Page 15

AMELIA

The scent of salt air mingles with coffee as I pad barefoot across the cool wooden floors of our beach house.

Sunlight filters through the wide windows, catching dust motes that dance in the golden beams. This place has always felt different than the palace—simpler, more honest. Here, the weight of crowns and duty seems to lighten, if only for a few precious days.

I find Tristan in the kitchen, his back to me as he whisks eggs in a bowl. He’s wearing faded jeans and a simple white T-shirt that stretches across his shoulders. It’s a far cry from the tailored suits and formal attire that the world sees, and I treasure these moments when he’s just mine.

“Good morning,” I say, sliding my arms around his waist from behind.

He turns in my embrace, bowl still in hand. “I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed.”

“I couldn’t stay asleep knowing you weren’t there,” I confess, rising on tiptoe to kiss him. He tastes like coffee and possibility.

“Well, now that you’re up, you can help.” He nods toward the counter where fresh bread, butter, and a bowl of berries await. “I thought we’d make French toast.”

I reach for the bread, beginning to slice it. “My favorite.”

“I know.” His smile is soft, private—the one only I get to see.

We move around each other in the kitchen with practiced ease, a dance we’ve perfected over the months of our marriage. I dip the bread in the egg mixture while he heats the pan. Our hands brush as we work, small moments of connection that send sparks down my spine even after all this time.

I glance out the window and catch a glimpse of Parker standing on the edge of the property, pretending to survey the landscape while speaking into his phone. Even here, he maintains his vigil, though he’s giving us the illusion of privacy.

“Parker’s been on that call for twenty minutes,” I say, nodding toward the window.

Tristan follows my gaze and sighs. “Something about the trade agreement with Norland. I told him we’d handle it Monday.”

“Yet he’s still here,” I observe, pouring more coffee into our mugs.

“Keeping his distance, at least,” Tristan says, sliding the golden-brown toast onto a plate. “Though he did mention it was, and I quote, ‘of the utmost importance.’”

“Everything is ‘of the utmost importance’ to Parker,” I say, rolling my eyes. “The man would consider a paper cut a national crisis.”

Tristan laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. “He takes his job seriously.”

“Too seriously,” I counter. “But I suppose that’s why he’s good at it.”

“Just like Shannon is for you.”

I nod, thinking of my own assistant. “She texted last night to remind me about the charity gala next weekend.”

“As if we could forget,” Tristan says, bringing our plates to the small kitchen table.

We sit across from each other, the simplicity of the moment not lost on me.

In the palace, we’d be dining in the formal breakfast room, attended by staff, our every move noted and cataloged for posterity. Here, we’re just us.

I take a bite of the French toast, closing my eyes as the sweet, buttery flavor spreads across my tongue. “This is perfect.”

“High praise from Queen Amelia,” he teases, reaching across to wipe a smudge of syrup from my lip with his thumb.

“Just Lia here,” I remind him. “Just yours.”

His eyes darken at my words, that familiar intensity making my heart skip. “Always mine.”

We finish breakfast talking about nothing important—a book I’m reading, a film he wants to see, the neighbors down the beach who’ve been renovating their house for what seems like eternity. Normal conversations. Precious in their ordinariness.

After we clean up, Tristan suggests a walk on the beach. The air is still crisp, hovering between winter and spring, but the sun promises warmth later. I bundle up in one of Tristan’s sweaters, the sleeves falling past my fingertips, and slip on a pair of boots.

“Ready?” he asks, holding out his hand.

I lace my fingers through his. “Ready.”

The beach is nearly empty this early in the morning, just a few dedicated joggers and people walking their dogs.

The tide is retreating, leaving behind a wet canvas of sand that reflects the clouds above like a mirror.

We walk in companionable silence for a while, our footprints marking our path behind us.

“I’ve been thinking,” Tristan says finally, his voice almost lost in the rhythm of the waves.

“A dangerous pastime,” I quip, squeezing his hand.

He chuckles. “I’ve been thinking about us. About how different things could have been.”

I look up at him, studying the profile that’s become so familiar to me. The strong jaw, the slight crook in his nose from a childhood injury, the fan of dark lashes. “Different how?”

“If we hadn’t been who we are. If I hadn’t been born the crown prince, if you hadn’t been?—”

“The sacrificial lamb?” I offer with a wry smile.

He winces. “I was going to say, ‘the daughter of a diplomat.’”

“Semantics.” I shrug, but there’s no bitterness in my tone. Not anymore.

We stop walking, and Tristan turns to face me, taking both my hands in his. The wind whips my hair around my face, and he tucks a strand behind my ear with gentle fingers.

“Do you ever regret it?” he asks, his eyes searching mine. “The arrangement. The way we started.”

I consider my answer carefully. There was a time, in the early days, when I might have said yes. When the weight of expectation and duty felt like chains around my throat. But now…

“No,” I say honestly. “I don’t regret it. Not anymore.”

Relief softens his features. “No?”

I shake my head, looking past him to the house perched on the dunes behind us. Our sanctuary. Our escape. “This place changed everything for me,” I admit.

His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

I take a deep breath, the salt air filling my lungs. “During the war, when you sent me here for safety—” I pause, the memories still raw despite the months that have passed. The uprising. The violence. The fear that gripped our small nation while rebels attempted to overthrow the monarchy.

Tristan’s hands tighten around mine. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“I want to,” I insist. “I need to.”

He nods, giving me space to find the words.

“When I was here, alone with just the security detail, I was afraid I’d never be able to look at this house the same way again.” The confession tumbles out of me. “I thought it would feel like a prison, a reminder of the worst time in our lives, of how close we came to losing everything.”

Tristan’s eyes are stormy with emotion. “Lia?—”

“But it doesn’t,” I continue, needing him to understand. “Instead, it’s become my safety. Our safety. I love it here because when I look at these walls, I don’t see the fear anymore. I see the place where I realized how much I truly loved you. How terrified I was of losing you.”

His expression softens, vulnerability etched across his features. “You never told me this before.”

“It wasn’t something I could put into words until now,” I explain, shivering slightly as a gust of wind cuts through the sweater.

“When you were fighting to keep the peace in the capital, when the reports kept coming in about the violence, all I could think was ‘Please, let him come back to me.’ And that’s when I knew. ”

“Knew what?” he asks, his voice husky.

“That what started as an arrangement had become so much more. That somewhere along the way, the man I was obligated to marry had become the only man I could imagine spending my life with.” I look up at him, blinking back tears.

“I realized I wasn’t trapped in a political marriage.

I was desperately in love with my husband. ”

Tristan pulls me to him, wrapping his arms around me as if he could shield me from the memories, from the cold, from anything that might hurt me. I feel the rapid beat of his heart against my cheek.

“I thought I’d lost you that day,” he murmurs into my hair. “When the palace was breached, before I knew you’d made it safely here…”

I press closer to him, remembering the frantic phone call, his voice tight with fear as he ordered me to evacuate. “But you didn’t. We’re here. We survived.”

“We did more than survive,” he says, pulling back just enough to look into my eyes. “We won. Against the rebels, against the odds, against anyone who said our marriage was just a political move.”

I smile up at him, my heart full. “We did.”

He kisses me then, deeply and thoroughly, his lips warm despite the chill in the air. I melt into him, my body recognizing its other half, my soul finding its home.

When we part, breathless and flushed, I see the desire in his eyes that mirrors my own. “Race you back to the house?” I challenge, already pulling away.

Tristan laughs, the sound carried away by the wind. “What do I get if I win?”

I throw a mischievous look over my shoulder as I start to run. “Me!”

I hear his footsteps in the sand behind me, gaining ground quickly with his longer stride. I don’t mind losing this particular race. In fact, I’m counting on it.

The beach house grows larger as we approach, no longer a symbol of confinement or fear, but of liberation. Of love. Of the truth that sometimes, the things we’re bound to by duty become the very things that set us free.

And as Tristan catches me at the bottom of the wooden steps, lifting me into his arms with a triumphant grin, I know with absolute certainty that I am exactly where I’m meant to be.