Page 52 of Royal Love
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’mundone. 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.
