Page 11

AMELIA

The mattress dips as Tristan sits on the edge of the bed. I can feel his hesitation, the careful way he’s trying not to disturb me though he must know I’m awake.

“Lia?” His voice is soft, tentative. So different from the king who commands rooms with his presence.

I roll over slowly, taking in his disheveled appearance—his usually perfect hair windswept, his shirt wrinkled. There’s vulnerability in his eyes that makes my heart ache despite my lingering anger.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have run out like that.”

I sit up against the headboard, pulling the sheets around me. My hand instinctively moves to the small swell of my four-month pregnant belly, a gesture that doesn’t escape his notice.

“I’ve made a decision,” he says after a moment of heavy silence. “I’ve been thinking about it for weeks, but after tonight…I know it’s what I need to do.”

I wait, giving him the space to find his words. This is something I’ve learned about loving Tristan—sometimes he needs silence to gather his thoughts.

“I’m going to start seeing Dr. Merrick. For counseling.”

The confession hangs between us. Despite our earlier fight, I feel a swell of pride and love so intense it takes my breath away.

“Tristan,” I breathe, reaching to touch his face. “That’s wonderful.”

He captures my hand, his expression uncertain. “Is it? The King of Haldonia admitting he needs help? We’ve already given them enough to talk about with the baby announcement.”

“It’s not admitting weakness,” I say firmly. “It’s claiming your strength.”

His eyes search mine in the darkness. “My father would have called it pathetic. Kings don’t show vulnerability. They don’t talk about their feelings. They certainly don’t seek therapy.”

“Your father was wrong about many things,” I remind him gently. “And look where his approach led the country. Look what it did to you.”

Tristan shifts, sitting up against the headboard. I move with him, unwilling to break our physical connection.

“What made you decide?” I ask, my anger softening at his vulnerability.

He’s quiet for a long moment. “The nightmares are getting worse. Our fight tonight”—he looks away, ashamed—“when I stormed out, it was because I felt myself losing control. The pressure of everything…the aftermath of the war…it’s been too much.”

My heart aches for him. I take both his hands in mine. “All the more reason why this is the right decision. Especially with the baby coming.”

He nods, his gaze drifting to my growing belly.

The press conference announcing the pregnancy last week had been front-page news across Haldonia.

The people’s excitement for a royal baby had momentarily overshadowed the criticism Tristan had been facing over his decision to end the conflict with our neighboring country.

“I don’t want to be that person,” Tristan whispers. “I don’t want our child to grow up with a father who can’t control his anger, who walks out when things get hard.”

“That’s exactly why counseling is such a good idea,” I tell him. “You’re already taking steps to change. Breaking the cycle before our baby arrives.”

His hand moves to rest on my stomach, where our child has just started to make its presence known with tiny flutters. “I felt terrified at the press conference, you know. Not about the public knowing, but about what kind of father I’ll be.”

He pulls me close, burying his face in my hair. “What if the country finds out? What if they see it as weakness? A king who needs therapy after ending a war…they’re already watching our every move since the pregnancy announcement.”

I pull back, framing his face with my hands. “Listen to me. You’ve already shown more strength than anyone who’s ever worn this crown. Strength isn’t about hiding your struggles—it’s about facing them. About being brave enough to say, ‘I need help’ and then seeking it out.”

“The parliament?—”

“Can go to hell,” I interrupt, surprising a laugh out of him. “Sorry, that wasn’t very queenly of me.”

“No, it was perfectly you,” he says, his eyes warming. “And that’s what I need. You, reminding me that I’m not just a king.”

“You’re going to be an amazing father,” I tell him. “And an even better king because you’re willing to do the work. To heal.”

His hand strokes my rounded belly gently. “I still can’t believe we’re having a baby. Sometimes I worry that I don’t deserve this happiness. Not after everything that happened in the war.”

“The country already loves the idea of this child,” I remind him. “New life, new beginnings. They stood and applauded at the press conference, remember?”

He shifts closer, his arms encircling me protectively. “I want to be better for them. For you. For our child. I never want to walk out on you again like I did tonight.”

“You already are better,” I whisper, leaning my forehead against his. “The fact that you’re even having these thoughts proves it. You question yourself, and you want to improve—that’s what makes you different.”

“I don’t know about that.” A small smile plays at his lips. “I question almost every decision I make these days.”

I laugh softly. “See? That’s actually a good thing. Perfect certainty can be dangerous.”

We sit in comfortable silence, his hand making gentle circles over the swell where our child grows. I can feel some of the tension from our argument leaving both of us.

“Shannon says the baby news has improved our approval ratings,” I say, smiling a little.

“Of course she’s tracking that.” He shakes his head. “And about Dr. Merrick?—”

“That’s private,” I assure him. “Between you and me and him. The country doesn’t need to know everything, Tristan. Some things are just for us.”

He nods, relief evident in his expression. “I start on Thursday.”

“I’m proud of you,” I tell him. “So proud.”

“Even though I’m terrified?” His voice drops to a whisper. “Even though I walked out during our fight?”

“Especially because you’re terrified and doing it anyway. And because you came back.” I press my lips to his. “That’s what real courage looks like.”

He kisses me back, deep and slow, his hands tangling in my hair. When we part, the worry lines around his eyes have softened.

“Do you forgive me? For leaving like that?” he asks, vulnerability raw in his voice.

“I do,” I say softly. “We’re both learning, Tristan. Neither of us had perfect examples of how to do this.”

“Another reason to be better than those who came before us,” he says, a new determination in his voice.

I settle back against his chest, our argument fading into reconciliation. His arms wrap around me, one hand resting protectively over our growing child. For all the complexity of our lives, for all the weight of the crown we share, this moment feels like coming home.

“I love you,” he murmurs into my hair.

“I love you too,” I whisper back. “Both of you.”

As I drift toward sleep, I feel a peace replacing the turmoil of the night.

Tomorrow will bring its challenges—it always does.

But tonight, in the darkness before dawn, with Tristan’s heart beating steadily beneath my ear and our baby growing within me, I know that whatever comes, we’ll face it together.

The king, the queen, and the tiny heir on the way.

It’s not the fairy tale I imagined as a girl, but it’s better. It’s real. And it’s ours.