Page 24

AMELIA

The reflection staring back at me in the full-length mirror looks almost regal now.

Six months into pregnancy, my body has transformed into something unfamiliar yet miraculous.

My hands trace the pronounced curve of my belly, home to the future heir of Haldonia, while Shannon fusses with the hem of my emerald gown.

“You’re glowing, Your Majesty,” she says, standing to adjust the diamond pendant resting above my collarbone.

“It’s the hormones,” I reply with a smile. “Or the fact that I haven’t had a glass of wine in months.”

Shannon laughs, stepping back to assess her handiwork. The dress—custom-designed to accommodate my changing shape—cascades elegantly to the floor, the empire waistline accentuating rather than hiding my condition.

“The Children of Heroes gala is the most important event on your calendar this month,” she reminds me, handing me a small clutch. “The press will be particularly invested in your appearance tonight.”

“Because nothing says ‘support war orphans’ like obsessing over what a pregnant queen is wearing,” I quip, but without malice. I’ve grown accustomed to the scrutiny, the constant evaluation of my appropriateness for the role that fate—and my heart—thrust upon me.

The door opens, and I don’t need to turn to know it’s Tristan. I feel his presence before I see him, that magnetic pull that’s been there since the beginning.

“My God,” he breathes, and our eyes meet in the mirror.

I turn, allowing him to take in the full effect. His formal military dress uniform accentuates his broad shoulders, medals reflecting the soft lighting of our chambers. He looks every inch the king he was born to be.

“Do I pass inspection, Your Majesty?” I ask playfully.

Tristan crosses the room in four strides, taking my hands in his. “You are…” He pauses, searching for words. “Magnificent.”

Shannon discreetly slips from the room, leaving us in our private moment.

“The baby’s been kicking all afternoon,” I guide his hand to the side of my belly. “I think he knows we’re going somewhere important.”

“He?” Tristan raises an eyebrow. “Still convinced it’s a boy?”

“Mother’s intuition,” I say with a confidence I don’t entirely feel. We’ve chosen not to learn the sex, preferring to have one of life’s few remaining surprises.

Tristan kneels before me, his hands framing my belly, lips pressing gently against the taut fabric.

“Boy or girl,” he whispers, “you already have my heart.”

My eyes sting with sudden tears. These moments—quiet, intimate, away from the cameras and the duties—are what make everything worthwhile. This is the Tristan only I get to see.

“We should go,” I manage, blinking rapidly. “God forbid the queen makes the king late.”

He rises, offering his arm. “Let them wait. The world revolves around you tonight.”

The grand ballroom of the National Museum glitters under chandeliers that have witnessed centuries of Haldonian history.

Hundreds of candles cast a warm glow over tables adorned with white lilies and blue forget-me-nots—symbols of remembrance in our country.

Every detail has been overseen personally by the gala committee, with Shannon acting as my proxy when my appointments wouldn’t allow direct involvement.

As we enter, the orchestra transitions seamlessly into the royal anthem. Conversations pause, bodies turn, and heads bow in a synchronized display of respect that still makes my heart flutter nervously.

Parker, ever-present at Tristan’s side, murmurs the evening’s agenda into his ear as we move toward our designated table. I catch fragments—speeches, auction, ceremonial lighting—before my attention is diverted by a small group of children standing in formation near the stage.

“The choir,” Shannon explains quietly from behind me. “Children who lost parents in the Crona War. They’ll perform after dinner.”

My grip on Tristan’s arm tightens involuntarily, as I think about how it’s going to affect us for years to come.

“You okay?” he asks, covering my hand with his.

I nod, focusing on maintaining my public smile. “Just wondering if these shoes were a mistake. My feet are already arguing with me.”

He chuckles, but his eyes see through the deflection. “Two hours. Then we make our excuses.”

“Three,” I counter. “These children deserve our full attention.”

The evening progresses with the precision of a well-rehearsed play.

I sip water from crystal that matches everyone else’s champagne flutes, accept condolences for my “sacrifice” of alcohol, and graciously receive countless hands on my belly as though it’s become public property.

Each touch, while well-intentioned, makes me increasingly grateful for Tristan’s steady presence beside me.

During dinner, I notice him watching the children’s choir with an intensity that suggests his mind is elsewhere.

I’ve learned to recognize the look—part guilt, part responsibility—that overtakes him when confronted with the consequences of decisions made before his coronation but carried out under his early reign.

I place my hand on his knee beneath the table. “You’re doing good work tonight,” I whisper. “They know that.”

His hand covers mine, squeezing gently. “I just hope it’s enough.”

When it’s time for our address, we ascend the steps to the podium together. The teleprompter flickers to life, but Tristan sets aside the prepared remarks. I feel a momentary flash of panic—deviations from script make the communications team nervous—but trust him implicitly.

“Tonight,” he begins, his voice carrying effortlessly across the hushed room, “we gather not merely as patrons or officials, but as a family united by loss and hope.” His eyes scan the crowd, settling on the children.

“To the Children of Heroes, I make this promise not as your king, but as someone who understands that no medal or monument can fill the void left by those you’ve lost.”

A lump forms in my throat as he continues, speaking from experience and heart rather than political calculation.

When he finishes, I step forward, feeling the weight of all eyes upon me, upon us, upon the visible evidence of Haldonia’s future growing beneath my heart.

“The foundation established tonight,” I add, picking up where he left off, “will ensure that no child of a fallen service member will ever have to choose between opportunity and necessity. Education, healthcare, and housing assistance will be guaranteed.” I rest my hand instinctively on my belly.

“This is our covenant with you, from one generation to the next.”

The applause is deafening, but it’s the silent tears on young faces that tell me our words have found their mark.

Later, as the auction concludes and the final donations are tallied, I find myself seated at a table surrounded by children ranging from five to fifteen. My feet have indeed begun to protest the evening’s demands, and I’ve discreetly slipped off my heels beneath the tablecloth.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” asks a small girl with solemn eyes and braids tied with blue ribbons.

“I don’t know yet,” I answer honestly. “What do you think it is?”

She considers this with surprising seriousness. “A boy. Kings need sons.”

From across the table, an older boy shakes his head. “That’s old-fashioned thinking, Elise. The queen could have a daughter who becomes the next ruler.”

I smile at him, grateful for the progressive viewpoint. “That’s absolutely right. Haldonia’s constitution was amended before I married Tristan. Our child will be heir regardless of gender.”

The conversation shifts to names, nursery colors, and whether the baby might have my eyes or Tristan’s. These children, who have experienced loss beyond their years, still retain the capacity for wonder and curiosity that makes my heart ache with tenderness.

When Tristan finds me, he’s accompanied by General Mercer, his father’s most trusted military adviser and one of the few cabinet members retained after the coronation.

“Your Majesty,” Mercer bows slightly. “You’ve captivated your subjects. The little ones haven’t stopped talking about you.”

“They’re remarkable children,” I reply, meaning it. “Resilient in ways I can barely comprehend.”

As we exchange pleasantries, I notice Tristan’s gaze continually drifting toward the exit. The subtle tension in his jaw tells me he’s reaching his limit for public interaction tonight.

“I believe we should be going,” I announce, allowing Tristan to help me to my feet. “The baby seems to think my ribs make an excellent punching bag tonight.”

The general laughs, offering congratulations once more before Parker materializes to coordinate our departure.

The goodbyes take another thirty minutes—handshakes, promises to follow up, expressions of gratitude—before we finally make our way through the service entrance to where our vehicle waits.

The night air feels glorious after hours in the crowded ballroom. I inhale deeply, savoring the cool September breeze as Parker opens the door to the Range Rover.

“Successful evening,” I comment as Tristan slides in beside me.

He loosens his collar, exhaling slowly. “The foundation exceeded its funding goal. Parker says the initial social media response is overwhelmingly positive.”

“And you connected with them,” I add, taking his hand. “The children, I mean. They saw you, not just the crown.”

His thumb traces circles on my palm, a gentle, absent gesture that speaks of comfort and familiarity. “You were the star tonight. ‘The queen’s maternal glow’ will dominate tomorrow’s headlines.”

“God, I hope not,” I groan, settling back against the leather seat as our driver navigates through the museum’s service exit. “I’d rather they focus on the record donation amounts.”