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He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his touch infinitely gentle. “You are the most incredible woman I have ever known,” he says with such intensity that tears spring to my eyes. “And you are going to be the most amazing mother.”

“You can’t know that,” I whisper.

“I absolutely can,” he counters. “I’ve seen you with children. I’ve seen how you fight for what’s right, how you love without reservation, how you make everyone around you feel valued and heard. Our baby is the luckiest child in the world to have you as their mother.”

A tear slides down my cheek, and he catches it with his thumb. “Hormones,” I explain weakly.

“Of course,” he agrees, not calling me on the obvious lie. “Now, tell me what you need. What can I do to help you through this?”

“Just stay with me,” I say, suddenly overwhelmed by how much I love this man. “Be here.”

“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away,” he promises, settling in beside me. “We’re doing this together.”

As if on cue, another contraction begins. Tristan helps me sit up, supporting my back as I breathe through it, murmuring encouragement in my ear. When it passes, he offers me ice chips, adjusts my pillows, makes sure I’m comfortable.

“Has anyone called my mother?” I ask suddenly.

“She’s on her way,” he assures me. “Should be here within the hour.”

I nod, relieved. Despite our occasional clashes, I want my mother here for this momentous event. “And the press?”

“Kate is handling it,” he says. “A brief statement that you’ve gone into labor, and updates will follow when appropriate. No details, no photographs, exactly as we planned.”

Another wave of gratitude washes over me. Even in crisis mode, rushing to my side, Tristan remembered our careful plans for privacy during this intensely personal moment.

The next few hours blur together in a rhythm of pain and respite. Tristan never leaves my side, not even when my mother arrives and tries to convince him to take a break. The contractions intensify, and finally I agree to an epidural when the pain becomes overwhelming.

“You’re doing beautifully,” the doctor tells me during her next check. “Eight centimeters now. Not much longer.”

Tristan wipes my brow with a cool cloth, his eyes never leaving my face. “You hear that? You’re almost there.”

I nod, too focused on the sensations in my body to form words. The epidural has taken the edge off, but I can still feel the pressure of each contraction, the inexorable movement of our child toward the world.

“I never thought we’d get here,” I say during a brief respite. “When we first met, when you were this frustrating, arrogant prince who drove me crazy.”

He laughs softly. “And you were the stubborn commoner who refused to be impressed by my title.”

“Look at us now,” I whisper, my eyes filling with tears again.

“Look at us now,” he agrees, pressing his lips to my forehead. “About to be parents.”

The word sends a fresh surge of panic through me. “Tristan, what if?—”

“No what-ifs,” he interrupts gently. “We’ll figure it out together, just like we’ve figured everything else out.”

Before I can respond, another contraction builds, this one with a different quality that makes me gasp. The doctor returns, checking me quickly.

“It’s time,” she announces, her calm voice cutting through my momentary fear. “You’re fully dilated. On the next contraction, I want you to push.”

Tristan’s hand tightens around mine. “I’m right here,” he reminds me. “Right beside you.”

The next hour passes in a blur of pushing, breathing, and Tristan’s steady encouragement.

My mother stands by the door, her presence a quiet comfort, while Shannon waits outside.

The medical team moves with practiced efficiency, their voices blending into background noise as I focus solely on bringing our child into the world.

“I can see the head,” the doctor says finally. “One more big push, Your Majesty.”

I gather every ounce of strength I have left, squeezing Tristan’s hand so hard I’m sure I must be hurting him, though he doesn’t flinch. With a final, monumental effort, I push—and suddenly feel the slippery sensation of our baby leaving my body.

A cry fills the room—strong, indignant, perfect.

“It’s a girl!” the doctor announces, placing our daughter on my chest.

She’s tiny and red-faced, covered in vernix, her little fists waving in protest at the bright lights and cold air. And she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“Oh my god,” Tristan breathes beside me, his voice thick with emotion. “Lia, look what we did.”

I can’t speak, can barely breathe as I stare down at our daughter. Her eyes blink open—dark blue, unfocused—and I’m undone. Love crashes over me in a wave so powerful it’s almost frightening, a fierce, primal need to protect this tiny person we’ve created.

“Hello, little one,” I whisper, trailing a finger down her cheek. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Tristan leans over, his hand covering mine where it rests on our daughter’s back. “She’s perfect,” he says, a tear sliding down his cheek. “Just like her mother.”

The medical team moves in, asking if they can take her for a moment to clean her up and check her vitals. I nod reluctantly, already missing her weight on my chest the instant she’s gone.

My mother approaches, her usual composure cracked by joy. “She’s beautiful,” she says, kissing my forehead. “You did wonderfully, darling.”

Tristan doesn’t leave my side, his eyes tracking our daughter as the nurses weigh her and wrap her in a blanket. “Six pounds, four ounces,” a nurse announces. “A bit small, but perfectly healthy.”

“Small but mighty,” Tristan says with a proud smile. “Like her mother.”

When they bring her back, placing her in my arms, I feel a completeness I’ve never known before. Our family, together at last.

“What shall we call her?” Tristan asks, perching carefully on the edge of the bed to gaze down at our daughter.

We’d narrowed it down to a few options, waiting to see which one felt right when we met her. Looking at her now—her tiny nose, the determined set of her chin that already reminds me of Tristan—I know immediately.

“Eleanor,” I say softly. “Eleanor Grace.”

Tristan’s eyes light up. “It’s perfect.”

“Princess Eleanor Grace of Haldonia.” I try out the full title, finding it suits her despite her diminutive size. “That’s quite a name to grow into, little one.”

“She will,” Tristan says with absolute confidence. “With you as her mother, how could she not?”

A knock at the door draws our attention, and Shannon peeks in cautiously. “Is it safe to come meet the newest royal?”

“Get in here.” I beckon with my free hand. “Meet your honorary niece.”

She approaches, her usual efficiency melting into wonder as she gazes down at Eleanor. “She’s gorgeous,” she breathes. “Congratulations, both of you.”

“Thank you for everything today,” I tell her sincerely. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yes, you could have,” she corrects me with a smile. “But I’m glad I was there.”

The next few hours are a blur of visitors—doctors checking vitals, nurses offering guidance on feeding, Parker coming in briefly to secure the room before allowing a select few palace staff to offer their congratulations.

Through it all, Tristan remains steadfast beside me, occasionally holding Eleanor with such careful reverence that it makes my heart ache.

As night falls and the room finally quiets, it’s just the three of us. Eleanor sleeps peacefully in a bassinet beside my bed, Tristan stretched out next to me on the wide hospital bed, his arm around my shoulders.

“Are you all right?” he asks, studying my face in the dim light. “Really?”

“I’m exhausted,” I admit. “Sore. Overwhelmed. And happier than I’ve ever been.”

He pulls me closer, dropping a kiss on the top of my head. “You were magnificent today. I’ve never been more in awe of you.”

“Even more than when I managed to navigate that diplomatic crisis with the Argentinian ambassador?” I tease, fighting to keep my eyes open.

“Even more than that,” he confirms solemnly. “Today you brought our daughter into the world. Nothing will ever top that.”

I glance over at Eleanor, watching the rise and fall of her tiny chest. “It doesn’t feel real yet.”

“It will,” he assures me. “Probably around three in the morning when she decides it’s time to eat again.”

I laugh softly, careful not to wake her. “At least we have an army of nannies waiting at the palace.”

“True,” he agrees. “But for these first few days, I thought maybe it could just be us. The three of us, figuring things out together.”

The suggestion touches me deeply. Despite the demands of running a country, despite the traditions and protocols that usually dictate our lives, Tristan wants these precious early days to be ours alone.

“I’d like that,” I whisper, leaning my head against his shoulder.

As sleep begins to claim me, I think about the journey that brought us here—from reluctant royal bride to queen, from wary strangers to partners, from husband and wife to parents. None of it has been easy. Some of it has been downright terrifying. But all of it, every step, has been worth it.

Eleanor stirs in her sleep, making a tiny mewling sound that immediately draws both our attention. We watch, breath held, as she settles back into dreams, her perfect little face peaceful.

“We did good,” I murmur, my eyes growing heavier.

“We did amazing,” Tristan corrects me, his voice thick with emotion. “And this is just the beginning.”

As I drift toward sleep in the arms of my husband, our daughter sleeping peacefully beside us, I can’t help but think he’s right. This isn’t an ending—it’s a beginning. The start of a new chapter in our story, one filled with new challenges and joys, fears and triumphs.

And despite the uncertainties that lie ahead, I know one thing with absolute certainty. As long as we have each other, we can face anything. King and queen. Husband and wife. Father and mother.

Family.