Continuation of the last chapter

A Lesson in Precedence

Bellacorde
Domaine de Beauvigne

The chamberlain’s voice cut through the salon like a blade dipped in ceremony:

“His Lordship, Lord Thiago Manuel Monteiro de Alvarenga, Marquês de Verdemar… and Mademoiselle Anastasia Hargrave.”

Luc and I exchanged a look — the kind that said brace for impact.

“Brace yourself,” I whispered. “Something tells me something is up.”

Luc’s mouth curved, wickedly entertained. “Oh, I am certain of it. Which is why I could not resist. I have to see this.”

We rose together — him with sovereign grace, me with the grace of someone who had learned to fake it.

They entered.

Ana clung to Thiago’s arm like she’d been welded there. Her hair was wind‑tossed, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with the kind of manic excitement that made my stomach drop. She wore a soft, pastel floral dress — the kind of sweet, summery thing a commoner girl might pull from her closet when told she was meeting someone important, without realizing that “someone important” meant the sovereign. Oh boy.

Thiago, meanwhile, looked like he’d stepped out of a Verdemarian oil painting. Tall. Immaculate. Thirty‑something with the quiet confidence of a man who had already lived three lives and succeeded at all of them. His posture was perfect, his expression solemn, his clothing a masterclass in understated aristocratic wealth.

And when he bowed, it was deep — the kind reserved for monarchs.

“Your Serene Highness,” he said, his Portuguese accent curling warmly around the words. “Thank you for receiving us without notice. Mademoiselle Cameron.”

Luc inclined his head — then paused. His gaze flicked to me, warm enough to melt the marble under our feet.

“Before we proceed,” he said, voice shifting into that unmistakable sovereign register that made the air itself stand straighter, “a point of precedence must be observed. Mademoiselle Cameron is no longer Mademoiselle.”

Thiago blinked. Ana’s eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly left her face.

Luc continued, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous, “She was elevated several days ago by His Grace the Duc de Villeneuve. You will address her as Marquise Palatine de Valfleur.”

Thiago’s eyes widened. He immediately bowed to me — a deep, formal Verdemarian bow that made the air shift around us.

“Your Excellency,” he said, solemn and sincere.

Then he turned to Ana with the same calm authority Luc often used on me when I was about to embarrass myself in front of nobility.

“Ana, you must curtsy.”

Ana stared at him like he’d just announced he was actually a lizard in a human suit. “Curtsy? To my cousin?” she hissed— quietly, but forceful enough to echo off the marble.

Thiago leaned in, patient but firm. “É a etiqueta, meu amor. It is the custom.”

Ana shot him a look that said you have got to be kidding me, then gave me a death glare that translated to breathe one word of this to our family back home and you are shark bait, before she dipped into the most reluctant curtsy ever witnessed — floral skirt swishing, one knee wobbling like she’d never bent it in her life.

Luc’s expression softened, amused. “Très bien, mademoiselle. You will grow accustomed to our ways.”

Ana blushed, but didn’t look convinced, as she shot me another stink-eye. Thiago straightened. The hierarchy of the room settled like dust after an explosion.

Only then did Luc nod. “Now, Marquês… you may speak freely.”

Thiago inhaled — steady, formal, bracing himself.

“Your Serene Highness… I request your approval to marry Mademoiselle Anastasia Hargrave.”

My jaw hit the floor. Luc’s eyebrows shot up. Ana made a tiny squeak. I would have screamed, but my brain had disconnected from my mouth.

Luc stiffened. Then cleared his throat with the dignity of a man trying not to swear in front of foreign nobility.

“Marquês,” he said carefully, “I… am not the young lady’s father. Nor her guardian. And she is not my subject. I fail to see why you bring this matter to me.”

I stared at Ana. She stared at me. She looked giddy. High. Drunk on love and chaos. I knew the look well. Hopefully I didn’t look that deranged when fangirling over Luc.

Thiago hesitated, then said:

“But she will be, Your Serene Highness.”

Luc stared.

Thiago continued, earnest and slightly flustered:

“And she is your… your… uh…” He searched for the word, eyes darting. “Your… eh… esteemed royal companion’s cousin?”

I choked. Luc coughed. Yeah, that was one way to describe the mess.

Luc pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a smile.

“Marquês,” he said, “this is a conversation you should be having with her parents.”

Thiago nodded. “I will. But first, I must honor the customs of Verdemar. And as I am your subject, and she will become one through marriage, our ancient customs require me to seek your approval.”

Luc cleared his throat again — the royal version of what fresh hell is this.

“Well,” he said slowly, “this is certainly… unexpected.”

Thiago hesitated — just a fraction — then added something in French, his Portuguese accent thickening around the vowels:

“Et… il y a une autre chose, Votre Altesse. Elle est… enceinte.”

Luc froze. Again. He coughed, struggling with composure.

I whipped my head between them. “WHAT? What did he say? What did he just say?! Luc!”

Luc lifted a hand, still staring at Thiago. “Briony… one moment.”

“No! Not one moment! Someone tell me—”

Thiago, realizing the chaos he’d unleashed, pleaded with Luc again.

“Vous voyez, Votre Sérénité, c’est pourquoi je dois l’épouser, de toute urgence.”

Luc exhaled — long, slow, sovereign.

“Well,” he said faintly, “I suppose congratulations are in order. Again. It seems, with remarkable regularity, esteemed members of my realm are sharing such… joyous news with Madame la Marquise and me.”

Luc looked at me — and the penny dropped. He told me without telling me. I was speechless to the power of ten. I seriously thought I’d faint a third time now and needed all I had to keep that from happening.

Thiago bowed again, deeply. “Obrigado. What is your decision?”

Luc rubbed his temples — the royal version of I need a drink.

“My decision,” he said, voice calm but carrying that unmistakable sovereign weight, “is to politely urge you to visit her family in Del Sol Valley at once, Marquês. And to acquire an engagement ring worthy of the young lady.”

He turned to Ana, bowing his head slightly — not as a sovereign, but as a man welcoming someone into his world.

“And to you, Mademoiselle ‘argrave, I extend my warmest welcome as a future daughter of the Triune Realm. Bienvenue à Ondarion — Bellacorde, Verdemar, et Dambele.”

Then he turned to me.

“Mon cœur, why don’t you congratulate your cousin — perhaps over some of the hors d’oeuvres you enjoy so much — while I share a private word with the good Marquês?”

He didn’t have to tell me twice. He wanted a man‑to‑man talk. And I had a cousin to interrogate.

Emergency Cousin Summit

I didn’t walk Ana to the formal dining room. I dragged her.

Full big‑sister type energy — fingers wrapped around her wrist, heels skidding across polished marble as she squeaked behind me like a startled duckling. The moment we crossed the threshold — all gleaming wood, tall windows, and a table long enough to host a minor diplomatic crisis — I spun around and planted myself in front of her.

Hands on hips. Chin lifted. Channeling every furious Cameron woman who had ever lived.

“You are PREGGERS?!” My voice ricocheted off the high ceilings. “And this is how I find out?!”

Ana squared up immediately — hands on her hips too, chin lifted, eyes blazing. Cameron genetics: activated.

“Oh, please,” she snapped. “And you’re some Marquise now and I have to bow to your dumb ass while you’re living large in a palace, working on marrying a prince — all of which I found out in installments and by total accident, and you wanna give me shit now? That’s rich! So how about you tone that down a few notches, sistah!”

… Touché. But I was too furious to concede the point.

“Okay, first of all, it was a curtsy. Ladies do not bow, men do.”

Ana threw her hands up. “Briony — I swear, one more word comes out of your pie trap that sounds anything like a lecture on how to behave here and I will throw hands with you! I get all that shit from Thiago now, so thanks, but no thanks! I didn’t drop out of college only to be welcomed with a stack of tomes to read through and memorize while he corrects every move I make! I get it, but OMG can everyone please just chill for a moment!”

I threw my hands up right back. “Okay fine, Luc and I had to skate around the truth here and there, but a baby? Marriage? You are eighteen! Have you completely lost your everloving mind?! You’ve known him five fricking minutes!”

She groaned dramatically, pacing like she was the one with the moral high ground.

“Oh, how original,” she snapped. “Coming from you. You are not one to give relationship how-to tutorials, girl! And save the lecturing about ‘Ana, you have to make something of your life’, it’s not like my parents haven’t been regurgitating this same type of shit at me for months. Like I’m some baby bird and they’re trying to force‑feed me their life plan.”

She pitched her voice higher, mocking: “‘What else ya wanna do with your life, Ana, huh? Get married and have kids at eighteen?’”

Then she dropped back into her own voice, furious and wounded all at once. “Well, yeah! Because it sounded a hell of a lot better than what they were thinking!”

She jabbed a finger at me. “And now you’re coming at me with the same BS. Briony, we’ve had this talk before. I explained all of this to you before. Why can’t you just be on my side? I could really use someone on my side right now.”

I opened my mouth — but she bulldozed right over me, words tumbling out in a frantic, breathless rush.

“I know what’s next. Thiago is dead‑set on asking my father for my hand. You know my father. And my mother. You know exactly what this is gonna turn into. But I couldn’t do the life they wanted for me and I had no other options. I want this—” she gestured around wildly, “—and I want Thiago.”

I stared at her. Really stared.

The flushed cheeks. The wild eyes. The trembling hands she kept trying to hide behind her back.

She was terrified. And excited. And in love. And eighteen. And pregnant.

My heart did a weird, painful twist.

“Yeah, of course I’ve got your back,” I said, softer now, “but apparently our talk was not loud enough, because you’re over there becoming a proud new member of the Cameron Curse brigade. I really thought you and Tate figured out how to—well, ya know, avoid joining that club. Do I need to give your brother the birds‑and‑bees talk so he doesn’t go accidentally knocking up half of DSV?”

Ana blinked. Then scoffed.

“Nope. And cool story, bruh, but what makes you think it’s the Cameron Curse striking?”

“Huh?”

She stared at me like I was the slowest creature alive.

“Oh my GOD, are you slow? I am saying—” she jabbed a finger at her chest, “—it wasn’t an accident.”

I had to sit down.

I didn’t choose a chair. I just dropped onto the nearest surface because my knees gave out.

And I stared at her.

I stared until she shifted her weight. Until she crossed her arms. Until she uncrossed them. Until she finally snapped:

“Stop looking at me like that!”

But I couldn’t stop. Because my cousin — my chaotic, impulsive, feral little cousin — had just told me she got pregnant on purpose.

“You have lost your mind. You’re certifiable!”

“Have I?” she shot back. “You told me that little story about when you thought you were knocked up and Luc said he’d just marry you sooner. And about Luc’s friend who was miserable in his marriage until you played cupid, and how all those years before he couldn’t get out of that dead-on-arrival marriage because of their baby?”

“Oh my god, Ana… you didn’t. You did not just go full noble anchor baby on purpose.”

“I love him,” she said, voice cracking just a little. “He loves me. The baby was just the nudge we both needed. And he is very excited to finally become a father. I can rock this mom shit. What I cannot rock is sitting in some lame uni reading room for four years while professors drone on till my ears bleed about crap I don’t give two fucks about and will never, ever use.”

I was speechless — because, if I was being brutally honest, I’d had the same thoughts more times than I cared to admit. Every time I sat hunched over my uni assignments, drowning in readings I barely understood, I’d wondered what any of it was for. My brain was already running at full capacity just trying to keep up with this new life; coursework felt like it was stealing bandwidth I desperately needed elsewhere.

But I wanted that degree. I didn’t even fully know why — only that I needed it. That I wanted it. That Luc wanted me to have one. He’d gone to university too; when we met, he was finishing his second degree. I didn’t want to be the undereducated one in our relationship. And I knew Brad would be disappointed if I quit.

So I was getting that degree, hell or high water.

But I did understand Ana more than she would ever know.

She gestured around the room, meaning the palace. “This? This I can do. And the nobility stuff? Especially with your help? Yes, please! Have some faith in me, Briony. I’m not dumb. I just… know what I want. And what I do not want.”

And damn it — she meant it. Every word.

The Weight of Choices

Thiago and Anastasia left us with much food for thought.

I paced.

Back and forth across the salon like a caged animal, hands flailing, hair coming loose, my dress tugging against my legs with every furious step. My heels clicked against the marble in a frantic rhythm that matched the pounding in my chest.

Luc stood perfectly still.

Hands clasped behind his back. Posture straight. Expression calm. The picture of royal composure — the kind bred into a man raised in palaces, trained from childhood to remain unshaken even when the world tilted.

It made me want to scream.

Finally, I stopped and stared at him, breath sharp, pulse wild.

“You have to do something.”

He blinked. Slowly. Faire quoi, exactement — do what, exactly?

“Stop this.”

“It is a little late for that, mon cœur.”

“Luc!”

He lifted a hand — soothing, maddeningly patient — like he was calming a startled horse.

“Si elle est vraiment enceinte — if she truly is pregnant” — he said, “he must marry her. Otherwise it will be wrong on many levels. And not just because of noble code. Illegitimate children happen, oui, but should be avoided at all cost. There are only two ways to avoid them. It is too late for prevention, so they are choosing the only option left.”

I threw my hands up. “You’re a prince! Fix it! Tell him no! Tell her no! Tell someone no! Make them undo it! There are ways, if you catch my hint.”

He exhaled — long, steady — the same breath he used before addressing parliament or correcting a minister who had said something catastrophically stupid.

“Briony,” he said gently, “this is not a broken vase. It is not a scheduling conflict. It is not a diplomatic misunderstanding. C’est un enfant — it is a child. One with very old noble lineage. I do not have the authority to tell the stork ‘no.’ It happened. And in our world, once it has happened, it cannot be undone. For nobles and royals, ending a pregnancy is severely illegal unless there are grave medical reasons. C’est la loi… et la tradition. Now there has to be… damage control.”

I froze.

He stepped closer, voice soft but unyielding — the tone of a man raised to deliver truth with elegance.

“And truthfully…” He hesitated, choosing his words with surgical care. “Ce n’est pas la pire option — it is not the worst option. He needs an heir. It would be tragic were his line to go extinct.”

I glared at him so hard I’m surprised he didn’t burst into flames.

“Not the worst option? She’s eighteen and not a noble broodmare! She doesn’t know what she is doing, she barely knows how life works without her parents backing everything! She still eats cereal for dinner! She never had a serious boyfriend — every guy she ever dated bored her to tears after one or two dates — she—she—”

“She made a choice,” Luc said quietly. “Clearly, Thiago does not bore her, what I know about him and his heritage makes me doubt he ever will, and I further doubt she is capable of boring him. Not the way I have come to know her.”

I stopped mid‑pace. My breath caught.

He continued, steady as bedrock.

“She is eighteen. Officially an adult. And she made a choice that cannot be undone. Not by you. Not by me. Not by anyone. C’est fait — it is done. And now it must be dealt with.”

It hit me like a stone dropped into deep water — not cruel, just true.

I shook my head, pacing again, fingers digging into my hair.

“But she’s just a kid—”

Luc’s voice sharpened — not harsh, but firm enough to cut through my panic.

“Briony.”

I froze.

He stepped closer, eyes soft but unflinching — the way only a sovereign could look at someone he loved.

“You only just turned twenty. Not even a full two years older than she is. Es‑tu une enfant — are you a child? Have I been loving a child all this time… in ways no child should ever be loved?”

My stomach dropped. I shook my head.

He kept going, voice gentle but devastatingly logical.

“She is no more a child than you are, Briony. As for doing things the proper way, je crains que nous ne soyons pas en position de juger — we are not in a position to judge anyone. We are not married. We are not engaged. You are not officially mine. Yet you live with me.”

His eyes held mine, steady and warm.

“That alone could be considered a serious breach of decorum, which is why you and I must play the part of host and guest, when everyone around us knows otherwise. Crois‑tu que cela me plaît — do you think I enjoy this? I know you do not.”

He stepped closer, voice low, intimate, royal.

“You are still learning who you are, finding your place in this world — a luxury I never had. My life was predetermined, chaque pas — every step — every expectation… until I met you.”

My breath stuttered.

“You were unplanned, unscheduled, utterly unexpected… and you bring joy, love, passion — tellement, so much — that I am willing to risk everything simply to have you near. Is it selfish? Peut‑être. Perhaps. But above all, it is love. True love.”

He tilted his head, studying me with that devastating princely calm.

“Tell me, Briony… would someone who does not know us look at us and see love? Or would they see a young woman and a sovereign prince seven years older, each with their own supposed agendas?”

My breath caught.

“And yet,” he continued softly, “you consider her a child while you are an adult in every way but years. You expect propriety from Thiago and her when we ourselves do not live by those standards.”

The words hit like a truth I’d been avoiding.

He stepped even closer, lowering his voice.

“Briony… how did you like being treated as a child when you were eighteen, choosing… me? And this life?”

His thumb brushed my cheek.

“It was a very big decision. And certainly life‑altering.”

My throat tightened. Because he was right. And it hurt.

He softened immediately, reaching for my hands.

“I do not say this to scold you, mon cœur. I say it because you are frightened. And when you are frightened, you forget your own youth. Your place in Ana’s life is to support her when she needs you. That is how we help.”

He sighed, thoughtful.

“She does not grasp your position in all this — does not understand what it means to stand beside a sovereign prince. She sees me as your affluent boyfriend with a faible for crowns and thrones, I think. She does not see the gravitas this carries. Nor the weight of my titles… nor Thiago’s. He is in a similar situation as we are. His house is old, Briony — older than mine in some ways, and bound by traditions she has never lived under. She sees the man she loves. She does not see the expectations that come with his name. But you do. You know the labyrinth. You know where it narrows, where it cuts, where it demands more than it gives. And you can guide her through it.”

I blinked rapidly, trying not to cry.

“But Thiago—he’s—he’s—”

“A nobleman,” Luc finished. “From a very old line. With responsibilities. With expectations. With a public life that is not simple.”

“I was gonna say old.”

He held my gaze, steady and unflinching.

“He is significantly older, yes, but in aristocratic circles that is not unusual. Henry is ten years older than Léontine. I am seven years your senior. This is not a boy she met at university. This is a man of Verdemar. Un marquês — a marquess. His actions carry weight. His decisions ripple outward. And now hers do too.”

My throat tightened.

Luc cupped my cheek with one warm hand.

“And because of that, the only right thing — the only right thing — is marriage. Anything else would be… messy. On more levels than you can imagine.”

He hesitated, then added softly:

“Thiago may love her deeply. I believe he does. But love does not erase duty. And now that there is a child — his heir — there is no world in which he allows that child to be taken from his life. Not by distance. Not by conflict. Not by fear. Even if Ana wished to leave, the child would remain. That is the reality she does not yet see.”

I stared at him, heart aching, anger dissolving into helplessness.

“But she’s my cousin,” I whispered. “I’m supposed to help her.”

“And you will,” he murmured. “By supporting her. Not by undoing her choices. Help her succeed in this life she chose, which will be so very different from anything she has ever known.”

I looked away, jaw trembling.

He tilted my chin back toward him, gentle but firm.

“Briony… she is determined. You saw it. She is not frightened. She is not coerced. She is not lost. She is choosing her life. And it is not for you or me — or anyone else — to fix.”

My breath hitched.

He brushed his thumb across my cheek.

“I know it is not ideal. I know it is sudden. I know it feels like chaos. Mais parfois — but sometimes — the only thing to do is stand beside the people we love and let them walk the path they chose.”

I swallowed hard.

“And what about you?” I whispered. “What do you think?”

He smiled — soft, sad, wise.

“I think the best thing we can do now is be supportive. Pour elle — for her. Pour lui — for him. Pour l’enfant — for the child.”

He kissed my forehead.

“And for you.”

I had no answer.

He pulled me into an embrace, voice low and warm against my ear.

“Briony… I hold much power, yes. But even power has boundaries. There are things I may do, and things I cannot do without setting off a ripple that would touch far more than just you and me. If I could act as I wished, there would already be a very meaningful ring on your finger, declaring you mine. I would show you to the world without hesitation. Je t’embrasserais — I would kiss you — whenever you wished… and sometimes when you did not.”

He pulled back just enough to smirk, making me smile despite myself.

“And one day,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along my jaw, “I want you to say that line Eloise taught you… to me. And mean it.”

My heart stuttered. Then another thought struck.

“What did you talk to Thiago about,” I asked quietly, “when you two were alone?”

Luc’s expression shifted — not darker, not colder, but sovereign.

He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Rien de dramatique, mon cœur — nothing dramatic. Just a reminder that if he wishes to join his life to someone in my orbit… he must understand exactly what that means. And what standards I will hold him to.”

My breath caught. “Luc…”

He smiled — slow, princely, devastating.

“Do not worry. I was perfectly courteous.” A beat. “Courteous… and very clear.”

He kissed my forehead again, lingering.

“Un homme de son rang comprendra — a man of his rank will understand.”

And I did understand. In that elegant, terrifyingly diplomatic way of his, Luc had told Thiago that if he ever hurt Ana, the sovereign prince of Bellacorde would personally ensure he regretted it — and it would get him where it really counts.

Hand in Marriage

Thiago and Ana left two days later for Del Sol Valley, to tell her parents. All I could think was: may God have mercy on their souls. My aunt and uncle were not famous for their calm composure, if you catch my drift. Quite the opposite.

Thiago didn’t need Luc’s approval — nobles don’t ask permission to travel — but he did inform him out of respect. Luc nodded once, the kind of nod that meant he understood the gravity of what was coming.

Ana texted me from the plane:

“If I die, tell my mom I love her. And my dad.”

I texted back:

“If you die, it was probably your mom who did it and your dad helped. And then they’ll be coming for me. Hopefully I have enough time to kill Thiago for causing all this.”

She sent a heart emoji. And a baby emoji. And a ring emoji.

I nearly threw my phone.

The visit went exactly as expected — which is to say, catastrophically.

Ana didn’t sugarcoat it when she called me later.

“It was bad,” she said. “Like… nuclear bad.”

I didn’t say it, but I thought it: did we expect anything else?

Her mother, my Aunt Iris, didn’t say much at first. She just screamed — not out of anger, but out of fear. The kind of scream that comes from realizing your child’s life has just changed forever and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.

Her father, Uncle Jasper, lost his sense of humor. Didn’t crack any of his usual jokes. Didn’t get snarky. He just stared at Thiago with the cold, quiet fury of a man who had worked his whole life to give his daughter choices… only for her to choose the one thing he never wanted for her.

Her fifteen‑year‑old brother Tate was more than shocked.

Ana described it as: “He sounded like a TikTok comment section.”

But in the end… they accepted it. Thiago got the approval he wanted — or needed — from her parents to propose. Because what else could they do?

She was eighteen. No longer a minor. Pregnant. Living with him. He was a nobleman. He wanted to marry her. She had already dropped out of uni. And she clearly was head over heels in love with that man.

It was done. And couldn’t be cleanly undone. The only path was forward.

The Invitation

A week later, Luc and I were in the palace gardens when a footman approached with a sealed envelope.

Verdemarian wax. Thiago’s crest.

Luc cracked it open and read it silently, then handed it to me.

An invitation. To Verdemar. To attend the engagement party. Man, they moved fast.

Guests of honor.

His Serene Highness and his esteemed companion, the Marquise Palatine de Valfleur.

My stomach flipped.

Luc’s father and Geneviève were invited too. Philippe and Eloise as well. Several nobles.

This wasn’t just a party.

This was a presentation.

A formal introduction of Ana as the future Marchioness of Verdemar. The future Senhora Anastasia Mari Monteiro de Alvarenga.

I had to admit it had a ring to it. In a scary kind of way.

And Luc and I were expected to stand at the front.

Together.

Like a couple.

Even though officially, we still couldn’t be one. Unofficially we were practically married.

Verdemar wasn’t Bellacorde.

Bellacorde was royal. Verdemar was aristocratic.

Bellacorde was marble and gold, lavender and grapes. Verdemar was stone and sunlight and endless green.

Thiago’s estate was old — older than the palace — with ponds and lakes and fountains and balconies overlooking the sea.

Ana looked… happy.

Glowing. Nervous. But happy.

She spotted me and made a beeline across the courtyard.

“BRIONY!” she said — and then the tears came, fast and hot, not from fear but from sheer emotional overload.

I caught her as she threw her arms around me, her voice muffled against my shoulder.

“Don’t start,” she sniffed. “If you start, I’ll start again.”

I held her until she steadied — not shaking, not collapsing, just… full. Too full.

The Engagement Party

It was beautiful.

Lanterns strung across the garden. Music drifting through warm air. Flowers everywhere. Nobles in tailored suits and gowns. Luc in a dark suit that made it hard not to stare.

He stood beside or behind me the entire night.

Not touching. Not claiming. But present.

Like a shadow. Like a shield. Like a promise.

Thiago was the perfect host, composed, noble and charming. Ana cried again. Her parents cried. My mom cried. Brad didn’t cry, but he had his hands full keeping her and her twin sister — plus Uncle Jasper — calm(ish). All four of them swarmed me, fussing over my new title like I’d earned it through some heroic act.

The only thing I’d earned was another round of etiquette classes and a stack of reading on Bellacordian noble history.

Luc’s father and Geneviève arrived late — elegant, composed, warm. They greeted Ana with genuine kindness.

Philippe and Eloise appeared perfect — supportive, gracious, whispering jokes to keep me from spiraling. Eloise, however, was miserable. Bad case of morning sickness, but at night.

And Eloise wasn’t the only one suffering. Dominique — Philippe’s sister, the Viscountess Gauthier — arrived already queasy, pressing a handkerchief to her lips during introductions. And Contesse Anaïs d’Aubigny — Françoise’s new wife — looked one wrong breath away from disaster. Same reason.

Clementine stood beside all of them looking like a Victorian spinster at a fertility festival — everyone attached, most pregnant, and me standing there with the man she’d mentally pre‑assigned to herself.

Thiago began his speech in the center of the lantern‑lit garden, Ana at his side, glowing and trying her best to look serene.

And then it happened.

Ana’s smile faltered. Her eyes widened. She slapped a hand over her mouth, made a tiny strangled noise, and spun on her heel — sprinting straight into the nearest hedge to vomit into the hydrangeas.

That was the trigger.

Eloise gagged. Dominique gagged. Anaïs gagged. Even Léontine — nine months pregnant and usually unshakeable — made a horrified little sound and waddled off at surprising speed toward a potted lemon tree.

Within seconds, four pregnant noblewomen were scattering across the garden like startled, nauseous deer.

Thiago froze mid‑sentence, then attempted to continue as if nothing had happened. He was talking, technically. But every single eyeball in the garden was following the pregnant stampede.

And Luc?

Luc stood beside me, jaw tight, shoulders shaking — absolutely fighting for his life not to laugh. He nudged me when I snorted, shaking his head, eyes bright with suppressed hysteria.

He leaned in, voice low, breath warm against my ear.

“Do not laugh.”

Which, of course, made me choke on another snort.

Then, somewhere behind us, one of the pregnant noble ladies cursed out her husband for getting her into this mess — loudly, creatively, and very much not under her breath. It was French but even I understood that.

Luc lost it.

He grabbed my hand, muttered “viens,” and while everyone’s eyes were firmly on the disaster unfolding, nobody noticed him pulling me through a gap in the shrubs, out of the garden, and onto the quiet street beyond. We ran — actually ran — down the cobblestones until he dragged me into a shadowed alleyway where we both collapsed against the wall, laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.

When I finally managed to gasp air, I wheezed, “You still want heirs after that spectacle?”

He calmed just enough to look at me — eyes warm, mouth curved in that devious, sovereign way that always melted my spine. He pulled me close, kissed me slow and sure, and whispered against my ear:

“More than ever.”

Aftermath

We returned to Bellacorde late that night. Luc hadn’t even gone through the usual charade where he goes to his suite, I go to mine and later, when all calmed down, he’d sneak over. He just followed me here right away.

I kicked off my heels and collapsed on the bed.

Luc loosened his tie, sat beside me, and brushed my hair back.

“You did well,” he murmured.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You stood beside her. And beside me, proudly, elegantly, composed. A true Marquise. That is everything. The more often we are seen together, like this, the more of a statement it becomes. A united front.”

I liked the sound of that. Fully on board.

But after that day something in him had changed.

Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But I did.

He walked half a step closer. He touched my back when we entered rooms. He introduced me more deliberately in meetings. He watched me the way men watch things they intend to keep.

It wasn’t possessive in a bad way. It was… intentional. Claiming. Like he was quietly drawing a circle around me. He toed the line of breaking propriety and royal code several times. His father and Geneviève noticed and I know it was brought up to him.

After three days of this, I finally asked.

We were in his study — him reading reports, me pretending to read a book but actually watching him breathe — when I blurted:

“Luc… why are you acting differently?”

He looked up immediately. “Differently?”

“Like—” I gestured vaguely at him. “Like you’re… closer. More… I don’t know. Intense? You come to my room almost every night now, and if not, you sneak me into yours. I am not complaining, not one bit, I am living my best life here, but it’s just… different. Strange. Unlike you. You don’t make sudden changes. And while we both know you like to toe the line, you do not break code habitually.”

He set his papers aside, stood, and came to sit beside me on the sofa. Then he took my hands — both of them — and turned them palm‑up in his.

He didn’t speak at first. He just traced the length of my ring finger with his thumb, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

“Because I am watching another man do what I want to do. But my hands are tied.”

My breath caught.

He kept tracing my ring finger, eyes fixed on it.

“I want to propose to you,” he said softly. “Marry you. Make it official. Make us official. Promise myself and my life to you and hear you say the same to me. My kingdom, my heart, all of me and more. I am tired of the pretense. I want to claim you, publicly, and proclaim us. I want to introduce you as the woman at my side, not a ‘guest’. Elevating you helped, but it is not enough. It bothers me.”

My chest tightened painfully.

“Someone like me cannot make decisions impulsively,” he continued. “I wish we could simply do what they did, but I cannot. Not like this. Not in reaction to another couple’s choices. And not in a way that breaks decorum or the rules that govern my position.”

He exhaled softly, thumb still tracing my ring finger.

“There is no allowance for romantic notions in my world, Briony. No room for acting on matters of the heart simply because I feel them. Any mistake I make, for any reason, reflects badly on the entire House of Beaumont — past, present, and future. It might ruin what my father worked so hard to preserve. It might ruin Bellacorde. Bring shame. Everything I do must be done with care.”

His voice dropped, quiet but unflinching.

“I may hold much power, but also much responsibility. And I am not free to do as I wish. I am… a prisoner of my duties.”

Something inside me softened — not in pity, but in understanding. Real understanding. The kind that settles slowly, like dawn light creeping across a room.

For the first time, I saw the full picture: why he was always so composed, so maddeningly calm, even when he teased, even when he flirted, even when he let that warm, playful side slip through. It wasn’t detachment. It was discipline. A lifetime of carrying a weight I had only ever brushed the edges of.

And suddenly, I wanted — fiercely, instinctively — to make that weight lighter. To be the place where he didn’t have to be composed. To be the warmth he could come home to. To make his life softer, happier, more human… within the boundaries he could never escape.

I reached for him without thinking, my fingers brushing his wrist — a silent I see you. A silent I understand now. A silent you don’t have to carry all of it alone.

He lifted my hand and kissed the base of my finger — the exact place a ring would sit.

“When I ask you,” he murmured, “it must be perfect. It must be our moment. Not tied to anyone else’s crisis. And alas, I must wait until you are twenty‑one.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I didn’t say anything.

I just leaned into him — letting my forehead rest against his shoulder, letting him breathe against my hair — and then we kissed.

A kiss that tasted like promise, like patience, like the future he was trying so hard to build the right way.

And in that quiet, steady moment, I finally understood the truth of him: the weight he carried, the discipline beneath his calm, the duty stitched into every breath he took. Loving him meant stepping into that world with open eyes. And I found myself wanting to — more than I ever had before.