Page 28

TRISTAN

“Are you sure about this?” I ask Amelia for the third time as Parker pulls the car to a stop in front of an unremarkable community center. “We could have arranged for private lessons.”

Lia rolls her eyes at me, a gesture I’ve come to both love and dread. “We’ve been over this. I want our baby to have as normal a life as possible. That starts with us taking a regular Lamaze class like regular parents.”

“We’re not regular parents,” I point out, though I know it’s a losing battle. “I’m the King of Haldonia, and you’re?—”

“Currently very pregnant and not interested in arguing,” she cuts me off with a sweet smile that doesn’t fool me for a second. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

Parker catches my eye in the rearview mirror, his expression carefully neutral but with a hint of amusement he can’t quite hide. “I’ve checked the building, sir. The instructor has been vetted, and there are two agents already inside posing as another expectant couple.”

“See?” Amelia says triumphantly. “Parker has it all under control. Now help me out of this car before I have to roll myself out.”

I exit and circle around to her side, offering my hand as she leverages her eight-month pregnant body from the vehicle. Even with her belly leading the way and her ankles slightly swollen, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. My queen in every sense of the word.

“You know the security protocol,” Parker reminds us as we head toward the entrance. “If I say the word ‘fireplace,’ we leave immediately. No questions, no goodbyes.”

“Yes, Parker,” we say in unison, the routine familiar after years of his protection.

The community center smells like floor cleaner and coffee. A hand-lettered sign directs us to “Lamaze with Linda—Room 3,” and we follow the arrow down a hallway lined with community announcements and children’s artwork.

“This is nice,” Amelia says, her hand firmly in mine. “Reminds me of where I used to volunteer before we met.”

I make a noncommittal sound, taking everything in with the heightened awareness I’ve developed since becoming king.

Old habits from my military days resurface whenever I’m in an unfamiliar environment.

Exits, potential threats, line of sight to Parker who trails a few steps behind us—I catalog it all automatically.

Room 3 is a large, airy space with yoga mats and pillows arranged in a circle. Five other couples are already there, chatting among themselves. When we enter, the conversation stops abruptly, followed by the widened eyes and sharp intakes of breath I’ve come to expect.

“Your Majesties.” A woman in her fifties with gray-streaked hair pulled into a bun approaches us, her composure admirable. “I’m Linda. Welcome to my class. I’m honored to have you join us.”

“Thank you for having us,” Amelia says warmly. “Please, I’m just Amelia here, and this is Tristan. We’re here to learn, just like everyone else.”

Linda’s smile grows more genuine. “Of course. Why don’t you find a spot and get comfortable? We’ll be starting in a few minutes once everyone arrives.”

We settle onto a mat near the edge of the circle, giving Parker a clear view of the door. I help Amelia arrange pillows behind her back, acutely aware of the stares and whispers from the other couples.

“They’ll get over it,” she murmurs to me, reading my discomfort as easily as she always does.

“It’s not too late to leave,” I offer half-heartedly.

She pats my knee. “Nice try. Now smile and look approachable.”

I make an effort to relax my face, which Amelia tells me can look intimidating when I’m thinking too hard. The couple nearest to us—a young man with a sleeve of tattoos and a woman with vibrant blue hair—exchange glances before the woman takes a deep breath and turns toward us.

“I just want to say, Your Majesty—I mean, Amelia—that your education initiative has made a huge difference at the school where I teach. Because of the funding, we now have a proper music program.”

Amelia’s face lights up. “That’s wonderful to hear. Music education was one of my passions before…” She gestures around us, encompassing the life change that brought her to the throne.

“I know,” the woman says with a shy smile. “I read your dissertation on the impact of arts education on academic achievement.”

“You did?” Amelia looks genuinely surprised and delighted.

“I cited it in my master’s thesis,” the woman admits. “I never thought I’d get to thank you in person.”

I watch as my wife engages in animated conversation about educational theory, the initial awkwardness melting away. This is what makes her such an extraordinary queen—her genuine interest in people and causes, her ability to connect on a human level despite the crown she wears.

By the time Linda calls the class to order, the atmosphere has shifted. We’re still the royal couple, but we’re also just Tristan and Amelia, nervous first-time parents like everyone else in the room.

“All right, everyone,” Linda begins, “today we’re focusing on breathing techniques and positions that can help during labor. Partners, your job is incredibly important. You’re the anchor, the support, the coach who helps keep mom focused when things get intense.”

I straighten, taking the responsibility as seriously as I take running a country. Amelia catches my expression and suppresses a smile.

“First, let’s have the moms get comfortable in a supported sitting position,” Linda instructs. “Partners, you’ll sit behind them, providing back support.”

I position myself behind Amelia, my legs on either side of her, her back against my chest. The position feels oddly vulnerable here in this public space, but also right. This is where I belong—supporting her, being her strength when she needs it.

“Now, let’s practice some deep breathing,” Linda continues. “In through the nose for four counts, out through the mouth for six.”

We breathe together, my chest rising and falling in sync with Amelia’s. The rhythm is calming, meditative, and I find myself relaxing into the experience despite my initial reservations.

The class progresses through various positions and techniques. When Linda demonstrates how to apply counter-pressure during contractions, I listen with intense concentration, determined to get it exactly right. Amelia winces when I press too hard on her lower back.

“Sorry,” I whisper, immediately easing off.

“It’s okay,” she assures me. “Just maybe don’t approach my spine like you’re defending the realm from invasion.”

The tattooed man next to us chuckles. “First time I tried that on Zoey, she nearly took my head off.”

“Men,” Zoey says with an affectionate eye roll that reminds me of Amelia. “They either go way too gentle or act like they’re kneading bread dough.”

“Exactly!” Amelia agrees, and suddenly we’re part of a universal conversation about the challenges of pregnancy and partnership that transcends our royal status.

By the time we move on to massage techniques, I’ve forgotten to be self-conscious. When Linda suggests the fathers try massaging their partners’ shoulders, I focus entirely on Amelia, working my thumbs into the knots I know she carries from hours of reading briefing documents.

She sighs appreciatively, leaning into my touch. “You should add ‘royal masseur’ to your list of titles,” she murmurs.

“Only for you,” I reply, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

The rest of the class flies by in a blur of information, practice, and surprisingly genuine connection with the other couples. When Linda concludes the session, I’m almost disappointed it’s over.

“Next week, we’ll go over more advanced techniques and start discussing birth plans,” Linda announces. “Great work today, everyone.”

As we gather our things, several couples approach us, the initial awe replaced by the camaraderie of shared experience.

“Do you know if you’re having a boy or girl?” one woman asks Amelia.

“We’re waiting to find out,” she replies, her hand finding mine. “Tristan thinks it’s a girl, but I’m not convinced.”

“Mother’s intuition says boy?” another father-to-be asks me.

“She thinks it’s a boy, and she’ll tell anyone who asks,” I grin.

“I do not!” Amelia protests, then pauses. “Do I?”

“Constantly,” I confirm, enjoying her surprise.

We say our goodbyes with promises to return next week, and I’m surprised to find I’m looking forward to it. As we walk back to the car where Parker waits, Amelia bumps her shoulder against my arm.

“Admit it,” she says smugly. “You had fun.”

“It was educational,” I concede, trying to maintain some dignity.

“You exchanged phone numbers with Tattoo Guy.”

“Miguel,” I correct her. “And it’s good to have connections outside the palace.”

She laughs, the sound bright in the evening air. “I knew you’d like it if you gave it a chance.”

As Parker opens the car door for us, Amelia suddenly stops. “Wait,” she says, her eyes widening with sudden longing. “Ice cream.”

“Ice cream?” I repeat, glancing at my watch. It’s nearly nine, and most shops will be closed.

“I need chocolate ice cream,” she says with the seriousness of a state declaration. “With caramel sauce. And maybe pecans.”

I look at Parker, who’s already on his phone. After a brief conversation, he turns to us. “There’s a shop three blocks from here. The owner is willing to reopen for Your Majesties.”

“You’re a miracle worker, Parker,” Amelia tells him with sincere gratitude.

“Just doing my job, ma’am.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re seated in an empty ice cream parlor, the owner hovering nervously as Amelia devours a massive sundae with evident bliss. I pick at my own much smaller vanilla cone, more entertained by her enjoyment than interested in the dessert.

“This,” she announces between bites, “is exactly what I needed after all that breathing and stretching.”

“The royal heir demands ice cream?” I tease.

“The royal heir’s mother demands ice cream,” she corrects me. “The baby just benefits from my happiness.”

I reach across the table to wipe a spot of chocolate from the corner of her mouth. “Your happiness is my primary concern, you know.”

Her expression softens. “I know. That’s why I love you.” She glances around the small shop, at Parker standing discreetly by the door, at the owner pretending not to stare from behind the counter. “And this—normal moments stolen in the midst of our very abnormal life—this is what makes me happy.”

“Then we’ll have more of them,” I promise. “Ice cream runs, Lamaze classes, whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?” She raises an eyebrow, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “That’s a dangerous offer to make to a hormonal woman with royal authority.”

I lean forward, dropping my voice so only she can hear. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be,” she whispers back, but her smile tells me everything I need to know.

In this moment, king and queen are secondary titles. We’re just Tristan and Amelia, sharing ice cream on a weeknight, preparing for our baby, stealing normal in the midst of extraordinary. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.