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“Your Majesties,” the owner greets us at the door with a deep bow. “It is the greatest honor to welcome you and the future heir to Lumière.”

“The honor is ours,” Tristan replies smoothly, his hand still possessively at my waist. “We’ve heard wonderful things about your restaurant.”

Inside, the other diners rise as we enter, offering respectful bows and curtsies. I note with approval that while our security team is present, they’re discreet, allowing the restaurant to maintain its intimate atmosphere.

We’re led to a table in a semi-private alcove—visible enough to be seen by other patrons but positioned to allow some conversation without being overheard. It’s a delicate balance, being public figures while trying to have something resembling a normal evening out.

“You’re doing wonderfully,” Tristan says quietly as we take our seats. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” I assure him, genuinely meaning it. “It feels right to be back.”

The sommelier approaches with a bottle of the restaurant’s signature wine for Tristan and a specially crafted non-alcoholic beverage for me, served in an equally elegant glass. As he pours, I notice the flashes of cameras through the windows—the paparazzi are still hovering, capturing every moment.

“To your health,” Tristan says, raising his glass once we’re alone. “To having you back at my side, where you belong, and to our little prince or princess.” His eyes drop to my rounded stomach with such love that I feel tears prick at my eyes.

I clink my glass against his. “I wasn’t aware I ever left.”

His smile is private, intimate. “Being in the same palace isn’t the same as having us both be fully present. I missed you, Lia, and I’m aware I was the one who wasn’t emotionally present.”

The sincerity in his voice warms me more than the room we’re in. “I missed you too.”

Throughout dinner—a magnificent seven-course affair showcasing local ingredients—Tristan finds reasons to touch me. His hand covers mine on the table. His fingers brush my bare shoulder when he leans in to speak. His thumb traces the inside of my wrist as the dessert is served.

Each touch is proper enough for public viewing but charged with meaning only I understand. By the time we finish our meal, I’m practically vibrating with need.

When a small orchestra in the corner begins playing, Tristan stands and holds out his hand. “Dance with me?”

The other diners watch as he leads me to the small dance floor.

His hand settles on the small of my back, while the other rests gently on the curve of my belly, drawing me as close as my pregnant form allows as we begin to move to the music.

The cameras outside go wild at this intimate display, the king publicly cherishing both his queen and unborn child.

“You know this will be on every front page tomorrow,” I say, nodding subtly toward the windows where camera lenses are pressed against the glass.

“Good,” he says, his voice a low rumble that travels down my spine. “Let them see how a king worships his queen.”

His hold tightens, and I melt against him, following his lead as we move across the floor. In this moment, the crown feels lighter, the responsibilities less daunting. We are simply a man and a woman in love, dancing in a beautiful restaurant.

“I don’t tell you enough,” he murmurs against my ear, “how proud I am of you. The work you’re doing for those children—it matters, Lia.

” His hand caresses my belly gently. “And you’ll be an incredible mother to our child.

The way you fight for those who cannot fight for themselves—I see it in everything you do. ”

I pull back slightly to look into his eyes. “It’s what any decent person would do.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s what you do. You see needs others ignore and refuse to look away. It’s one of the countless reasons I love you.” His hand spans protectively over our growing child. “Both of you.”

My heart swells, and I don’t care about the cameras anymore. I reach up to touch his face. “Take me home, Tristan.”

His eyes darken. “We should stay a bit longer. Make it worth their while,” he gestures subtly to the other patrons, who are watching us with undisguised fascination.

“Then kiss me,” I challenge. “Give them something to really talk about.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “As my queen commands.”

When his lips meet mine, the restaurant fades away. There is only Tristan—his taste, his scent, his strength surrounding me. I don’t hear the murmurs of approval from the other diners or the frantic clicking of cameras outside. I am entirely his, and he is mine.

When we finally part, his expression is tender and fierce all at once. “Let’s go home,” he says, his voice rough. “The rest of tonight belongs to us alone.”

As we leave the restaurant, his arm firmly around my waist, I lean into his strength.

The paparazzi calls our names, begging for one more photo, one more moment.

One particularly bold photographer shouts, “Your Majesty, a hand on the royal bump!” Tristan doesn’t even hesitate—he turns me gently toward him, placing both hands on my rounded belly in a possessive, protective gesture, his eyes never leaving mine.

The cameras go wild, capturing the intimate moment between king, queen, and unborn heir.

Then he guides me steadily to our waiting car, his focus entirely on me.

Tomorrow will bring more work, more responsibilities, more challenges as we navigate our roles as monarchs.

The charity gala will demand attention to a thousand details.

The children who lost parents in the war need advocates and support.

And in a few months, our lives will transform again with the arrival of our child.

But tonight—tonight is ours. And as the car pulls away from the curb, Tristan’s hand finds mine in the darkness before coming to rest on my belly, his thumb tracing gentle patterns across the taut skin where our baby grows. In this moment, I am not just Queen Amelia of Haldonia.

I am simply Lia, loved completely by the man beside me, carrying the physical manifestation of that love beneath my heart. And that is the greatest privilege of all.