Page 14

TRISTAN

The drive to the beach house is quiet, peaceful.

Amelia dozes in the passenger seat, her hand resting protectively over the small swell of her belly.

Five months pregnant, and somehow more beautiful every day.

I glance at her while keeping my eyes mostly on the road, stealing these small moments to appreciate her without the weight of royal obligations pressing down on us.

Parker follows in the car behind, maintaining a respectful distance. He’s given us this illusion of privacy, though I know he’s vigilant, watching for any sign of the threat I still can’t shake from my mind.

“We’re almost there,” I say softly as Lia stirs, her eyes fluttering open. She smiles that smile—the one that still makes my heart skip even after all this time.

“I must have fallen asleep,” she mumbles, straightening in her seat. “Sorry for abandoning you on the drive.”

“You needed it.” I reach across to take her hand. “You’re growing our child. Sleep all you want.”

She laughs, the sound light and airy against the backdrop of the ocean coming into view. “If only the royal court could hear you now, encouraging your queen to be lazy.”

“The royal court can kiss my?—”

“Tristan!” she cuts me off with mock horror, but her eyes sparkle with amusement.

I grin, unrepentant. These moments—when we can just be us, without the weight of a nation on our shoulders—these are what I live for now.

The beach house comes into view, its weathered wood exterior standing in stark contrast to the polished marble of the palace. It’s modest by royal standards, which is precisely why I love it.

This isn’t just a cottage. It’s freedom.

“This is heaven,” Lia sighs, sinking into the corner of the oversized couch, her feet tucked under my thigh.

Outside, rain has begun to fall, pattering against the windows in a soothing rhythm.

The security team completed their sweep hours ago, and now it’s just us—just Tristan and Amelia, not the king and queen.

“Better than the palace?” I ask, already knowing her answer.

“A thousand times better,” she says, reaching for another handful of popcorn from the bowl balanced on my lap. “No advisers knocking every five minutes, no formal dinners, no itineraries…”

“No suits,” I add, gesturing to my worn jeans and faded university sweatshirt.

“Definitely no suits, though you do look devastatingly handsome in them.” She winks, and I feel a rush of warmth that has nothing to do with the fire crackling on the hearth.

The movie plays on, some romantic comedy she picked, but I’m hardly paying attention.

Instead, I’m watching her—the way she laughs without restraint here, how her shoulders have lost the tension they carry in the palace, how her hair falls loose around her face instead of styled for public appearance.

“You’re staring,” she says without looking away from the screen.

“I’m admiring,” I correct her. “There’s a difference.”

This pulls her attention from the movie. “Oh? And what exactly are you admiring, Your Majesty?”

I catch her hand, pulling it to my lips. “Everything. But mostly how you look when you’re not being watched by the entire country.”

Her expression softens. “And how do I look?”

“Free,” I say simply. “Like the woman I fell in love with.”

She sets the popcorn aside and shifts closer to me. “I am that woman. Always. Even when I’m playing the role of queen.”

“I know.” And I do. It’s one of the countless reasons I love her—her ability to remain authentically herself despite the crushing expectations of royal life.

Her lips find mine, soft at first, then with increasing intensity. I taste salt from the popcorn and something uniquely Lia that I’ve never been able to define. My hands find her waist, drawing her closer still.

“The movie,” I murmur against her mouth, though I couldn’t care less about it.

“Will still be there later,” she finishes, moving to straddle my lap, her belly a gentle pressure between us, a reminder of the miracle we’ve created together.

Her kisses become more urgent, and I match her passion, letting my hands roam beneath her oversized sweater, feeling the warmth of her skin. This is another kind of freedom—the freedom to touch my wife without concern for propriety or who might be watching.

“I love you,” I breathe against her neck. “God, Lia, I love you so much it terrifies me sometimes.”

She pulls back, framing my face with her hands. “Why does it terrify you?”

I hesitate, not wanting to darken the mood, but we’ve always been honest with each other. “Because I’ve never had anything this good in my life. Because I keep waiting for it to be taken away.”

Her eyes hold mine, steady and sure. “I’m not going anywhere, Tristan. Neither is this baby. We’re your family now, and nothing—not the crown, not anything—is going to change that.”

I want to believe her with every fiber of my being. And when she’s here, in my arms like this, I almost do.

She leans in to kiss me again when suddenly she gasps, her body going rigid.

“What?” Alarm shoots through me. “What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”

But instead of pain, her face shows wonder. She grabs my hand, guiding it to the side of her belly. “Wait,” she whispers. “Just wait.”

For a moment, there’s nothing. Then I feel it—a distinct tap against my palm, like a tiny knock from inside her.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, awestruck. “Is that?—”

“Yes.” She laughs, tears springing to her eyes. “That’s our baby.”

The tap comes again, stronger this time, a definitive kick. Something shifts inside me, the plates of my heart realigning. Until now, the baby has been an idea, a future. But this—this is real. This is my child, making their presence known.

“Hello in there,” I say softly, bending to speak directly to Lia’s belly. “It’s your dad.” The word catches in my throat. Dad. I’m going to be someone’s father. Someone worthy of this tiny person’s trust.

As if in response, there’s another kick, right against my hand. A laugh escapes me, part joy, part disbelief.

“I think they recognize your voice,” Lia says, her fingers threading through my hair.

“You think so?” The idea fills me with a fierce pride.

“Definitely. You talk to them every night before bed. They know who you are.”

I press my lips to the spot where I last felt movement. “I can’t wait to meet you,” I whisper. “We’re going to be okay, the three of us. I promise.”

Lia’s hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining over the swell of our child. In this moment, I believe it. We will be okay. We have to be.

The nightmare comes in the dead of night, as they always do.

I’m in the palace, running through endless corridors, searching for Lia.

I can hear her calling my name, her voice filled with fear, but every door I open leads to another empty room.

Then I’m at the beach house, but something’s wrong—there are shadows where there shouldn’t be, whispers in the dark corners.

I find Lia in our bedroom, but when she turns, her face is blank, her eyes empty.

“You couldn’t protect us,” she says, her voice not her own. “Just like you couldn’t protect the country.”

I wake with a gasp, heart pounding against my ribs, sweat slicking my skin despite the cool night air coming through the open windows. Beside me, Lia sleeps peacefully, one hand splayed across her belly, her breathing deep and even.

Careful not to wake her, I slip out of bed and pad to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The man in the mirror looks haunted, dark circles under his eyes no amount of royal advisers can erase.

“Get it together,” I whisper to my reflection.

But the unease lingers, that sense of something watching, waiting. The same feeling I’ve had for weeks now, the one Parker insists is just royal paranoia.

I return to the bedroom, but instead of getting back into bed, I go to the dresser where I put my grandfather’s old compass.

It’s nothing special to look at—brass, tarnished with age, the glass face slightly clouded—but it was his most treasured possession.

“So you always know which direction to go,” he’d told me when he placed it in my twelve-year-old hands.

I sit on the edge of the bed, running my thumb over the worn surface. My grandfather was the only one who understood the weight that awaited me. “Being a good king isn’t about never bending,” he’d said. “It’s about knowing when to bend so you don’t break.”

The compass needle swings, finding north with unerring accuracy even after all these years. There’s something comforting in its constancy, its certainty. No matter how lost I feel, north is still north.

I close my eyes, focusing on the solid weight of the compass in my palm, anchoring myself to the present. Lia is here. Our baby is here. They’re safe. I’m safe.

“Tristan?” Lia’s voice is thick with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

I turn to find her watching me, propped up on one elbow, her hair a tousled halo around her face.

“Just a dream,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “Go back to sleep.”

But she knows me too well. She sits up, reaching for my hand. “The same one?”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

She glances at the compass in my hand and understanding softens her features. “Come here,” she says, tugging me back down beside her.

I stretch out, and she curls against me, her head on my chest, her belly pressed against my side. I keep the compass clutched in my free hand, its edges pressing into my palm.

“We’re okay,” she whispers, her breath warm against my skin. “We’re right here.”

“I know.” And in this moment, with her weight solid against me and the compass as my anchor, I do know. Whatever threats may be out there—real or imagined—they can’t touch this. They can’t touch us.

I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. “Go back to sleep, love. I’m okay now.”

She makes a soft sound of contentment, already drifting off. I stay awake a while longer, listening to her breathe, feeling the occasional flutter of movement from our child. The compass remains in my hand, a reminder that even in the darkest night, direction can be found.

Eventually, sleep reclaims me, and this time, no dreams come. Just darkness, warm and safe, with Lia’s heartbeat as my lullaby.