Page 49 of Royal Love
She returns to her discussion of rural school funding, but I find it increasingly difficult to focus. My back is really hurting now, a deep, rhythmic ache that seems to wrap around to my abdomen every fifteen minutes or so.
I glance at my watch. Tristan is in the northern province today, touring flood damage and meeting with local officials. He’s not due back until evening. I should call him, I think, then immediately dismiss the idea. This is probably nothing. Noneed to pull him away from important work just because I’m uncomfortable.
Shannon catches my eye from her position near the door, her brow furrowed in question. I give her a small smile that I hope is reassuring, though judging by her expression, I’m not convincing anyone.
Another pain grips me, stronger this time, making me inhale sharply. The minister stops again, and even the most oblivious of my advisers are now watching me with concern.
“Perhaps we should continue this meeting another time,” Shannon suggests smoothly, already moving to my side.
“No, I—” I begin to protest, then feel a distinct pop and a rush of warm fluid between my legs. Oh. Oh no.
The room falls silent as everyone realizes what’s happening. I look down at the puddle forming beneath my chair, momentarily frozen in disbelief. I’m only thirty-eight weeks along. This wasn’t supposed to happen for another two weeks, when Tristan would be firmly by my side.
“Call the hospital,” Shannon commands, her voice cutting through my shock. “And get Parker. The queen is in labor.”
The next few minutes are a blur of activity. Someone helps me to my feet. Shannon disappears briefly, returning with a change of clothes. Parker materializes, his usual stoic expression replaced by alert efficiency. Typically he would be with Tristan, but because I’m so close to my due date, Parker has been assigned to me.
“We need to get you to the hospital, Your Majesty,” he says, already guiding me toward the door. “The car is waiting.”
“Tristan,” I manage to say as another contraction builds. “Call Tristan.”
“Already done,” Shannon assures me, supporting me on my other side. “He’s on his way back. The helicopter was already standing by.”
The knowledge that he’s coming should reassure me, but suddenly the reality of what’s happening crashes down. I’m having a baby. Today. Now. And Tristan is hours away.
“I can’t do this without him,” I whisper to Shannon as we make our way slowly down the corridor.
“You won’t have to,” she promises. “He’ll be there.”
But we both know labor can progress quickly. The rush of fear makes my knees weak.
Parker and Shannon help me into the waiting car, and we’re speeding toward the hospital with a police escort before I fully process what’s happening. The contractions are coming faster now, about ten minutes apart, each one stealing my breath.
“Try to breathe through them,” Shannon coaches, demonstrating the techniques we learned in Lamaze class. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
I try to follow her example, but panic is making it difficult. “It’s too early,” I say between contractions. “The nursery isn’t completely ready. Tristan’s speech for the announcement isn’t finalized. I haven’t packed a hospital bag.”
“Everything is taken care of,” she assures me, her calm voice anchoring me. “Kate had your bag prepared weeks ago, and the hospital has been on standby since your thirty-sixth week. The royal suite is ready.”
Of course it is. In my rational mind, I know the palace operates with military precision. But right now, I don’t feel like a queen with an army of staff ensuring everything runs smoothly. I feel like a scared first-time mother whose husband isn’t here.
“Shannon.” I grab her hand as another contraction builds, this one strong enough to make me gasp. “I’m scared.”
She squeezes my fingers, her expression softening. “I know. But you’re the strongest person I know, Amelia. You’ve handled ambassadors, state dinners, and Tristan at his worst. You can absolutely handle this.”
Her mention of Tristan makes tears spring to my eyes. “What if he doesn’t make it in time?”
“He will,” she says with such conviction that I almost believe her. “But even if he’s cutting it close, I’ll be with you every step of the way. I promise.”
The car pulls up to the private entrance of the hospital, where a medical team is already waiting. Everything happens with practiced efficiency—I’m whisked into a wheelchair, brought through corridors cleared of other patients, and settled into a spacious suite that looks more like a luxury hotel room than a hospital.
A doctor examines me while nurses hook up monitors that track the baby’s heartbeat and my contractions. The steady thrum of our child’s heart fills the room, momentarily distracting me from my fear.
“You’re at four centimeters, Your Majesty,” the doctor informs me. “Making good progress, but we still have some time. The baby’s heart rate is excellent, and everything looks normal despite being a bit early.”
“How much time?” I ask, thinking only of Tristan.
“First labors typically last twelve to twenty-four hours,” she says gently. “Though every woman is different. I wouldn’t expect this baby before late tonight at the earliest.”
