The air in the White house was thick with a palpable mix of history and elation. Sunlight
streamed through the grand windows of the White house, illuminating the faces of assembled crowd------ a galaxy of American power and glamour. This wasn't a standard meet- and -greet; rather a moment in the nation's timeline.
The scene outside the house was a storm of light and activity. A hundred cameras, mounted on tripods, wielded by a throng of reporters, created a constant, frenetic strobe effect, turning the overcast day into a high drama spectacle. People held behind velvet ropes, police barricades, craned their necks, hoping to catch a glimpse.
The luxury limousines, armoured by SUVs arrived in an elegant, unending procession, each one a whisper of power and prestige. As a car would pull up to the West ring entrance, a chauffeur would spring out to open the door, and a flash of celebrity or political might would emerge. A famous actress, draped in a gown that shimmered like twinkling stars, ascended the steps with a practiced wave, her smile radiating glitz. A tech billionaire, looking uncharacteristically formal, adjusted his tie as he prepared to greet the cameras. A foreign head of state, with a stern yet pleased expression , offered a small nod to the press before disappearing inside.
Each new arrival was a moment of its own, a quick tableau of power and history. They paused, just for a moment , at the top of the grand staircase, turning to face the wall of the flashing lights, their expressions a mixture of pride,respect, a shared sense of witnessing something truly unprecedented. They were not guests at the party; but were participants in a moment that would be written into the history of books.
The sleek black limousine pulled up to the curb with the silent grace of a predator. As it's doors opened,a flash of tailored perfection emerged, followed by a hundred more flashes of light as the press went into frenzy . A chorus of shouts and cameras filled the air in the White house, cutting through the murmur of the crowd. " The next in line to the throne has arrived !'' a voice from the press shouted , a title that seemed to belong more to a fantasy than to the modern political landscape of Washington, DC.
Edmund Savoy ascended the Grand White House steps with a casual, unhurried ease, the very picture of inherited power. His dark brown suit, a bespoke masterpiece, seemed to absorb the light around him, making him a central , unmissable figure. Just a step behind him, a tall man similar to his height with a cool , attentive demeanor followed. This was his male secretary, Lionel Hemsworth, who moved with the quiet efficiency of a guardian, a stark and formal contrast to the Duke's almost effortless charisma .
Edmund paused at the top of the stairs. He'd didn't just pose for cameras; he commanded them. He turned his head slowly, a faint , almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips as the flashlights exploded in a supernova of light. He was not a politician or celebrity, but something more. He was royalty. His presence wasn't about a political agenda or an electoral win, but about an ancient line of succession, and in this moment on the very American steps, that historical weight felt undeniably real.
Dignitaries from around the globe offered solemn, appreciative bows. Hollywood legends, their usual swagger replaced by a respectful and humble awe, offered a firm handshake and congratulations to America's first female president , Elena Claire Donovan.
The President shook hands with world leaders, her genuine smile and her eyes focused. But just a step behind her, her daughter, Alexa Claire Donovan, offered a different kind of greeting. She wasn't just a shadow in her mother's light, she was cool,steady presence in her own right. She offered a warm smile and polite handshake to a solemn dignitary and other guests.
For Alexa, the day is already off to a frustrating start. She has been instructed- no, forced-by her mother's press team to be on her best behavior around the guests. Despite her initial irritation at being treated like a child, she decided she'd at least try to be civil.
She stood beside by her mother,a portrait of absolute poise of American elegance. As the President offered a firm handshake to a foreign ambassador, Alexa provided a warm, engaging smile to a diplomat's spouse.
Through the grand doors, a figure emerged. He moved with an effortless command that cut through the room's energy. It was Prince Edmund. Behind him, his male secretary, a formal shadow at his side. He didn't just walked the room, he owned it.
Alexa knows that the young prince is famous for being reserved, traditional, sometimes cold. Still, she has to greet him, offers him a warm smile and extends her hand, only for Edmund to ignore her completely, barely offering a nod before shifting his attention to her mother.
Then Edmund with his secretary beside him,
moved to the buzzing East room. Alexa watched him go,a hot wave of indignation washing over her. She felt the blood rushed to her cheeks. Her knuckles turned white as she clenched her hands. He offered her mother a brief, impeccably formal handshake so correct it was utterly dismissive.
He ignored me. The First daughter. Me. Like I was a piece of decorative furniture. A whole grand entrance, a symphony of flashes and cameras, just to pretend I don't exist? The sheer threaticality of it. What a performance.
And that ridiculously polite handshake with my mom---- it was so condescending it deserved a standing ovation. So be it , your majesty. I will show you that I am not some wannabe that you ate gonna mess with.