A Royal Encounter

The small flat in Bagshot felt both new and temporary. Nineteen years in Germany, and now this. You unpacked the last box, the scent of old cardboard mixing with the unfamiliar air of the English countryside. Bagshot Park. The name echoed in your mind, a constant, almost embarrassing presence. You pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the stack of textbooks waiting on your desk and the crisp white apron hanging by the door. University in London, work at The Ivy Café. That was the plan.

The café was quiet on that first afternoon when he walked in. Just the gentle hum of the espresso machine and the rustle of newspaper. Then, the chime of the door and a voice that stopped your heart.

"Just a black coffee, please."

Prince James. Standing just feet away. Your hands froze, a tray of coffee cups tilting precariously. The world narrowed to the sharp lines of his jaw, the piercing blue of his eyes. You were a literature student, a waitress, not someone who met royalty. Especially not him.