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TRISTAN

I sit in Dr. Merrick’s waiting room, my leg bouncing with nervous energy. The magazines on the side table remain untouched. I’m not here to catch up on celebrity gossip or the latest political scandal. I’m here because I need to get my head straight before our baby arrives.

Five months. Just five more months until I’m a father. The thought both exhilarates and terrifies me.

“King Tristan?” Dr. Merrick’s assistant appears at the doorway. “She’s ready for you now.”

I nod, rising to my feet. Parker shifts in his seat across the room, always vigilant. “I’ll be right here, sir.”

Dr. Merrick’s office is deliberately calming—soft blue walls, comfortable furniture, and large windows that let in streams of natural light. She rises from behind her desk when I enter, extending her hand with a warm smile that never seems forced or performative.

“Your Majesty, thank you for coming,” she says, gesturing toward the plush armchair across from hers. “I was able to rearrange my schedule when your office called. I understand this is your first session?”

“Thank you for fitting me in,” I say, settling into the chair. The tension of exposing my vulnerabilities to a stranger sits heavy on my shoulders, but I’m desperate enough to try anything.

“Of course.” She sits, crossing her legs and placing her notepad on her lap. “Perhaps we could start with what brings you here today?”

I exhale slowly, considering how to begin. “Nightmares. Flashbacks. Things I thought I’d buried deep enough.”

She nods, her expression remaining neutral but attentive. I appreciate that—no shock, no pity, just professional focus.

“Can you tell me about these nightmares?” she asks.

“The village. The orders. The aftermath.” My throat tightens as I speak. “I’m back in the valley, watching as my unit moves forward. I can hear the commander’s voice in my ear, telling me we have to neutralize the threat, that intelligence confirms enemy combatants are hiding among civilians.”

“And in the dream?” she prompts gently when I pause.

“In the dream, I see their faces before I give the order. In reality, they were just blurred shapes in the distance. But in the dream…” I swallow hard. “In the dream, one of them is always Amelia. And recently, she’s been holding our baby.”

Dr. Merrick makes a small note. “It sounds like these nightmares might be intensifying with your current circumstances. Major life changes often trigger stress responses, especially in those who have experienced trauma.”

“Becoming a father is about as significant as it gets,” I say with a humorless laugh.

“Are you afraid of fatherhood itself, or something specific related to it?”

The question hangs in the air, and I take my time answering it, wanting to be honest with her—and with myself.

“I’m afraid of losing my temper,” I finally admit, the words feeling like stones in my mouth.

“My father…he wasn’t physically abusive, but his anger was legendary.

Cold, calculated, devastating. He could cut you down with just his words and a look.

” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.

“What if I’m like him? What if the war broke something in me that can’t be fixed?

What if I’m holding our child and have a flashback? What if I?—”

“Tristan,” Dr. Merrick interrupts, using my name without title—surprising me with her directness. “You’re catastrophizing. Let’s back up and deal with what’s actually happening, not with what might happen.”

I take a deep breath, nodding. I didn’t expect such frankness in a first session, but perhaps that’s what I need.

“Have you told Amelia about these fears?”

“Not entirely. She knows about the nightmares, but not about my fear of turning into my father. Or worse.”

Dr. Merrick sets her notepad aside. “Why not?”

“Because she’s four months pregnant, and I don’t want to burden her with my issues. She has enough to deal with.”

“Do you think she’d see it as a burden? Or as her husband trusting her with his feelings?”

I don’t have an answer for that.

“What happened in the valley was tragic,” Dr. Merrick continues. “You were following orders in a combat situation with limited information. The fact that you still struggle with it shows your humanity, not your monstrosity.”

“But what if?—”

“Let me give you some practical tools for when you feel yourself slipping into those dark moments,” she says, redirecting me.

“First, I want you to concentrate on what we call grounding techniques,” she explains, before continuing on.

“When you feel yourself getting triggered, find five things you can see, four you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, and one you can taste.”

I nod. Now that I know what it is, I’ve tried this before, and it does help sometimes.

“Second, I want you to create a physical reminder—something small you can carry with you that represents what you’re fighting for. Not as a king, but as a man. Something that reminds you of Amelia and your child.”

“Like what?”

“That’s for you to decide. Some people carry a photo, others a small token with significance. Whatever feels right to you.”

I think about it, already having an idea of what might work.

“Third, and perhaps most important, I want you to practice strategic retreats. When you feel your emotions becoming overwhelming, give yourself permission to step away briefly. Not to avoid the situation, but to regulate your response to it.”

“You want me to walk away when I’m angry?” The idea feels counterintuitive.

“Not permanently. Just long enough to regain control. Tell whoever you’re with—whether it’s Amelia or eventually your child—that you need a moment and then return when you’re calmer.”

I consider this. “My father never walked away. He’d just keep going until you broke.”

“And is that who you want to be?”

“No,” I say firmly. “It’s not.”

We spend the rest of the session discussing more strategies—journaling, specific breathing exercises, scheduling regular time for physical activity to burn off excess stress. By the time we finish, I feel both exhausted and strangely lighter.

“Would you like to schedule a regular time moving forward?” Dr. Merrick asks as we stand.

“Yes, please.” I pause, then add, “I appreciate your directness. It’s refreshing.”

She smiles. “That’s what you’re paying me for, Your Majesty. Not to coddle you, but to help you become the man you want to be.”

As Parker drives me back to the palace, I stare out the window, thinking about everything Dr. Merrick and I discussed. The weight of responsibility—to my country, to Amelia, to our unborn child—sometimes feels crushing. But today, for the first time in weeks, it also feels manageable.

“Everything all right, sir?” Parker asks, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Getting there,” I reply.

When we arrive at the palace, I head straight to my office, needing a moment to process before seeing Amelia.

I close the door behind me and walk to my desk, opening the bottom drawer where I keep personal items. Among them is a small wooden box that belonged to my grandfather—the king everyone says I take after, not my father.

Inside, I find what I’m looking for—my grandfather’s compass. He gave it to me before his death, telling me it would always help me find my way home. As a child, I took it literally. Now, I understand the metaphor.

This could be the token Dr. Merrick suggested—a physical reminder of who I want to be, of the legacy I want to create.

I slip the compass into my pocket just as my phone rings. It’s Kate, my new assistant. She’s promised to keep me on track.

“Sir, I’ve moved your interviews to Thursday as requested. You’re free to leave early on Friday.”

“Thank you, Kate. That’s perfect.”

After we hang up, I sit there for a moment, thinking about Dr. Merrick’s advice to be honest with Amelia. We need time away from the palace, away from the constant demands of the crown. We need space to talk, truly talk, before our child arrives.

With newfound determination, I leave my office and head to our private quarters. I find Amelia in our sitting room, a book open on her lap, one hand resting protectively over her growing belly. The sight of her still takes my breath away.

She looks up, her face brightening. “You’re home earlier than I expected.”

“I rearranged some things.” I cross the room and sit beside her, taking her hand in mine. The compass in my pocket presses against my thigh, a comforting weight. “Lia, what do you think about going to the beach house this weekend? Just the two of us. We can leave early Friday.”

Her smile widens, reaching her eyes in that way that makes my heart skip. “I would love to,” she says, squeezing my hand. “More than anything.”