Page 39 of Royal Love
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.”
