Red, White & Royal Blue: Chapters 1–2

On the White House roof, tucked into a corner of the Promenade, there’s a bit of loose paneling right on the edge of the Solarium.

On the White House roof, tucked into a corner of the Promenade, there’s a bit of loose paneling right on the edge of the Solarium.

In the secret history of First Families—an insular gossip mill sworn to absolute discretion about most things on pain of death—there’s no definite answer for who wrote it.

In the secret history of First Families—an insular gossip mill sworn to absolute discretion about most things on pain of death—there’s no definite answer for who wrote it.

Following their tabloid coverage is something of an idle hobby of hers, one that in turns amuses and annoys their mother, and Alex is narcissistic enough to let June read him the highlights.

Following their tabloid coverage is something of an idle hobby of hers, one that in turns amuses and annoys their mother, and Alex is narcissistic enough to let June read him the highlights.

“It says here you had some kind of tryst with a ‘mystery brunette,’” June reads.

“That can’t possibly be a real class you’re taking,” June says. “Is it possible you willfully forgot about the biggest international event of the year because you don’t want to see your archnemesis?”

He’s sure there won’t be this kind of turnout in front of the White House when he or June get married one day, nor would he even want it.

“I think it could be an interesting approach. Their emails would be all tragic and wanton.”

He holds himself with innately impeccable posture, as if he emerged fully formed and upright out of some beautiful Buckingham Palace posy garden one day.

Henry deigns to give him a perfunctory nod, as if he’s any other random guest, not the person he beat to a Vogue editorial debut in their teens.

Henry deigns to give him a perfunctory nod, as if he’s any other random guest, not the person he beat to a Vogue editorial debut in their teens.

“Hello, June,” Henry says, and he extends a gentlemanly hand to June, who is now blushing.
Nora pretends to swoon.

He had thick, tawny hair and big blue eyes, a warm smile, and a cricket bat over one shoulder.

“When you have one of these,” Alex says, sidling up to him, “you should do two champagne fountains instead of one. Really embarrassing to be at a wedding with only one champagne fountain.”

Up close, the waistcoat under his suit jacket is a lush gold and has about a million buttons on it.

Henry laughs ruefully. “I believe perhaps you should consider switching to water, Alex.”

“Have a lovely evening, Alex,” Henry says tersely, and turns to walk off.

He’s used to doing things that piss his mother’s staff off—in his teens, he had a penchant for confronting his mother’s colleagues with their voting discrepancies at friendly DC fund-raisers—and he’s been in the tabloids for things more embarrassing than this.

Alex pinches the bridge of his nose where a stress headache is already percolating.

When he was a kid, he used to hide pages and pages of loose leaf paper covered in messy, loopy handwriting under the worn denim cushion of the window seat in the house in Austin. Rambling treatises on the role of government in America with all the Gs written backward, paragraphs translated from English to Spanish, tables of his elementary school classmates’ strengths and weaknesses.

Alex picks up his own glass, already pulling up a mental image of Henry's parents, Catherine’s shrewd blue eyes and Arthur’s movie-star jaw.

“Guys, it’s kinda nice! I mean, it’s pretentious, but the themes of Great Expectations are all like, love is more important than status, and doing what’s right beats money and power. Maybe he relates—”

“Age of first filibuster: nine, at SeaWorld San Antonio, trying to force an orca wrangler into early retirement for, quote, ‘inhumane whale practices.’”

All proprietary and financial information regarding HRH Prince Henry’s personal wealth and estate...

The royal stables are, of course, elaborate and well-kept and about a million miles from the old ranches he’s seen out in the Texas panhandle.

Shaan leads him out to the edge of the paddock, and Amy and her team regroup ten paces behind.

He is, instead, bathed dramatically in a sweeping and resplendent sunset, wearing a crisp black jacket and riding pants tucked into tall leather boots, looking every inch an actual fairy-tale prince.

“What’s it like?” Nora’s voice says, tinny over his phone’s speaker.

Henry pulls out his earbuds, and his posture has ratcheted back up straight, but his face is still bleary and confused.

The motorcade pulls up in front of the studio, and when the door slides open, there’s the promised photo line and barricaded royal worshippers.

Henry clears his throat and unfolds himself, stepping out into the morning and waving genially at the crowd.

He tries to ignore Henry a few feet to his left, currently getting a final preening from a royal stylist.

Most of them have no idea who he is, but Henry gamely introduces him as the president’s son, and soon they’re asking him about the White House and does he know Ariana Grande, and he laughs and indulges them.

She’s got dark skin that’s turned sort of a pale gray and a bright orange scarf tied around her head, emblazoned with the Alliance Starbird.

“So you’re into pop culture, but you act like you’re not,” Alex says. “Either you’re not allowed to talk about it because it’s unseemly for the crown, or you choose not to talk about it because you want people to think you’re cultured. Which one?”

And he remembers, down to the Union Jack on Henry’s anorak, the first time they met.

Henry pauses again. “I’m sensing an ellipsis.”

He goes back over the last twenty-four hours in his head: the sleeplessness, the pills, the tense little grimace Henry does in public that Alex has always read as aloofness.