Page 35 of Royal Love
The note inside simply reads:
For my queen, who outshines every jewel. - T
“You’re staring,” I murmur, applying a final touch of lipstick.
Tristan, already dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, makes no attempt to deny it. “How could I not? You’re breathtaking.”
The burgundy dress drapes elegantly over my rounded belly before flowing gracefully to the floor, its empire waist and strategic design both highlighting and celebrating my pregnancy. The deep color makes my skin glow, and the slit up one side offers tantalizing glimpses of leg with each step. The ruby earrings catch the light when I move.
“My goddess,” he whispers, approaching me slowly. His hand reaches out to caress the curve of my stomach with a tenderness that makes my breath catch. “Carrying my child, ruling at my side…I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.”
“The earrings are beautiful,” I say, turning to face him, emotion thick in my throat. “Thank you.”
He crosses to me, his hands settling on my waist. “They pale in comparison, but I’m glad you like them.” His eyes darken as he takes me in. “Though now I’m reconsidering our public appearance. I’d much rather keep you all to myself tonight.”
I laugh, placing my hands on his chest. “Duty calls, Your Majesty. Besides…” I lean closer, my lips nearly brushing his. “Anticipation makes everything sweeter.”
His grip tightens. “You’re playing with fire, Lia.”
“Good thing I’m not afraid of getting burned.” I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, careful not to leave a lipstick mark. “Now, shall we?”
Lumière glows with warm light, its windows offering glimpses of crystal chandeliers and white tablecloths. As our car approaches, I can see the crowd gathered outside—a mix of paparazzi andcurious onlookers hoping to catch a glimpse of their monarchs and, more specifically, the queen’s growing baby bump.
“Ready?” Tristan asks, squeezing my hand. His other hand rests protectively over mine on my belly.
I take a deep breath and nod. “Ready.”
The moment we step out of the car, camera flashes explode around us. Tristan’s arm slides protectively around my waist as we navigate the short walk to the entrance. I smile and wave, projecting confidence and warmth despite the intrusive lenses. I can hear exclamations about the baby bump, and I instinctively place my free hand over my stomach in what has become a familiar gesture.
“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-alcoholicbeverage 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.
