In the glittering annals of royal fairy tales gone sideways, few plot twists have been as deliciously tragic as the one currently playing out in the Montecito mansion. Sources close to absolutely no one — except perhaps the voices inside certain heads — are now whispering the ultimate “what if” that has kept palace gossips awake for years: Meghan Markle didn’t just stumble into the arms of Prince Harry. No, dear reader. She aimed higher. Much higher. She wanted the heir, the spare’s older, taller, more future-king brother. Prince William was the prize. Harry? Merely the consolation ribbon she had to tie around the participation trophy.
Picture it: a starry-eyed actress from Suits, stepping into the rarefied air of Kensington Palace, her internal monologue probably sounding something like, “Future Queen? Check. Global icon status? Check. A husband who actually looks good in a crown? Double check.” And then… reality. The future king was already spoken for — happily, photogenically, and with the kind of effortless chemistry that makes royal photographers weep with joy.
Here he is, the man who could have been (in another universe, perhaps one where Meghan’s vision board had better manifestation powers), radiating that perfect blend of duty, charm, and “please don’t make me do another walkabout”:
And then there’s the current reality — the one where the Duchess of Sussex occasionally glances at old photos of William in his RAF uniform and sighs the sigh of a woman who knows she settled for the backup dancer when she auditioned for the lead role.
Meghan, ever the glamorous force of nature, has never looked anything less than red-carpet ready. But even the most perfectly styled gowns can’t hide the alleged wistful longing for what might have been:
Meanwhile, across the pond, Prince William and Kate Middleton continue to serve couple goals so effortlessly it’s almost unfair. They don’t need podcasts to explain their love story; their body language does the talking — and it’s usually saying something sweet, supportive, and very much “we’re in this together forever”:
And then we have the Sussexes, bless their hearts, who have perfected the art of the awkward public moment. Every joint appearance seems to come with its own subtle undercurrent of “did we really sign up for this?”:
Royal insiders (the kind who definitely don’t exist but sound convincing) say the daydream has been a quiet constant. Allegedly, during those early days of whirlwind romance, Meghan’s eyes would drift toward William at family gatherings, imagining a different tiara, a different balcony wave, a different future where the headlines read “Meghan & William: The People’s Perfect Pair” instead of endless think-pieces about “Why Harry Looks Miserable Again.”
But alas, fate — or perhaps just basic chronology and the laws of royal succession — had other plans. Harry was available, charming in his own chaotic way, and crucially, not already married to the nation’s sweetheart. So the consolation prize was claimed, the Netflix deal was signed, the memoir was ghostwritten, and the rest, as they say, is heavily litigated history.
In the quiet hours of Montecito, when the California sun is setting and the infinity pool reflects the Hollywood sign, one can almost hear the soft whisper: “If only day dreams could be reality…” Followed by the distant sound of someone furiously typing another chapter about how it was all the Firm’s fault anyway.
Because nothing says “I got exactly what I wanted” quite like repeatedly explaining to the world why your second-choice prince is actually the better one. The lady doth protest too much, methinks — and the daydream lingers on.
So here’s to the what-ifs, the almost-was, and the eternal truth of royal romance: sometimes you aim for the throne… and end up with the spare room instead.
