Coronation Day

Bellacorde, Domaine de Beauvigne
Royal Palace

The palace didn’t feel like a palace today.

It felt like a universe — humming, pulsing, holding its breath — as if every stone and corridor knew what was coming.

Luc hadn’t spent the night with me, and the absence hit harder than I expected. Before my elevation, nights together were rare, stolen things — a luxury, a treat, a secret. But afterward, it became our rhythm. Our normal. My room or his, it didn’t matter; we ended every day in the same bed, the same warmth, the same quiet certainty.

So waking up alone felt… wrong.

Cold. Bare. Lonely. Like a limb missing.

And falling asleep had been nearly impossible — not just because he wasn’t there, but because my nerves were a live wire under my skin. He’d already been sovereign for weeks, but today was different. Today the world would see it. Today the crown would touch his head. Today the cameras would capture every breath, every gesture, every glance.

And I would be somewhere in that frame.

Every time I closed my eyes, my mind replayed the same loop: the ceremony, the crowds, the balcony, the press, the expectations. Him. Me. Us. The weight of it all.

I tossed. I turned. I reached for him more than once before remembering he wasn’t there. The sheets felt too big. The room felt too quiet. My heartbeat felt too loud.

Tradition demanded the sovereign spend the night before the coronation in solitude, in ritual, in reflection.

Apparently, the woman he loved — even a Marquise Palatine — did not get to curl around him and steal his warmth while he prepared to face the world.

I hadn’t seen him since dinner the night before.

It felt like an eternity.

Eloise pulled my hand off the sleeve of my dress again. “Stop fidgeting. You look perfect. Absolutely beautiful. Luc might forget it’s his coronation, not your wedding, and accidentally try to marry you.”

We both giggled.

Then her eyes flicked up to my head — again.

“Are you sure about the tiara?” she whispered. “It’s… a lot.”

“It was Luc’s idea,” I muttered. “And by idea I mean he insisted.”

“Exactly,” she hissed. “Which means it’s probably against protocol, tradition, etiquette, and possibly going to give his poor father a heart attack — in the non‑medical sense, of course.” She winced. “That was tasteless. I forgot about his heart condition.”

I snorted, but she wasn’t wrong. The Beaumont tiara — his grandmother’s — wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t something a Marquise Palatine wore to a coronation unless the sovereign wanted to send a message.

And Luc absolutely wanted to send a message.

I wasn’t entirely clear on what message, but he was determined. The note he’d sent with the maid flurry that comes to help me get ready for big events had been unmistakable, and his instructions to them even more so. I was going to wear the tiara to his coronation because the sovereign damn well wanted me to, and that was the beginning and the end of it.

“It looks beautiful,” Eloise added quickly, “but Briony… people are going to stare.”

“When do they NOT stare at me? It’s Luc’s big day, yet I feel like I’m about to be fed to the nobles. Again,” I muttered.

She snorted. “Please. You’re sitting with Philippe and me, and your mum and Brad. Who could get through all of us to get to you? Nobody.”

A chamberlain approached, bowing with ceremonial precision.

“Her Excellency, the Marquise Palatine de Valfleur. Your Grace, the Duchess of Villeneuve. If you would follow me — it is time. All guests, including your family, have been seated.”

As we followed him, I felt the stares.

Not hostile — just sharp. Calculating. Curious.

Their eyes weren’t on my dress. They were on the tiara.

The Beaumont tiara.

A few nobles whispered behind gloved hands. One older duchess actually clutched her pearls. A Verdemari envoy blinked so hard I thought he might faint.

Eloise leaned in. “Told you. Heart attack inducing choice.”

My stomach flipped. “Oh boy.”

Breakfast with Mom and Brad had been casual but nervous — all of us pretending we weren’t terrified. They’d arrived late the night before, another storm delaying flights, and we’d barely had time to hug before everyone was swept into prep mode. Protocol briefings. Seating instructions. What to do. What not to do. How not to embarrass the realm.

Trust me, it’s an experience I wouldn’t sign up for.

And I couldn’t get a single bite down.

Mom kept pushing pastries toward me like carbs could solve coronation‑day nausea. Brad kept giving me that gentle doctor look — the one that said you’re fine, you’re just anxious — but even he didn’t try to force me to eat. My stomach was a tight, fluttering knot, half nerves, half the ache of waking up without Luc beside me.

I stirred my coffee more than I drank it. Picked at fruit I didn’t taste. Pretended I wasn’t vibrating out of my skin.

And then, because my brain hates me, it wandered straight into the future.

If I’m this much of a wreck today — and this isn’t even my day — what am I going to be like when it actually is?

The engagement party he wasn’t allowed to plan yet. The proposal he wasn’t allowed to make yet. The wedding that would be a national event. The crowds. The cameras. The expectations.

My stomach lurched so hard I had to put my coffee down.

Mom’s head snapped toward me instantly. “Sweetheart, are you okay? You look pale. Are you— you’re not…”

“No,” I said sharply. Too sharply. “No, Mom. I’m not pregnant.”

She blinked, wounded. “I didn’t say you were.”

“You were thinking it. And without getting too graphic at the breakfast table, let’s just say the last week reassured me that I am not pregnant and leave it at that.”

Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again — the universal Cameron/Cunningham tell of fine, maybe I was thinking it a little.

And of course — of course — that was the exact moment Brad slipped into doctor mode.

“Well,” he began gently, “technically, a recent cycle isn’t always a definitive—”

I whipped my head toward him so fast my ponytail nearly took flight.

“Brad,” I said, voice low and lethal, “I know you mean well, and you are a damn good doctor, but I literally just bought a new box of tampons two days ago because I needed it. I promise you, my uterus is not hiding any unexpected secrets.”

He froze.

Mom froze.

Then Brad cleared his throat and backpedaled like he’d been shoved down a ski slope. “Right. Yes. Of course. I overstepped. Forget I said anything.”

“No, you didn’t overstep,” I sighed. “I overreacted. I’m fine. And definitely not preggers. That’s all. I leave the pregnancy drama to my cousin. You will have to live vicariously through Ana for the time being.”

Two affected glances. Perfectly synchronized.

I took a shaky sip of coffee, trying to calm the adrenaline spike. “Look, my nerves aren’t the best right now, so can we please not add another accidental pregnancy plot twist? I told you about when I thought I was, and the other time when my French lesson went south and I accidentally proclaimed to Luc that I was. And now Ana’s pregnant and engaged, Eloise is pregnant, Luc’s sister is about to give birth any day, Philippe’s sister is about to have her first kid, and some noble lady just announced hers yesterday — I am wading through babies here. Everywhere I turn, someone is glowing or nauseous or knitting tiny socks. I just really do not want to hear that word right now.”

Mom nodded quickly. “Of course. Absolutely.”

Brad nodded too, very carefully, like any sudden movement might set me off again.

We were in one of the smaller private dining rooms — the royals ate separately this morning, tucked away in whatever ceremonial bubble they were required to inhabit before the coronation. So it was just the three of us, our coffee, and my spiraling thoughts.

If only Luc were here. He had this way of calming me down without even saying much. I never realized how much I leaned on him, how big a part of my life he had already become. So much so that I felt lost without him. And I always prided myself on being so independent.

And the knowledge that in a few hours, I’d be sitting in the Sovereign’s Guests section, trying not to throw up on international television.

Another thing I’d been terrified of — which mercifully resolved itself — was the fact that Luc insisted on inviting my entire family. Argh. Luckily, nobody except Mom and Brad accepted. Thank you, Jesus.

My dad refused to wear a suit. Amy refused to sit still for six hours, especially worrying about her baby back home. Beau just said “hell no.” Cody said “double hell no.” Savannah was too young. Grandpa Jack hates crowds and palaces. Izzy hates cameras and aristocrats.

And I probably don’t need to explain why my grandparents and the rest didn’t accept. Jasper and Iris might have come normally, but after Ana’s drama they decided to save whatever dignity they had left for — and I quote — “all this noble nonsense” when Ana’s wedding happens. They had just been here for the engagement party and were still pretty sour about everything, though a lot more civil than I expected. Truth be told, were it not for Luc’s big day, Thiago and Ana might’ve already gotten hitched, but it was considered rude to plan anything more elaborate than a simple birthday party near a royal coronation.

So my family was getting together in San Sequoia to watch all this on TV. Yup. I was going to be live. Hopefully just a quick camera pan over me — though with Briar Rose Cameron and Dr. Bradford Cunningham seated next to me, I wasn’t getting off easy.

But the rest of the rowdy bunch would be back home and somehow, knowing they were all together — staring at the TV, eating snacks, probably arguing about how a coronation should be done — made my chest ache in a good way. Dad and Beau would be there. It felt good. The closest thing to him being here.

All of that — the nerves, the spiraling, the what‑ifs and oh‑God‑whens — had been earlier. Breakfast. The walk over. The waiting. The hours of trying not to shake apart.

But here, in the hall, with the ceremony seconds from beginning—

Eloise nudged me sharply, snapping me back into the present. “Come on,” she whispered. “Before you faint. Again.”

I glared. Not funny.

We stepped into the hallway. The walk felt endless and too short at the same time. Finally, we entered the grand hall where the chamberlain escorted us— formally, correctly — to the front row of the Sovereign’s Guests section.

To my right, Mom and Brad smiled up at me, hands intertwined. To my left, Philippe held Eloise’s hand as she sat, the two of them sharing a soft smile.

My heart ached for the one who would hold my hand, but couldn’t right now.

I looked around at nobles glittering like a jewelry display. Foreign dignitaries shimmered in embroidered silks. Most I didn’t recognize, but then I saw King Maximilian of Henfordshire with his wife, Queen Aria‑Grace — my mom’s cousin — and their son Crown Prince William with his wife Wilhelmina. They all smiled politely with brief, dignified waves. I smiled back. I hardly knew them. Probably should get to know them better. Or would, once I had something to call me by other than “companion.” I hated that term so much now.

I caught sight of Thiago and Ana in the background. I’d talked to her earlier, but she was in full “my noble fiancé looks stupidly handsome in uniform” mode — adorable, but intense. They were already planning their wedding; normally noble weddings follow a whole checklist of protocol, but with the pregnancy and Thiago’s determination to secure his heir, everything was happening at double‑speed. Her parents were coordinating half of it from the other side of the world. I’d get pulled into that whirlwind eventually, I knew it. For now, protocol had scattered all of us into our assigned corners, each of us trying to survive our own version of sensory overload.

The air smelled faintly of incense and polished wood. And lavender. Always lavender. I inhaled and calmed.

Eloise whispered, pulling on my arm, “Briony, please sit already.”

I nodded and sat.

The music shifted — deeper, older, something that felt like it had been written when Bellacorde, Verdemar, and Dambele were still three kingdoms learning to breathe together.

The chamberlain’s voice rang out, amplified by the vaulted ceiling.

“All rise for His Serene Highness Prince Charles, Prince Father of the Triune Realm of Ondarion, and Her Serene Highness Princess Geneviève of Bellacorde.”

Everyone stood.

Charles entered first — no longer sovereign, but still carrying the quiet gravity of a man who had ruled three realms with steadiness and restraint. Geneviève walked beside him, serene and elegant, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

They passed by my row, and Geneviève gave me the smallest nod — warm, approving, almost maternal.

Charles’s eyes softened too, just a fraction — and then he saw the tiara.

A barely perceptible hitch. A blink that lasted half a heartbeat too long. A micro‑tightening of his jaw before he smoothed it away with sovereign discipline.

He did not stop. He did not falter. He did not react.

But he absolutely saw it.

Then the music swelled again.

“Her Highness Princess Léontine of Bellacorde — accompanied by her husband, Lord Henry Montfort‑Yates.”

Léontine entered next, radiant in pale gold, her husband at her side. Very pregnant, and glowing in that unfair, ethereal way only royal women and Instagram influencers seem capable of.

She caught my eye and winked.

I exhaled, tension easing.

Then the hall fell silent.

The chamberlain stepped forward again, voice ringing like a bell.

“His Serene Highness Luc Sébastien Beaumont, Sovereign Prince of Bellacorde and of the Triune Realm of Ondarion.”

The doors opened.

And Luc entered.

Not walking — processing. Slow, deliberate, ceremonial. Every step measured. Every movement steeped in centuries of tradition from all three realms.

He wore the deep navy and gold of Ondarion, the ceremonial sword at his hip, and across his chest the lavender‑and‑silver sash of House Beauvigne, embroidered with the Beaumont crest. His posture was perfect. His expression calm. His presence unmistakable.

God, he looked good.

He looked like a sovereign. A king, even though his title was Sovereign Prince — misleading, because it was a king in all but name.

And now he was about to be crowned.

And then — as if he felt me — he turned his head.

His eyes found mine instantly.

A small smile touched his mouth. He winked. I smiled back — couldn’t help it. I even blushed.

He was flanked by two guards in full dress uniform, their boots striking the marble in perfect unison. Behind him, attendants carried the regalia — the Crown of the Triune Realm, the Scepter of Bellacorde, the Orb of Ondarion — each on velvet cushions.

The nobles bowed. The foreign royals inclined their heads. Even the air seemed to bow.

I just stared.

Because holy hell.

That was my man. The same man who stole my snacks and kissed me senseless and teased me until I wanted to strangle him.

He reached the dais and turned to face the hall.

The High Prelate of Ondarion stepped forward — robes heavy with embroidery representing Bellacorde, Verdemar, and Dambele, voice deep and resonant.

“People of Bellacorde, Verdemar, and Dambele — do you recognize Luc Sébastien Beaumont as your rightful sovereign?”

The hall answered as one:

“We do.”

A shiver ran down my spine. This felt like a movie.

Luc didn’t look at them.

He looked at me.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then he knelt.

The High Prelate raised the ancient book of the Triune Realm’s laws.

“Do you swear to uphold the unity of the Triune Realm, to defend its people, to govern with justice, mercy, and wisdom?”

Luc’s voice was steady, strong, unmistakably royal.

“I swear it.”

The High Prelate dipped his fingers into the anointing oil — lavender‑scented, of course — and touched it to Luc’s forehead, his temples, his hands.

“Be anointed and blessed, Luc Sébastien Beaumont, that you may rule with honor and grace.”

Luc bowed his head.

The High Prelate lifted the crown — silver and gold, set with amethyst and pearl, the crest of House Beaumont engraved at its base.

“With the authority vested in me by the laws and traditions of the Triune Realm, I crown you Sovereign Prince.”

He lowered the crown onto Luc’s head.

My breath caught. Wow. Just wow.

Luc rose.

The High Prelate handed him the scepter and the orb, representing the unity of Bellacorde, Verdemar, and Dambele.

Luc turned to face the hall.

The chamberlain’s voice thundered:

“I present to you His Serene Highness, Luc Sébastien Beaumont, Sovereign Prince of Bellacorde and of the Triune Realm of Ondarion.”

The hall erupted in applause.

Not polite applause.

Thunder.

The applause softened as the High Prelate lifted his staff.

“Let the realms offer homage to their sovereign. Please bow to your sovereign.”

This was the moment — the Homage of the Realms. The part where the nobles of Bellacorde, Verdemar, and Dambele knelt and pledged loyalty to Luc and the House of Beaumont.

Everyone shifted, preparing to kneel and bow.

Everyone except me and those in my row — not because of rank, but because the Sovereign’s Guests do not participate in the Homage. We remain seated during the oath and anointing, separate from the nobles who kneel. It felt wrong, somehow — like I should be bowing with them — but protocol held me still.

Because the man I loved had just become the sovereign of three realms. Officially. He already had been. But now it was so very real.

Luc stood tall, crown gleaming, scepter in hand as he ascended to the throne.

He sat.

He was supposed to look straight ahead. He was supposed to remain neutral. He was supposed to wait for the nobles.

And he did.

Until he didn’t.

Luc’s head turned.

To me.

Directly. Deliberately. Unmistakably.

My breath caught.

The entire hall seemed to freeze — nobles half‑bowed, foreign royals mid‑movement, the High Prelate blinking like he wasn’t sure he’d seen what he’d seen.

Luc held my gaze — steady, warm, sovereign — and for a heartbeat the entire Triune Realm disappeared.

It was just us.

Then, with the smallest incline of his head — a gesture no sovereign had ever made to a Marquise Palatine during homage — he acknowledged me.

A bow.

Not deep. Not formal. But real.

A bow of respect. A bow of affection. A bow of intention.

The nobles gasped. I heard it ripple through the hall like wind through leaves.

Philippe whispered, “Oh, he’s insane.” Eloise whispered, “No, he’s perfect.”

And I—

I felt my heart break open.

Because that was my man. My sovereign. And he had just told the entire Triune Realm exactly who held his heart.

Without saying a word. Without breaking a rule — just bending them. Without crossing a line.

But absolutely, undeniably, claiming me.

Luc turned back to the hall, expression composed, as if he hadn’t just detonated a political bomb with a single glance.

The homage began.

But all I could feel was the echo of that moment — the weight of it, the certainty of it, the promise in it.

The applause softened as the High Prelate stepped aside, signaling the beginning of the Presentation of the Royal Family — the moment the photographers captured the first official images of the new sovereign with his family.

Luc stepped forward to the center of the dais. Charles and Geneviève moved to flank him. Léontine and her husband took their places beside them.

The photographers lifted their cameras.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

Luc stood still for exactly three shots.

Then he lifted a hand.

The photographers froze.

The hall froze.

Charles froze.

Luc turned his head — not toward the nobles, not toward the Prelate, not toward the cameras.

Toward me.

And then he did it.

A gesture so small, so controlled, so sovereign it made my breath catch.

He lifted two fingers — the barest flick of his hand — a gesture that wasn’t a wave, wasn’t a beckon, but something in between. A private signal dressed up as royal composure.

A gesture that said:

You. Come here.

Heat shot up my neck so fast I thought I might actually combust. My ears burned. My chest tightened. My entire body went hot in a way that had nothing to do with the lights or the crowd or the coronation.

I was having a royal‑induced hot flash.

“Briony,” he said softly, but the hall was so silent it carried like a command.

My heart stopped.

I pointed at myself like an idiot.

Eloise hissed, “Oh my God, he means you. Go!”

Philippe leaned in just enough for only us to hear, eyes wide with horrified admiration.

“Il est complètement fou… mais alors complètement.” (He’s completely insane… utterly.)

Then, with a tiny shake of his head and a smirk:

“Va, avant qu’il ne fasse pire.” (Go, before he does something even worse.)

On my other side, Mom gasp‑whispered, “Oh my God, Briony!” clutching my arm with both hands. “He’s calling you up there! Go! Go, go, go, go, GO!”

Brad placed a steadying hand on her wrist before she could physically shove me into the aisle.

“Bri,” he murmured, calm as a surgeon, “shhhhhh.”

He gave me a small, reassuring nod — the kind that said you got this, kiddo — while simultaneously keeping a gentle but firm grip on my mother, who looked one heartbeat away from taking off like a bottle rocket.

And then Luc lifted his hand again — that subtle, sovereign two‑finger gesture — and heat shot through me so fast I thought I might actually faint.

A royal‑induced hot flash. Oh God, this was really happening. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. And the cameras. Video and the ones flashing in my face.

Gulp.

A chamberlain stepped forward and offered his arm.

“Madame la Marquise, if you please.”

I rose on instinct more than thought. My legs carried me forward even as my brain screamed what are you doing what are you doing what are you doing—

He escorted me to the steps of the dais.

Luc extended his hand.

I stared at it. At him. At the entire Triune Realm watching.

Then I placed my hand in his.

He pulled me gently up the last step and positioned me just behind his right shoulder — the place reserved for a consort‑in‑waiting — like it was the most natural thing in the world.

A collective gasp rippled through the hall.

Charles inhaled sharply, scandalized. Geneviève’s lips curved into the softest, most knowing smile. Léontine looked delighted. The nobles looked like they might faint.

Luc looked at the photographers.

“Again,” he said.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

A photo that would be on every front page tomorrow:

The new sovereign with the woman he loved.

Yup, Briony Rose Cameron — a Marquise Palatine. Not yet his consort. Not yet formally acknowledged. But definitely there.

Unmistakable to anyone with eyes.

Luc’s hand brushed mine — subtle, hidden, intentional.

And I knew, with absolute clarity:

He wasn’t just bending tradition.

He was choosing me out loud in a place and at a time that would let everyone see it.

The applause swelled again as the photographers called for one last shot. Luc held still for it — one perfect, sovereign moment — then stepped back, the spell breaking as chamberlains moved in around him.

“Your Highness, the receiving line,” one murmured.

And just like that, he was swept into the tide of nobles and foreign royals waiting to offer their congratulations. Charles and Geneviève followed, then Léontine and Henry, all guided toward the formal greetings that came after every coronation.

I stepped aside — not far, just enough to breathe — letting the royal family move past while the hall shifted back into motion. My pulse was still racing. My hands were still shaking. My face was still hot from the way he’d looked at me, touched me, chosen me in front of everyone.

The royal family disappeared behind a velvet partition, escorted toward whatever ceremonial thing came next — signatures, blessings, private congratulations, the final preparations before the balcony.

I stood there, trying to steady myself, trying to remember how to exist in my own body.

And then—

The applause was still fading when a chamberlain approached our row and bowed.

“Her Excellency, the Marquise Palatine de Valfleur — His Serene Highness requests your presence on the balcony. Madame Cameron, Dr. Cunningham, you may accompany her.”

My heart lurched.

Me? On the balcony? With my Mom and Brad? Wait – what?!

Mom squeezed my arm. “Go, sweetheart.”

Brad nodded, steady and warm. “We’re right behind you. Go, go, go.”

My legs were already shaking as the chamberlain led us through a side corridor and up a short flight of marble steps. The roar of the crowd outside was unbelievable — thunderous, rhythmic, electric. I felt like I had accidentally walked on stage during one of Mom’s concerts.

We stepped into a small antechamber behind the balcony doors.

Luc stood near the threshold, crown gleaming, scepter in hand, the orb held by an attendant. Charles and Geneviève flanked him. Léontine and her husband stood just behind, radiant and very pregnant.

Luc’s eyes found me instantly.

And he smiled — small, private, meant only for me.

The chamberlain opened the balcony doors.

The sound hit like a wave.

Cheers. Shouts. Lavender petals thrown into the air. Flags of Bellacorde, Verdemar, and Dambele rippling in the wind.

Luc stepped out first.

The crowd roared.

Charles and Geneviève followed. Léontine and her husband stepped out next.

Then the chamberlain gestured to me.

I stepped forward, Mom and Brad right behind me.

The crowd didn’t roar for me — but they reacted. A ripple. A murmur. A wave of recognition.

That’s her. The Marquise. The one he bowed to. The one he pulled onto the dais.

Luc didn’t look at the crowd.

He looked at me.

And then — in front of the entire Triune Realm — he extended his hand.

Not to pull me forward. Not to bring me beside him. Just to let me stand close enough that the world could see I mattered.

I took his hand.

The crowd erupted again.

Charles stiffened. Geneviève smiled like she’d been waiting for this. Léontine looked delighted. Mom cried. Brad beamed.

Luc lifted his free hand and waved to the people.

I stood beside him — not touching, not claiming, not breaking protocol — but undeniably present.

And for a moment, the world felt impossibly big and impossibly right.

The Procession

Bellacorde

After the balcony appearance, Luc was escorted to the State Carriage — a deep navy and gold masterpiece pulled by six white horses. Cromwellers, if I wasn’t mistaken, which were bred only and directly by the royal House of Cromwell in Henfordshire. Interesting. The crest of the Beaumonts gleamed on the doors.

A footman opened the door and bowed.

“Madame la Marquise.”

Luc turned — not to Charles, not to Geneviève, not to the nobles.

To me.

“Briony,” he said softly, with that sovereign edge that meant this is not a request.

My breath caught. Mom squeezed my hand. Brad whispered, “Go.”

I stepped forward.

Luc extended his hand to help me into the carriage — in front of the entire Triune Realm — and the crowd reacted instantly.

A ripple. A murmur. A wave of excitement.

Behind us, the Second Carriage waited for Charles and Geneviève.

Léontine came over to me. She moved slowly — one hand on her lower back, the other on her very round belly — but her eyes were bright.

She leaned in close, her voice warm and conspiratorial. “Have fun,” she whispered. “Enjoy this. Most people never get to experience something like this in their entire lives.”

“Aren’t you and Henry coming?” I asked, surprised.

She laughed softly, breathlessly. “Briony, I’ve been on my feet far too long already. I’m too pregnant to be jostled through Bellacorde in a carriage. Henry’s staying with me. We’ll watch from the palace — from a sofa, ideally, with my feet up and a very large glass of lavender-lemonade.”

She kissed my cheek, muttered something about swollen ankles and the cruelty of royal footwear, and waddled off with Henry hovering protectively behind her.

And then it was time.

I settled onto the velvet seat beside Luc, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my fingertips.

Luc’s knee brushed mine — subtle, deliberate — and he gave me a small, private smile that made my stomach flip.

We had exactly three seconds of peace.

Then Charles appeared at the carriage door.

He leaned in, expression tight, voice low and rapid‑fire French:

“Luc, mon Dieu, qu’est‑ce que tu fais? Toute la presse du royaume est là. Tu viens de créer un scandale monumental.” (Luc, my God, what are you doing? The entire press of the realm is here. You’ve just created a monumental scandal.)

Luc didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even pretend to be sorry.

He simply replied, calm and unbothered:

“C’est trop tard, père. Ils l’ont déjà vue.” (It’s too late, Father. They’ve already seen her.)

Charles stared at him like he wanted to throttle him. Then his gaze hit the tiara.

His nostrils flared.

“Luc,” he snapped in French, “tu l’as laissée porter ça?” (You let her wear that?)

Luc didn’t even blink. “Oui.” (Yes.)

Charles looked like he might spontaneously combust. “C’est le diadème de ta grand‑mère. Il est réservé aux princesses consorts.” (That is your grandmother’s tiara. It is reserved for princess consorts.)

Luc’s voice was calm, almost bored. “Alors il est bien placé.” (Then it is well placed.)

Charles made a strangled noise that might have been a prayer or a curse.

Geneviève murmured, “Charles… breathe.”

Charles exhaled sharply, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like bon sang, then flicked two fingers toward the footman with the imperious precision of a man who had ruled three realms for decades.

« Faites‑les partir. Tout de suite. » (Get them out of here. Immediately.)

The footman jolted, bowed, and closed the carriage door at once.

Luc turned to me, utterly unbothered.

“Ready?” he asked softly.

I swallowed. “For what?”

He smiled — that slow, devastating smile that made my knees weak even when I was sitting.

“For us to present ourselves.”

The carriage lurched forward.

Lavender petals fell like snow. Children waved flags. People shouted his name.

Luc waved — regal, composed, sovereign.

And this time, he didn’t need to look toward the stands.

Because I was right beside him.

Procession

Train to Verdemar

The royal train waited at the edge of the Bellacorde station — sleek, silver, humming with quiet power. Luc helped me down from the carriage, his hand warm around mine, and we were escorted to the Sovereign’s Compartment.

I barely had time to sit before the door slid open again.

Charles entered.

Not gracefully. Not serenely…

“Luc,” he said sharply, in French, “je ne suis pas encore remis de ce que tu viens de faire.” (I am not yet recovered from what you just did.)

Luc didn’t even look up from removing his gloves. “Bonjour à toi aussi, père.” (Good afternoon to you too, Father.)

Charles ignored that. He pointed at me next.

“Et le diadème?” he demanded. (And the tiara?) “Tu veux déclencher une crise diplomatique avant même d’arriver à Verdemar?” (Do you want to trigger a diplomatic crisis before we even arrive in Verdemar?)

Luc didn’t look up. “Elle le porte parce que je le veux.” (She wears it because I want her to.)

Charles threw his hands up. “Tu veux la marier demain, c’est ça?” (You want to marry her tomorrow, is that it?)

Luc shrugged. “Si c’était possible.” (If it were possible.)

Charles ignored that. He turned to the attendant.

“Un verre,” he ordered. “Fort.” (A drink. Strong.)

The attendant hurried.

Charles sank into the seat across from us with the dramatic exhaustion of a man who had survived a war.

He pointed at Luc.

“Do you remember,” he began, “why I chose to step down before you were married and had an heir?”

Luc sighed. “Here we go.”

“I stepped down,” Charles continued, voice rising, “because of my heart. Because your mother — Geneviève — decided this position was too stressful for me.”

He thumped his chest.

“Too stressful!”

Luc’s mouth twitched. “Yes, I recall.”

“Well,” Charles said, accepting the drink the attendant handed him, “it turns out it is even more stressful to let you handle this.”

He took a long, suffering sip.

I tried not to laugh. Failed.

Charles heard it and pointed at me too.

“And you, Madame la Marquise — you are lovely, and I adore you, but you are going to be the death of me.”

My eyes widened. “Me?! What did I do?”

“You exist,” Charles said dramatically. “And my son has lost his mind because of that fact. I know it is not your fault, but you are the cause of it all.”

Luc finally looked up, calm as ever.

“Father,” he said, “I did not create the rules we are held to. I do not like the rules we are held to. And considering how much time Briony and I have spent together over the past two years, I am confident in saying we do not need to wait to proclaim her as my future.”

Charles blinked.

Luc continued, voice steady:

“It is better they know now.”

Charles stared at him. Then at me. Then at his drink.

He took another long sip.

“Mon Dieu,” he muttered. “I raised a revolutionary.”

Luc smirked. “You raised a man who knows what he wants.”

Charles groaned into his hands. “You raised my blood pressure.”

The door slid open again.

Geneviève stepped in, serene as a saint.

“Charles,” she said gently, “here you are. Are you harassing your son?”

“I am educating him,” Charles snapped.

Geneviève kissed his cheek. “You are being dramatic.”

“I am being realistic,” Charles insisted. “He is going to give me a heart attack.”

Geneviève looked at Luc. “He… is in love. Let him be. It’s what you wanted.”

Luc shrugged. “Yes, there you have it, father. I acknowledged the woman I love.”

Geneviève smiled warmly at me.

Charles threw his hands up. “Why am I the only one panicking?!”

Geneviève smiled. “My question exactly. Why, darling? I thought it was rather… sweet. And think of your heart, dear.”

Luc leaned back, utterly unbothered, his knee brushing mine again.

Charles took another sip of his drink and muttered, “Bon sang… I need a vacation.”

Geneviève rubbed his back. “You retired, darling. We can go on vacation.”

“Yes,” Charles said, glaring at Luc, “and somehow it is more stressful. I have to wonder what we would return home to. Sodom and Gomorrah.”

Luc smiled — soft, smug, victorious.

And Charles, despite himself, smiled back.

“Fine,” he said, defeated. “But next time you plan to upend centuries of protocol, warn me.”

Luc shrugged. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Charles groaned.

Geneviève laughed.

And I sat there, in the middle of the royal family, realizing:

I loved it.

The journey to Verdemar had felt unreal — like something out of a documentary I wasn’t supposed to be in. The royal train slid through the countryside in that smooth, impossibly quiet way it had, the windows filled with rolling green hills and bursts of wildflowers, the air growing warmer and salt‑tinged the closer we got to the coast. Lunch on the royal train had been a blur — delicate little courses I barely tasted while the countryside unfurled outside the windows. The closer we got to the coast, the more the air changed: warmer, salt‑kissed, carrying that faint citrus‑and‑ocean scent Verdemar was famous for.

When we finally pulled into the station, the platform was already overflowing. Flags. Flowers. Children on shoulders. People cheering in that bright, wholehearted way Verdemar always seemed to do.

A vintage open‑top carriage waited for us — deep green lacquer, polished brass, sun glinting off every edge. Luc and I were seated on one side; Charles and Geneviève directly across from us, perfectly composed, perfectly regal, perfectly supervising.

As the carriage rolled through the winding streets, balconies draped in sea‑glass colors, the crowd roared. Luc leaned slightly toward me, his knee brushing mine, and without thinking, his hand found mine under the edge of my skirt.

Warm. Steady. Claiming.

I felt my breath catch.

And then—

thwack.

Charles, without even looking up from his dignified wave, tapped our joined hands with the end of his ceremonial baton — a polished ebony thing with a silver crest on top, the kind of object designed specifically for royal scolding.

“Décorum,” he murmured, eyes still on the crowd.

Luc didn’t let go.

Charles tapped again, harder.

Luc sighed, released my hand, then immediately rested his knee against mine instead — subtle, defiant, impossible to police.

Geneviève hid a smile behind her hand.

The whole procession had been like that: sun‑washed, overwhelming, beautiful, terrifying, and threaded with the quiet, stubborn ways Luc kept choosing me even when he wasn’t supposed to.

Procession

Ferry to Dambele

The ferry cut through glittering water as Dambele rose on the horizon — warm terracotta, sun‑baked stone, bright fabrics rippling from balconies, music drifting across the harbor like the city itself was singing.

Charles stood at the rail beside Geneviève, arms crossed, still muttering under his breath in French about “protocol” and “stress” and “my heart, mon Dieu.”

Luc leaned close to me. “He’ll calm down.”

“He said I’ll be the death of him,” I whispered.

Luc smirked. “He says that about everyone he loves.”

Before I could answer, the ferry horn sounded and the crowd on the docks erupted — loud, joyful, vibrant. Drums. Strings. Voices. A sea of color and movement.

Luc straightened, crown catching the sun.

Charles fell silent.

The gangway lowered.

Luc stepped forward first, sovereign and steady.

I followed one step behind, exactly where the chamberlain had instructed me to stand — close enough to be acknowledged, far enough not to break protocol.

Charles and Geneviève descended after us. Léontine and Henry followed, Léontine glowing and clutching Henry’s arm as the drums intensified.

The moment Luc’s foot touched the dock, the crowd roared.

“Beaumont! Beaumont! Beaumont!”

Luc lifted a hand in greeting and switched seamlessly into Dambelan — deep, rhythmic, powerful, occasionally slipping into French, which I had been told was the second national language here.

The crowd surged with pride.

Then Luc turned to me, took my hand, and pulled me gently to stand beside him. He raised our hands together.

The crowd exploded.

I had no idea why.

He leaned in, breath warm against my ear, and whispered the line he wanted me to call out:

“Nḥebkum bz‑zāf!” I love you all so much!

I trusted him — and my ability to parrot back a short, very foreign‑sounding line.

I lifted my chin and repeated it.

The crowd roared so loudly the dock vibrated beneath my feet.

Luc winked at me, released my hand, and continued his speech in Dambelan.

I stood there, trying to process everything.

I felt Charles stiffen beside me.

Not with disapproval.

With realization.

He looked at Luc — really looked — as his son spoke to the people of Dambele in their own language, with their own cadence, with a warmth that wasn’t performative.

And then Charles looked at me.

His expression softened.

“My son is not me,” Charles said quietly. “He is a leader in his own right — a modern one — and he has to do things his way. Are they wrong, are they right? Only time will tell. But he knows how to reach the people in their own ways.”

Geneviève smiled knowingly, slipping her hand into Charles’.

Luc turned then, eyes finding mine instantly, and the smile he gave me was soft and sure — the kind that said I told you he’d come around.

The drums swelled. The crowd cheered. The sun hit the harbor in a blaze of gold.

And for the first time, I felt it:

Not just belonging.

Becoming.