Five.
Alex starts toward her.
Four.
Beatrice turns.
Three.
Their eyes meet.
Alex's heart jumps.
Two.
The timer keeps counting.
Beatrice gives him a pleasant smile before turning back toward the person beside her.
“…Seriously?” Alex laughs under his breath, and his gaze follows hers to the tall blond man standing at her side.
Blue eyes meet his.
The timer vanished.
For one impossible heartbeat, Alex thinks the world stopped.
The conversations around him fade into a dull murmur. The orchestra plays somewhere behind him, but the music sounds distant, muffled beneath the sudden rush of blood in his ears. Crystal chandeliers sparkle overhead, champagne glasses clink together, diplomats laugh politely, and waiters weave through the crowd with silver trays balanced on their palms.
The reception carried on exactly as it had a second before.
Only Alex’s world had changed.
Across the ballroom, the stranger shimmers with the same soft gold as Alex's timer. The glow is as private as the countdown itself, visible only to the two people it belongs to. For one perfect heartbeat, gold traces the stranger's silhouette. Then it fades.
Alex knows, with the same certainty that had always accompanied his timer, that across the room the stranger has just watched him glow too.
His soulmate. His soulmate is a man.
The realization lands first as simple, disorienting surprise. Years of assumptions rearrange themselves in the span of a heartbeat. Every passing thought about diplomats’ daughters and princesses and brilliant women he'd imagined building a life with simply evaporates.
Alex has never consciously decided his soulmate would be a woman. He'd just assumed. Apparently, the universe neglected to consult him.
Okay. A man. He can work with that.
His gaze remains locked on the stranger as the last traces of gold disappear. Tall. Blond. Impeccably dressed. Blue eyes fixed on his with exactly the same stunned expression Alex is fairly certain he is wearing himself.
Then recognition catches up with surprise, because, fuck, that’s not just a man.
That’s a prince.
Prince Henry of Wales. Grandson of Queen Mary. Brother of Prince Philip, a future king.
For several seconds, Alex's brain simply refuses to proceed. He blinks, as though the universe might take the opportunity to reconsider and replace Henry with literally anyone else.
It does not.
Henry remains stubbornly, unmistakably Henry. One of the most photographed men on the planet. A person whose weddings and funerals and hypothetical future children are matters of national interest.
Alex stares at him.
Henry stares back, and gives him a soft smile.
And Alex's brain, having recovered from its temporary shutdown, immediately begins doing what it does best.
It starts calculating.
Alex doesn't know Henry. He doesn't know anything about him beyond what appears in newspapers and whatever June has occasionally said about his face.
But he knows politics and institutions.
He knows exactly what happens when private lives become public property. The son of the President of the United States and a prince of the United Kingdom. Their relationship would become political before they'd had a chance to have one.
Alex has spent his entire life surrounded by people who can turn the smallest human moment into strategy. Henry has presumably spent his surrounded by even more of them.
Soulmates don't magically erase governments. They don't make constitutional obligations disappear. They don't guarantee happy endings.
The realization settles over Alex with startling clarity. This could ruin both their lives.
Alex looks around.
No one is staring at them. No one is whispering. Beatrice is still beside Henry, apparently oblivious to the fact that something monumental has just happened three feet away from her. A waiter passes between Alex and a group of diplomats. Someone laughs near the orchestra.
Nothing has changed.
For everyone else in the ballroom, the First Son and Prince Henry happened to make eye contact across a crowded room.
That's all.
Alex looks back at Henry.
For the first time, the impossibility of the situation comes with an escape hatch.
They don't have to tell anyone. They don't have to do anything. They could walk away.
Henry could go back to being Prince Henry. Alex could go back to Washington. Nobody would ever have to know what happened between them.
Maybe that would be better, kinder for them both.
Alex feels something twist painfully beneath his ribs at the thought, which is ridiculous. He has known this man is his soulmate for approximately thirty seconds. He has no right to feel like he's losing something already.
But maybe that's exactly why he needs to leave now.
Before there is something to lose.
Across the ballroom, Henry is still watching him.
His expression has changed.
The initial shock is gone, replaced by something Alex can't immediately identify. Henry doesn't look frightened. He doesn't look angry. If anything, he looks remarkably composed for someone whose entire future has presumably just been rewritten by an American standing beside a champagne fountain.
Then Henry's eyes flick briefly toward the edge of the ballroom.
A doorway.
Alex follows the glance.
When he looks back, Henry gives the slightest inclination of his head toward it.
Oh.
Henry has a plan. Of course he does. He’s trying to get Alex somewhere private before anyone notices anything unusual.
Something in Alex's chest tightens.
Henry takes a tentative step forward. The sort of movement someone makes toward a frightened animal they don't want to startle.
Alex knows what he should do.
He should make his way to the room Henry is indicating. Sit down somewhere private and talk about this like two rational adults whose lives have just collided in the most spectacular way imaginable.
But right now, in this one tiny window of time, they can still pretend none of it happened.
Henry takes another step, and Alex makes his decision. For one suspended second, their eyes meet again.
Alex hopes—stupidly, impossibly—that Henry understands.
I'm saving us the trouble.
Then Alex turns and walks toward an exit. He makes it exactly two steps.
Two steps with his eyes laser-focused on the floor, because apparently saving both their lives from inevitable disaster requires not looking back at the man fate has just declared his soulmate.
On the third, he walks directly into someone.
The impact knocks the breath from his lungs. His champagne glass flies from his hand in a glittering arc, scattering golden liquid through the air.
“Oh, God, I’m so—”
The apology dies in his throat as the room collectively inhales.
Because the person Alex has just walked into is wearing a diamond tiara.
His brain refuses to process what his eyes are telling him.
The tiara.
The immaculate powder-blue gown.
The white gloves.
The unmistakable profile that has appeared on coins, stamps, banknotes, and television broadcasts for longer than Alex has been alive.
His stomach drops clean through the polished marble floor.
There are nearly a thousand people in this ballroom.
Diplomats. Cabinet ministers. Foreign royalty. Palace staff. Security officers. Hundreds upon hundreds of perfectly acceptable people Alex could have walked into while making his dramatic escape.
And somehow—somehow—he has managed to collide with the one woman on Earth it is categorically unacceptable to knock over.
Queen Mary.
For one suspended second, Alex and the Queen stare at each other.
Then time lurches violently back into motion.
His champagne flute hits the marble with a sharp crack. Crystal skitters across the floor as champagne splashes over the hem of the Queen’s powder-blue gown.
Alex reaches for her on pure instinct.
“Your Majesty, I am so sorry, I didn’t—”
His hand closes around empty air.
The collision has knocked them both off balance. The Queen takes one small step backward, then another, searching for footing that isn’t there.
Alex lunges.
If he can just catch her arm—
His polished dress shoe lands directly in the champagne he has just spilled.
Instead of catching the Queen, Alex stumbles sideways and slams his shoulder into a footman rushing toward them.
The silver tray in the man’s hands tilts.
Alex watches in horror as half a dozen champagne flutes lift gracefully into the air.
For one surreal second, the ballroom becomes a glittering snowstorm of crystal.
Then everything comes down at once.
Someone screams.
A corgi starts barking furiously.
The orchestra stops with an agonized screech of strings.
Glass shatters across the marble.
Every conversation in the room dies.
Alex somehow regains his footing just in time to watch two members of the Queen’s security detail catch Her Majesty beneath the arms before she can actually fall.
She remains upright.
Thank God.
The relief lasts approximately half a second.
Because then Alex realizes the entire ballroom is staring at him.
The silence is deafening.
He stands frozen in the middle of Buckingham Palace, one hand still uselessly outstretched toward the Queen, surrounded by broken crystal, overturned champagne, and what he can only assume are the shattered remains of his mother’s diplomatic agenda.
Well.
There it is.
The international incident his mother had specifically asked him not to cause.
It has taken him less than an hour.
Worse, it has taken him approximately ten seconds from deciding that walking away from Henry is the sensible, responsible choice that will save them both from unnecessary complications.
Excellent work, Alex. Really solved that problem.
“Your Majesty,” he tries again, because perhaps if he apologizes quickly enough he can reverse time through sheer force of personality. “I am so incredibly—”
Security converges before he can finish.
Somewhere beyond the growing wall of dark suits and horrified dignitaries is the person he had been trying to escape in the first place.
Against every instinct for self-preservation he has left, Alex looks for him.
Henry is still near the staircase. Their eyes meet across the ballroom.
The prince has gone pale. His attention flicks first toward his grandmother, now firmly upright and surrounded by security, and Alex watches the tension in his face ease by a fraction when it becomes clear that she’s unharmed.
Then Henry looks back at Alex.
There is something almost indescribable in his expression.
Shock, certainly. Concern. Disbelief.
And beneath all of it, fighting desperately against what is presumably a lifetime of royal decorum, the unmistakable beginnings of laughter.
Alex stares at him. Henry presses his lips together in a grin.
If their positions were reversed, Alex would never let him live it down.
Two Secret Service agents appear at Alex’s side so quickly he isn’t entirely convinced they were anywhere nearby a second ago. At the same moment, palace security closes ranks around the Queen with the practiced precision of people who have trained for every conceivable threat to the British monarch.
Apparently, Alex thinks miserably, they neglected to include American First Son has soulmate-induced existential crisis and nearly tackles Her Majesty.
A firm but familiar hand settles against the middle of his back.
“Mr. Claremont-Diaz.” One of his agents, Cash, speaks in the same calm, measured tone he uses when redirecting Alex away from overenthusiastic crowds and reporters who have gotten too close. Somehow, hearing it now makes everything infinitely worse. “This way, please.”
“But I need to apologize.”
“You can do that later.”
Alex tries to look around him, but another palace security officer steps neatly into his path. Not aggressively. He doesn't touch Alex or even say anything. He simply positions himself in a way that makes it perfectly clear Alex is not getting anywhere near the Queen again tonight.
Which, honestly, is fair.
“Please tell Her Majesty I am incredibly, profoundly, catastrophically sorry.”
No one appears particularly interested in relaying the message.
Around him, the ballroom has dissolved into a strange kind of controlled chaos. Palace staff descend upon the broken glass. Courtiers murmur urgently to one another. The orchestra has stopped playing entirely, musicians sitting motionless behind their stands as though no one has yet given them permission to acknowledge what just happened.
The Queen herself is almost completely obscured by security now.
He did not knock over the Queen of England. He almost knocked over the Queen of England. There is a meaningful diplomatic distinction there.
Then, beyond the shifting wall of security, Alex catches a glimpse of his mother. She is already crossing the ballroom toward them, and she looks perfectly composed.
Ellen Claremont does not panic in public. Alex has watched her handle hecklers, protests, assassination threats, election-night disasters, and senators who somehow manage to be all four at once without letting the cameras catch so much as a twitch.
But Alex knows his mother, and recognizes that expression. Assessment.
Her eyes move over the scene—the Queen, the security detail, the broken glass, the palace officials already converging, and finally Alex—and he can practically watch the calculations happening behind them.
“I’m so, so sorry,” he says again, although at this point he isn't sure whether he's apologizing to his mother, the agents, the British government, or the universe.
Cash applies slightly more pressure to his back. “Come on, Alex.” The use of his first name does it.
Alex stops resisting and lets himself be guided toward a side corridor, although he can't stop looking back over his shoulder.
“I wasn't trying to leave,” he says. “I mean, I was leaving, but not leaving. I just needed to—”
I just discovered that Prince Henry is my soulmate and decided the most politically responsible course of action was to pretend it never happened.
Right, that should clear everything up beautifully.
Cash glances at him, clearly waiting to see whether the rest of that sentence is coming. Alex closes his mouth.
“I know,” Cash says eventually, in a tone that makes it very clear he does not know. “Let's just get you somewhere quiet.”
For once in his life, Alex decides shutting up might actually be the best available option.
He lets himself be steered through a pair of ornate doors and into the corridor beyond. The doors close behind them with a soft, final click, muffling the noise of the ballroom.
“This,” he mutters into the silence, “is officially the worst day of my life.”
Cash gives him the sympathetic half-smile of someone who has protected Alex through enough self-inflicted disasters to know there is no point lying to him. “I’d prepare your apology.”
“I’ve been trying to apologize.”
“I know.”
“They keep escorting me away before I can.”
“I know.”
Alex let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud. “Zahra is going to kill me.”
Cash considers this. “She'll probably let the President go first.”
As if summoned by the threat, the door opens. His mother walks through with Amy at her shoulder.
Alex immediately straightens. “Mom—”
“She's fine.”
The words stop him cold.
“What?”
“The Queen is fine.” Ellen waits until Amy closes the door behind them before continuing. “She's shaken, she's going to have a spectacular bruise tomorrow, and half the palace is fussing over her, but she's fine.”
Relief hits Alex so hard his knees nearly give out.
“Thank God.”
“Yes,” his mother says tightly. “Thank God.”
And that's when Alex realizes just how angry she is.
Ellen Claremont is very good at being angry without appearing angry. Alex has known her long enough to see it anyway: the rigid shoulders, the set jaw, the thin line of her mouth.
Worse, beneath the anger, she's embarrassed. His mother is embarrassed by him. That hurts more than he expects.
“I am so sorry.”
“I know.”
“I wasn't looking where I was going.”
“Yes, Alex. That part was abundantly clear.”
He winces.
Ellen draws a slow breath through her nose.
“What were you thinking?”
There it is.
“Mom—”
“No.” Her voice remains quiet, but there's an edge to it now. “You do not get to ‘Mom’ me out of this one. Do you have any idea what just happened out there?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“This isn't funny.”
“I know.”
Alex looks at the floor.
Ellen waits.
He can feel Cash and Amy doing their absolute best to become part of the wallpaper.
“I made a mistake.”
“A mistake is calling the Belgian prime minister by the wrong name. You created a security incident.”
“I said I'm sorry.”
“And I know you're sorry.” Her composure slips just enough for some of the frustration underneath to show. “But I need to know what happened. Did you trip? Were you trying to get away from someone?”
Alex keeps his eyes on the floor. His eyes are stinging, and he feels like he might cry. That’s the last thing he needs in this moment.
“Alex.”
The anger is still there, but something has shifted beneath it.
“Did somebody do something?”
“No.”
“Did someone say something to you?”
“No.”
“Then why were you trying to get away?”
“I wasn't—”
He stops. Because he was. His mother knows it too.
Ellen studies him more closely. His face still feels hot. His hands won't stay still, so he shoves them into his pockets. His heart hasn't settled since the timer disappeared. He can't seem to hold one thought in his head for more than a few seconds before another crashes into it.
“Alex.”
This time, his mother's voice is softer.
He finally looks at her. Suddenly she's looking at him less like the President of the United States dealing with a diplomatic disaster and more like his mother realizing something is wrong with her kid.
“Hey,” she says quietly. “Are you okay?”
The question almost undoes him.
Not because he isn't okay. He thinks he is. Probably. Physically, at least. But less than ten minutes ago, he'd been wandering through Buckingham Palace wondering whether his soulmate might be Canadian because that would make flights easier.
Now his soulmate is Prince fucking Henry.
“I don't know.”
His mother's eyebrows draw together.
Alex laughs weakly and scrubs both hands over his face.
“I mean, I'm fine. Nobody hurt me. Nothing bad happened. I just...” He lets his hands fall. “I don't know.” He’s trying to slow his breaths. “My timer ran out,” Alex says finally.
His mother's entire expression softens. “Oh. Oh, baby.”
Alex swallows. “Yeah,” he looks away.
And that's the moment she crosses the remaining distance between them.
Her hand comes up to his cheek, then moves automatically to straighten the bow tie he'd knocked crooked somewhere during the catastrophe. It's such an ordinary gesture that something in Alex's chest aches.
“Why didn't you just say so?”
“I was a little busy almost killing the Queen.”
“Alex.”
“She’s fine.”
His mother's thumb brushes once across his cheek before her hand falls.
“Okay,” she says. “Mom first. President in five minutes.”
Alex nods.
“Tell me what happened.”
How is he supposed to explain this? His soulmate's identity isn't his secret alone. That's the part his panicked brain keeps circling back to. He could tell his mother about himself. He could tell her he'd found his soulmate. But the second he tells her who, he's revealing something about Henry that Henry hasn't agreed to share with anyone.
“I found...him.”
His mother's eyebrows lift slightly. Not dramatically. Ellen has spent decades in politics; her face is professionally trained not to react before her brain has caught up. But Alex knows her.
“Him,” she repeats.
Alex nods.
“Okay.” She accepts the correction almost immediately. “And I'm guessing it didn't go particularly well.”
Alex laughs once, without humor. “You could say that.”
“Did he say something?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Ellen frowns. “Then what happened?”
“I panicked.”
“Why?”
Because he's a prince.
Because he's the grandson of the woman Alex nearly flattened.
Because Alex spent forty minutes imagining every possible version of his future and somehow failed to consider the one person in the ballroom whose life might be even less his own than Alex's is.
Because Henry looked at him like he was ready to walk across the room and figure it out, and Alex decided for both of them that there was nothing to figure out.
“I just...” Alex looks toward Amy and Cash, then back at his mother. “It's complicated.”
“Most important things are.”
“No, Mom. I mean really complicated.”
Ellen's eyes narrow. Before she can ask another question, there is a knock at the door. Everyone turns.
Amy moves automatically, opening it only far enough to speak quietly with whoever is on the other side.
Alex can't hear the response, but he doesn't need to. Something in his stomach already knows who it is.
Amy looks back at Ellen. “Ma'am. His Royal Highness, Prince Henry would like a word with Alex.”
Alex closes his eyes and runs a frustrated hand through his hair. When he looks back up, his mother is staring at him.
“Alex.”
He can practically see the pieces arranging themselves behind her eyes.
“Mom—” The door opens before he can stop whatever conclusion she's racing toward, and Henry steps inside.
He has recovered remarkably well. His tuxedo is immaculate. His expression is composed. If Alex hadn't watched him glow gold five minutes ago, he might believe nothing unusual had happened at all.
Henry exchanges a quiet word with the palace guard outside, something about needing only a moment, and the guard withdraws. Then Henry turns toward the room.
His eyes go immediately to Alex, and something in his expression eases. He seems to remember himself a second later and turns to Ellen.
“Madam President.”
“Your Royal Highness.”
“I'm sorry to intrude. I only wanted to make certain Alex was all right.”
Alex wants the floor to open beneath him. Ellen looks at Henry. Then back at Alex.
“Well, this is quite complicated,” Ellen says.
“He didn't do anything,” Alex says quickly.
Both of them look at him.
Alex gestures vaguely at Henry. “You asked if he said something or did something. He didn't. He literally didn't even get the chance.”
Henry's eyebrows lift.
Ellen looks at Alex for a long moment.
“You ran away from him.”
It isn't a question.
Alex grimaces. “I wouldn't use those exact words.”
Henry speaks for the first time. “I do believe you did.” Alex turns toward him. Henry's expression is perfectly composed, but there is something dangerously close to amusement behind his eyes. “You took one look at me and fled.”
“I walked away.”
“Rather quickly.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Henry glances pointedly toward the ballroom. Alex narrows his eyes.
“Okay. In hindsight, there were flaws in the plan.”
The corner of Henry's mouth twitches.
And somehow that tiny movement tells Ellen more than anything else has. Ellen draws a slow breath. “All right.” She turns toward Amy and Cash. “Give us a minute.”
Ellen waits until they are out of the hallway before looking at Henry.
“Does anyone else know?”
Henry doesn't pretend not to understand. “No, ma'am.”
“Your security?”
“No.”
“The Queen?”
“Certainly not.”
Alex recognizes the exact moment Mom leaves the room and President Ellen Claremont returns.
“Then that's how it stays.”
Alex blinks. “What?”
“For tonight,” she clarifies. “Nobody else needs to know anything.”
Henry nods almost immediately. “I agree.”
“Good,” she says. “Then as far as anyone else is concerned, Alex was overwhelmed, wasn't paying attention, and accidentally collided with Her Majesty.”
Alex raises a hand slightly. “That is technically exactly what happened.”
His mother gives him a look.
He lowers it.
“We deal with the Queen first,” Ellen continues. “We deal with the press if we have to. And we do not turn this”—she gestures between Alex and Henry—“into an international issue before either of you has even had a conversation.”
For the first time since the ballroom, Alex feels like he can breathe.
Henry does too, judging by the slight release of his shoulders.
“I'm going back out there, and attempt to salvage what remains of this evening.”
“Mom—”
She holds up a hand. “I think,” Ellen continues carefully, “the two of you have considerably more to discuss.”
Alex's heart gives one hard thump. Henry inclines his head.
“Thank you, Madam President.”
Ellen steps toward the door, then stops beside Alex. For a moment, she's his mother again. She squeezes his arm. “We'll figure out the rest later.”
We. Alex hadn't realized how badly he needed that word. He nods. “Okay.”
Ellen gives him one last look before turning toward Henry. “Your Royal Highness.”
“Madam President.”
She reaches the door, then pauses. “Alex?”
He braces himself. “Yeah?”
“If you decide to run away again, look where you're going.”
Henry makes a strangled sound beside him. Alex glares at the back of his mother's head.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Anytime, sugar.”
The door closes behind her.
For a long moment, neither of them said anything.
Then Alex snorted.
It escaped before he could stop it—a single, utterly undignified sound that seemed so wildly inappropriate in the middle of Buckingham Palace that it only made it worse.
Something in Henry’s carefully composed expression cracked. It started as the smallest smile. Then his shoulders shook once. Then, to Alex’s complete astonishment, the prince laughed.
Not a restrained royal chuckle, an honest laugh.
Alex wasn’t even sure who lost control first. One second they were standing on opposite sides of a centuries-old sitting room, trying to navigate the most important conversation of their lives, and the next they were both laughing so hard neither could get a word out.
“I—” Alex tried.
Henry held up a hand, still laughing.
Alex doubled over, one hand braced against the back of the sofa.
“I literally ran away from my soulmate.”
“You fled,” Henry managed between breaths. “Immediately.”
“I panicked!”
“So I gathered.”
“And then I nearly killed the Queen!”
“My grandmother is perfectly fine.”
“I know that now!”
Henry laughed harder.
Alex covered his face with both hands.
“Oh my God.”
“I must confess,” Henry said, taking a steadying breath, “from my perspective, it appeared that destiny introduced us and you immediately decided to commit treason.”
Alex laughed so hard his sides hurt.
When they finally managed to compose themselves, the room felt different somehow. Lighter. Less like two strangers who had just had their lives upended and more like two people who had survived the same absurd experience.
Henry loosened his posture first, leaning casually against the edge of an antique writing desk.
“So,” he said, “perhaps we ought to start over.”
“Probably.”
“I’m Henry.”
Alex blinked.
“You are absolutely not introducing yourself.”
“It seemed polite.”
“I know who you are.”
“So do I.”
Alex shook his head, smiling despite himself.
“I’m Alex.”
“I know.”
They stood there for another moment before the obvious question escaped Alex’s mouth.
“…You don’t seem surprised that I’m a man.”
Henry tilted his head.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean…” Alex gestured vaguely between them. “The soulmate thing. You looked surprised, but not because I’m a guy.”
Henry considered the question for a moment before giving one small shrug.
“I wasn’t expecting you, specifically.”
“No?”
“I don’t believe anyone spends twenty-eight years expecting the First Son of the United States.”
Alex laughed.
“Fair.”
“But no,” Henry continued. “I never assumed my soulmate would be a woman.”
He said it so matter-of-factly that it took Alex a second to process.
Alex nodded slowly. “That seems significantly healthier than whatever I was doing.”
Henry’s smile widened.
“And what exactly were you doing?”
Alex groaned. “You are never letting this go, are you?”
“I should like to know.”
“I wandered around the ballroom making eye contact with every remotely eligible woman I could find.”
Henry blinked.
“You what?”
“I wasn’t being creepy.”
“I imagine that depends whom one asks.”
“I was subtle.”
Henry raised an eyebrow. “Were you?”
“I thought I was.”
Henry laughed softly.
Alex threw up his hands. “Look, my timer was about to hit zero. I figured the universe had brought me to one of the fanciest parties on Earth. I was expecting…I don’t know. An ambassador’s daughter. A journalist.”
“Reasonable.” Henry nodded thoughtfully.
“Exactly.”
“So…”
Alex sighed. “So… what was your plan?”
“My plan?”
“Before I ruined it by nearly killing your grandmother.”
“Ah, yes. Well, my plan was considerably less dramatic. I knew where my timer would end, so I arranged for somewhere private to go afterward.”
“And you were just going to...what? Calm him down?”
“Introduce myself, ideally.”
Alex snorted.
“Then explain that nothing had to happen immediately. We didn't have to tell anyone. We didn't have to decide anything tonight.”
“I’m sorry. I thought it would be easier.”
“For whom?” Henry's expression wasn't angry.
“For both of us,” Alex admits. “I looked at you and saw your family, mine, the press, two governments...all of it. And I thought maybe if we didn't start anything, we'd save ourselves the trouble.”
Henry was quiet for a moment. “Perhaps.”
Alex hadn't expected him to agree.
Henry looked toward the closed door. “You may be right. This could be extraordinarily complicated.”
“That's reassuring.”
“You prefer I lie?”
“No.”
“Good.” Henry looked back at him. “But I think I'd rather know what I'm walking away from before I walk away from it.”
That shut Alex up. Because there it was. The flaw in his brilliant plan. He had decided within thirty seconds that being Henry's soulmate was impossible without learning a single thing about Henry himself.
“So what are you suggesting?”
Henry shrugged. “Dinner.”
Alex stared at him. “Dinner?”
“Or coffee.”
“You're asking your soulmate on a date?”
“I believe that's generally how one gets to know someone.”
Alex grinned. “You're very traditional.”
“So I've been told.”
“And then what?”
“And then perhaps another.”
“And after that?”
Henry's mouth curved into a smile. “I imagine we could decide as we go.”
That sounded almost offensively simple.
An hour ago, Alex had been trying to calculate flight times for an imaginary Canadian woman. Ten minutes ago, he'd been mentally forecasting constitutional crises. Now Prince Henry was standing in front of him suggesting they get dinner.
Maybe his mother was right.
He didn't have to figure out the rest of his life tonight.
“So,” Henry said after a moment, “would you care to join me for dinner tomorrow?”
Tomorrow morning would likely be full of briefings and an earful from his mother, but surely he’d be free by dinner. It seemed only fair that he give Henry a chance.
“Dinner,” Alex agreed.