Page 70 of Her Royal Christmas

Julia cupped her face, thumbs brushing lightly under her eyes. “I do.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The only sounds were the snow-tired wind against the window and the low burn of the fire.

Then Vic’s composure slipped again. Just a fraction. Enough.

“I’m so tired,” she whispered. “Not just today. This whole year. And I keep thinking… if I just push harder, organise more, plan better… I can keep everyone from feeling what I felt when I was small.”

Julia stroked her cheek. “You can’t organise away grief, love.”

Vic flinched slightly, and Julia immediately regretted the bluntness. But Vic swallowed and nodded.

“I know,” she said. “But I keep… trying.”

She sank down onto the edge of the bed, towel wrapped around her shoulders, bare legs dangling. She looked up at Julia like she was expecting a verdict.

Julia sat beside her and leaned into her shoulder. “You’re allowed to want it to be beautiful. You’re allowed to care. You’re just not responsible for making sure nothing ever hurts anyone.”

“Feels like I should be,” Vic sighed. “After everything Alex has gone through. Lost parents. Public scrutiny. Threats on her life. I watched all that. I watched Erin stand there, holding everything up through sheer force of will. And I thought, well, the least I can do is make sure Christmas doesn’t add to the trauma.”

Julia turned her head, studying her profile. The fine lines at the corner of her eyes. The tension in her jaw.

“You don’t owe her perfection,” Julia said softly. “You already gave her something better.”

Vic gave a tiny, disbelieving laugh. “What, a colour-coded press calendar?”

“You,” Julia said. “Your loyalty. Your humour. Your refusal to let her become a statue. You dragged her into the real world and made sure she stayed there. That’s worth more than ten thousand flawless Christmas dinners.”

Vic made a small, wounded noise and ducked her head. “Don’t be nice to me. I’ll cry again.”

“I can handle tears,” Julia said. “I’ve seen you after three espressos and a day of meetings. Nothing scares me now.”

Vic laughed properly then, the sound a bit shaky but real. She let the towel slip down her arms and leaned into Julia’s side more fully.

“Do you remember our first Christmas?” she asked quietly.

“The one where you were drunk?” Julia laughed. “Yes, I remember it well.”

“Only a little drunk,” Vic countered.

“You were drunk and in love,” Julia said.

Vic looked over at her, eyes soft and shining. “Yeah. I was.”

They held each other’s gaze for a beat. Two. Three.

Julia’s pulse quickened.

She could see the thoughts flickering behind Vic’s eyes — the guilt, the pressure, the bruised ego, the softened edges of relief from having said any of it out loud.

Beneath all of it, something else pulsed. Want. Familiar. Longing that had been shoved down beneath logistics and worry.

Julia let her own gaze reflect it back. No pressure. No expectation. Just open invitation.

Vic’s fingers tightened on the towel. “Jules,” she whispered. “I don’t… I don’t know how to turn it off. The part of me that’s thinking about the next thing to fix.”

“You don’t have to turn it off,” Julia said. “You just have to put it down. For a while.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Vic said. “What if something goes wrong while I’m… not looking?”