I used to think the wedding day would be the part that lived in my bones forever — the cathedral, the veil, the panic attack, Luc abandoning the altar like a man possessed. And yes, all of that is still burned into my memory like someone etched it into my ribs with a hot needle. But what surprised me was how much of the after stayed with me too.

The wedding night, for example.

No, not that.

I mean, yes, some of that too, but that’s not what I’m going to talk about here.

Everyone always describes the wedding night like it’s some mystical, cinematic moment — rose petals, candlelight, violins, the whole thing. Ours… well.

Let’s just say it was very us.

I remember standing in the royal marital apartments for the first time — I had to give up my sweet suite and Luc his so we could unite in one new one — staring at the enormous bed like it was a diplomatic summit I hadn’t studied for.

Luc was behind me, undoing the top button of his collar with that quiet, elegant precision he has, and I was trying not to hyperventilate as he started on the million buttons of my wedding gown.

Yes, we had been intimate before, but here, on our wedding night, it meant something different. It gave me stage fright for some reason. Maybe because before tonight there had been an element of sneaking to each other’s suites, while tonight the entire world knew exactly what we would be doing.

And then — because the universe has a sense of humor — the fire alarm went off.

Apparently one of the footmen had lit too many candles in the hallway. Smoke. Bells. Guards running. Luc and I standing there like two idiots in half‑undone formal wear while the palace evacuated half the wing.

Protocol required everyone to leave the palace, and of course, after one loud clap of thunder, a torrential downpour soaked all of us before we could make it back inside. A servant brought an umbrella for Luc and me, but a strong gust of wind turned it inside out and tore it.

By the time we finally got back inside, dripping wet, the moment was gone — replaced by laughter and exhaustion and the kind of relief that makes you lean into someone and breathe them in like oxygen.

We took a hot bath together instead, drinking champagne and feeding each other strawberries.

It wasn’t perfect. It was ours.

Honeymoon Honorable Mentions

And the honeymoon… God. The honeymoon.

Luc had planned everything — a quiet island, no staff except a skeleton crew, no meetings, no protocol, no cameras. Just us. And for the first time since I’d met him, I saw him without the weight of Bellacorde on his shoulders.

He was… young.

Not the Sovereign Prince. Not the heir. Not the man who carried centuries of expectation in his posture. Not the man who had to decide political matters before most people had even brushed their teeth.

He was just a young man on his honeymoon.

Just Luc. My husband. That still sounded so utopian.

We had so much fun doing nothing and everything.

Sleeping late. Breakfast in bed or on the terrace in a warm breeze. Exploring. Suntanning on a yacht. Bathing — and other things — in waterfalls. Barefoot walks in the sand, holding hands. Swimming with dolphins. Scuba diving. Staying up late for no reason at all.

Watching him did something to me. Laughing in the sun, hair messy from the wind, speaking in that sexy French accent so lazily it sounded like honey melting. I definitely melted.

We had our share of disasters, of course.

A seagull stole his yacht keys one morning, stranding us on the high seas until afternoon. I tripped on a dock and nearly fell into the water — very unroyally. Luc and I tried to cook once — once — a little midnight omelet snack, and set off the rental villa’s smoke alarm.

And then there was the crab incident.

I was sitting on the beach when a damn crab crawled into my bikini bottom and scared the living daylights out of me — and Luc — and the security team stationed at a respectful distance. I jumped up, screaming and screeching, hand down the back of my pants, until Luc finally figured out what was happening and stuck HIS hand down my pants to retrieve the crab now firmly attached to his thumb.

When we finally got it off — “carefully, do not hurt it,” per Luc’s royal decree — I tossed it into the sand and a seagull swooped down and grabbed it.

We were stunned and speechless.

But it was perfect. And it was fleeting.

Graduation & Crown

Because eventually the plane touched down in Bellacorde again, and the air shifted. The crown settled back onto his shoulders – and on mine. The schedule returned. The meetings. The calls. The briefings. The expectations.

And I… well. I had finals. University was coming to an end – with a vengeance.

Nothing humbles a newlywed Sovereign Princess faster than a stack of business management and administration exams.

I studied in palace corridors, in cars between events, in Luc’s office while he worked, in bed with flashcards spread across the duvet.
I cried twice. Maybe three times.

Not overall. In each location.

Okay, maybe more, but the times on the phone with mom didn’t count.
The ones on the phone with Brad didn’t either.
The ones under the shower didn’t count either, as it was wet and nobody can prove I was actually crying then.

Luc brought me pastries and whispered encouragement in French that made me want to marry him all over again. He was very helpful when my brain locked up and I couldn’t even recall my own name.

That actually happened.
I had to fill out something and couldn’t remember my name. I don’t mean my new last name. Any of it. Not Briony, not Rose, not my old last name or the new one. Not my birthday either.

But I passed.
Fairly well, actually.

Mom and Brad were there at graduation, crying and proud like I’d just cured cancer. Dad, Amy, and Beau were late — of course — and missed the ceremony entirely. Mom and Dad immediately started arguing about whose fault it was until Brad and Amy tag‑teamed them into silence like seasoned diplomats.

And then… the duties began.

Charles hadn’t been exaggerating when he said they’d been “taking it easy on me” while I was studying. The moment my finals were done, the training wheels came off.

Meetings. Briefings. Ceremonies. Protocols. Lessons. Appearances. Endless, endless etiquette.

I don’t know how Luc makes it look so effortless. He moves through it like water, calm and steady and inevitable. I, on the other hand, spent the first few months sweating through silk.

There was a stark difference of what was expected, my duties as Sovereign Prince’s consort or fiancée versus being his wife, the Sovereign Princess.

But I adjusted. Slowly. Painfully. But I did.

The first year just flew by.
And while I felt guilty about having only been to see Dad’s twins with Amy only once, barely met cousin Chris’ first baby with Cadie and she was already pregnant again, and went to the 3rd birthday party of Brad’s twin grandbabies by his late son Graham … three years ago that Graham died? Seriously? I sometimes felt I had been in a coma and lost some years somewhere which I was now trying to work up.

And then it suddenly was two years.
No longer newlyweds, practically an old couple with actual routines.
Not bad, I mean that in a positive way. Like I never had with any other man, other than family of course.

But Luc and I were like a well-oiled machine, while still being able to laugh together and at each other. We still had fun. In between duties.

Palace routine was going better for me now, things made sense and I didn’t get discombobulated so easily. We were talked about as the new dream couple, royal edition, much like King Max and Queen AG once were. Those two had retired by now, and their son William was king now.

By now it had been over a decade and a half that mom and dad divorced for the final time.
Both still happy with their spouses after the Jackson and Briar Rose era, like it was always meant to be this way.

Strange really, how sometimes things just are not what you thought they should be. I know my twin brother Beau always had his feelings on all of this, but me, I always had hoped that mom and dad would get back together one final time, third time’s a charm.
Weird, as I LOVED Brad, mom husband. I totally shipped them. They were so cute and Brad had been such a lifesaver during finals.

Looking at Luc, and despite the fact that I was twenty-four now, still felt like a kid sometimes — playing dress‑up in tiaras and silk gowns, pretending I knew what I was doing. But life had a way of reminding me that pretending only worked for so long.

The Talk

A few weeks later, I started feeling… off.

Geneviève noticed first.

“Ma chérie, are you quite well?” she asked over breakfast, her tone gentle but sharp enough to cut marble.

“Fine,” I said. “Just a bit… iffy.”

Luc waved a hand. “Just the constant travels. We hardly know which city we are in these days.”

Charles looked between us. “You are at Domaine Beaumont in Bellacorde, my son. I trust you can remember that. And while we applaud your… enthusiasm for succession planning, a measure of discretion would not go amiss.”

Luc stiffened. I blinked. Geneviève set down her teacup very slowly, as if preparing for impact.

Charles exhaled, long‑suffering.

“Imagine my dismay when the rustling in the ornamental shrubs beneath our bedroom window turned out not to be a feral cat, but our feral Sovereign and his wife. I prepared myself for wildlife. I was not prepared for you two. Mon dieu.”

Luc made a strangled noise. I choked on air.

Charles continued, relentless.

“This palace has three hundred and twenty‑five rooms — half of them bedrooms — and half of those sit empty. One might reasonably expect you to locate a suitable indoor location when your own suite apparently no longer suffices. Three hundred and twenty‑five rooms, Luc. Three hundred and twenty‑five. And yet somehow you selected the hydrangea beds.”

Luc’s ears turned scarlet. “Père… s’il te plaît…”

I buried my face in my hands. “Oh my God. Oh my God. We were not— I mean we were— but we didn’t— I thought that was a private— Luc, why didn’t you check—?!”

Luc hissed under his breath, “Je ne savais pas qu’ils étaient chez eux ce soir‑là! I didn’t know they would be home.”

“That is not helping!” I whispered back.

Geneviève cleared her throat delicately. “For future reference, ma chérie… the gardens are not as secluded as you imagine. I strongly suggest using them for their decorative qualities only.”

I whimpered.

Luc groaned into his palms. “C’est une catastrophe…”

Charles folded his napkin with the dignity of a man who has seen too much. “Indeed.”

“Pardon, père. Nous… euh… ne recommencerons pas.” Luc muttered, defeated.

Luc died inside. I died with him.

And then — because my body has a flair for dramatic irony — I gagged, slapped both hands over my mouth, and Luc froze like someone had unplugged him. He grabbed the nearest ice bucket, dumped it out in front of his horrified parents, and held it under my face just in time for me to throw up into it.

The room went silent.

I apologized, mortified, and bolted.

Luc followed a moment later, murmuring something about “delayed travel sickness” under Charles’s unimpressed stare.

Tested

At a statue unveiling, of all things I landed a repeat performance. I was so nervous, my first time on stage all by myself, not joining Luc.
I was supposed to give an uplifting, inspiring speech. I practiced in the mirror until I felt good about it — and then halfway through, my stomach staged a coup. I barely made it offstage before sprinting to the nearest bathroom.

Luc abandoned protocol — again — and followed me inside.

He held my hair. He rubbed my back. He murmured soft French that made the nausea feel less humiliating.

When it finally passed, we stared at each other.
Evidently, we both through the same terrifying thing.

“No,” I said.

“Non,” he agreed. “C’est impossible. N’est‑ce pas?”

“Right. Of course. Totally impossible. Obviously.”

“Évidemment.”

We both nodded. Neither of us believed a word of it.

And denial didn’t last long. On the way back to the palace, the motorcade had to pull over in a screeching‑tire emergency so I could hurl into someone’s beautifully groomed bushes in a very unladylike manner.

That night, after his meetings, Luc came into our chambers holding a paper bag.

“Promise me you won’t get upset with me,” he said.

“Luc…” I warned.

He handed it to me.

Inside: a pregnancy test.

“Seriously?” I groaned, deflating like a punctured balloon.

“Mais oui. It cannot hurt.”

I glared. He smiled. I placed it on the dresser like it was a cursed artifact.

Later, when I was about to go to the bathroom, he stopped me, kissed me, and pressed the bag into my hand.

“Courage, mon cœur.”

I glared again. Then shut the door, locked it, and tossed the bag onto the counter.

Half an hour later, I still hadn’t come out.

I was sitting on the floor, glaring at the test as if it were the origin of everything that had ever and would ever go wrong in my life.

He knocked. “Briony?”

“No.”

“Mon cœur, unlock the door.”

“No.”

“Briony… s’il te plaît.”

I crawled over, turned the key, and retreated to my spot like a feral cat.

Luc came in. He looked at the counter — test unwrapped but unused, instructions spread out like a crime scene — then at me, looking like a woman awaiting her own execution.

“I can’t do it,” I whispered. “I’m scared.”

“Don’t be. It’s just a test. Whatever it says, we will be fine. You are stronger than this.”

He left. I had to pee so badly I finally gave in and did it.

When it was done, I called him back in.

“So?” he asked.

“I did it.”

“And?”

I held up my phone, timer counting down.

He wrapped his arms around me and just held me. We both winced when the timer chimed.

“I can’t. You look.”

I handed him the test.

He inhaled. Looked away.

We both tried to look. We both failed.

Finally, we decided we needed courage.

Liquid courage.

We snuck down to the wine cellar and drank until we couldn’t drink anymore — Beaumont champagne, from the palace vineyards — which, in hindsight, was possibly the stupidest thing we could have done if the test was positive.

Then we stumbled back upstairs, stood together, counted to three, and looked.

And screamed.

Loudly.

No, don’t look at me. We BOTH screamed. Like stuck pigs. And it echoed.

The entire palace came running — guards, staff, advisors, and yes, Charles and Geneviève.

And there we were, two tipsy idiots holding a pregnancy test, champagne on our breath, staring at the tiny lines that were about to change everything.

Luc squeezed my hand.

“Mon amour,” he whispered, voice shaking, “we have to tell them.”

“I think we already did,” I said, gesturing clumsily at the crowd before us — most in sleepwear. As were we. Oops.

The Sitting Room

The staff was dismissed, and Charles and Geneviève ushered us into the—of course—sitting room, the sacred site of every catastrophic moment of my life in this palace.

Luc and I shuffled in like two guilty teenagers caught sneaking in after curfew. Except we were barefoot. And tipsy. And holding hands like our lives depended on it.

Luc cleared his throat, which only made him sway slightly. “Père, Maman… Briony and I are going to be parents.”

Charles blinked. Geneviève blinked. Luc beamed, glassy‑eyed.

“A little ahead of schedule,” he continued, “but counting in the forty‑ish weeks… plus minus a few weeks… we are right on target, n’est‑ce pas?”

He added a crooked smile that would normally be adorable, but with the champagne‑glazed eyes and the slight lean to the left, he looked mildly deranged.

Charles and Geneviève stared at us.

And of course—

I hiccuped.

Then giggled. Couldn’t help it. Luc snorted next to me, which made me burst into laughter, which made him laugh harder, which made me laugh even harder.

Charles and Geneviève were not amused.

They stared at me—my cheeks glowing pink—then at Luc, who was trying to stand still and failing.

Charles cleared his throat. Luc snapped upright like a soldier who’d been electrocuted.

“Pardon, père,” he said, voice wobbling.

The alcohol surged through me like courage in liquid form.

“Sorry,” I said brightly. “But hey! Good news! I don’t have my mother’s or grandmother’s conception issues. Yay! Right? All good in the babymaker department.”

Luc folded in half, shoulders shaking, trying so hard not to laugh. A snort escaped anyway. I don’t know how much champagne we’d had, but it was too much for decorum. Or dignity. Or basic human functioning.

We both dissolved into helpless laughter again.

Charles sighed the sigh of a man who regretted every decision that led him to this moment. Geneviève placed a hand on his arm, guiding him toward the door.

“We will discuss this in the morning,” she said, her voice the perfect blend of regal and exhausted.

The door closed behind them.

Luc and I immediately collapsed onto the floor, laughing until our cheeks and stomachs hurt.

Eventually, the laughter faded into breathless quiet. We lay side by side, staring at the ceiling.

Luc’s hand found mine. He lifted it, kissed it softly.

And for the first time since the nausea started, I didn’t feel scared.

I felt… full.

Full of light. Full of terror. Full of joy. Full of something enormous and impossible and ours.

Look at me, guys.

The Cameron Princess.
The Sovereign Princess of Bellacorde.
And now — apparently — a mother‑in‑waiting too.

God help Bellacorde. God help the Beaumont family. God help the Camerons. And God help Luc and me.

Especially me.

Having a large family scattered across the world is great—until you have news that should be shared in person. A new boyfriend, a fiancé, or, you know, being pregnant with your first child. It took serious planning. Not just how to get to everyone, but the sequence. Nobody wants to be the last to know.

So we’d be traveling again soon. At least I hoped Luc could come with me.

You’d think with as many half‑siblings and step‑siblings as I had, I’d be well‑versed in baby care.

Well, you’d be wrong.

I knew nothing.

I had not changed a single diaper in my entire life. Never fed a baby.

I had briefly held babies. Played with toddlers. Talked teens through “issues.”

But… oh. My. God.

What was a girl to do?

I was twenty‑four. A good age for a baby. Married. Expected to have kids. We could afford them. We had the room.

All good then, right?

Yeah. Sure. Totally fine.

A Rose By Any Other Name

In the following days I ended up trying to brush up on my ideas on what to do next.
You’d think with a running total of one twin brother who is a few minutes older, four half-sisters on my dad’s side, a half-brother and  two half-sisters on my mom’s side, who are all younger plus two living step-sisters I’d have all that down pat.

Wrong.

I had never been hands-on involved in anything to do with the younger siblings. Not on purpose, but since there was so much separation, living with my grandparents and all that going on, all that just mostly went over my head. I saw all of them frequently, but usually for parties and meals, not to change diapers and all that. And if the little ones were sick, the parents took care of it. I never dodged it, just never was asked to help. Beau had helped with his younger sisters and still did. I swear, if he ever meets the right girl, he’ll be a top-notch dad right out the gate.

And me, I had found my Mr. Right, the literal dream prince, had put a ring on it, well, he had put it on me to be exact and I had known since I was eighteen that we would be parents one day as that just came with the whole deal.

And now here we were, six years later, staring down the barrel of parenthood, as it should be, and I felt like the Virgin Mary about motherhood.

I started reading pregnancy and baby books and stopped. Goddamn, they take you from 0 to 100 on boring repetitive banter to precautions and warnings that nightmares are made of.

I looked at the royal nursery and while I knew I couldn’t go full on Briony on this, something had to give. But then again, which color? Even if we were to  think outside the old pink for a girl and blue for a boy box, we still need a color.

The most obvious choice would be lavender, which was the Beaumont color and worked for both genders. And ever since I first met Luc it had become a personal favorite for me too, but an entire room in light purple? The Camerons were partial to a light seaglass green, like a sage-y minty type. Also cute, could work together but one wrong move and you have a circus.

I clicked my way through baby boutiques and while I always loved fashion, it all started to look the same. And strollers, carriers, and what nots.

When I called mom she called Brad to the phone cos she was either laughing or crying, or both, too hard.  Brad boiled it down to the basics as he always did.

Main takeaway: I had time and I wasn’t a single parent, so Luc and I would get through this together.

One night I sat in bed while Luc was getting ready for the night. He joined me just as I picked up the sheet of naming ideas that Charles had personally compiled “from the most distinguished records of Beaumont lineage.” His phrasing. Not mine.

I grimaced so hard the mattress dipped.

Luc laughed instantly, leaning in to kiss me with a minty freshly brushed mouth. “Qu’est‑ce qui ne va pas, mon cœur?”

I handed him the list.

His eyebrows went up. His smile widened. “Ah. Mon pere’s suggestions. Tell me, mon amour… would you object to a little Napoléon running around these halls, hm?”

I stared at him.
Deadpan.
Unblinking.

I couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious.

“Only if he’s a purebred poodle and pees on Geneviève’s etiquette books.”

Luc choked on a laugh, nearly dropping the paper.
“Mon dieu… imagine her face.”

“Oh, I am imagining it,” I said, grinning. “It’s the only thing getting me through this list.”

He settled beside me, still smiling, and finally looked down at the paper.

He cleared his throat dramatically.

“Godefroy.”

I slapped a hand over my face. “That sounds like a fungus.”

Luc snorted. “Enguerrand.”

“No. That’s a medieval plumbing tool.”

He kept going, delighted. “Amaury.”

“That is a cheese.”

“Clotaire.”

“Absolutely not. That child would sue us.”

Luc was laughing now, shoulders shaking. “Bérenger.”

“Luc, seriously?! That sounds like a skin condition.”

He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. He leaned over, kissed my temple, and murmured, “Tu es impossible, mon cœur.”

“And you,” I said, snatching the list back, “are not naming our child after a man who probably died from tripping over his own titles.”

Luc pressed a hand to his heart. “Mon cœur… these names carried Bellacorde’s history for centuries.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, “and they can stay there. I am sure all those names were the latest and greatest back when, but now they are nothing but cringeworthy. We’re young. And you said it yourself, your reign will modernize Bellacorde.”

He laughed again — warm, bright, unguarded — and for a moment the weight of crowns and dynasties felt far away. Just us, in our bed, roasting dead French nobles like normal newlyweds do. Or didn’t, how would I know.

I flopped back against the pillows. “Where are the girl names? Charles didn’t seriously only give us the boy list. Is that supposed to be his big fat hint on what he hopes for?”

Luc chuckled, then started rifling through the stack of papers Charles had oh‑so‑helpfully clipped together with military precision.

“Ah—attends—he would not forget the girls,” Luc murmured, digging deeper. “My father is many things, but disorganized is not one of them. And he doesn’t care if it’s a boy or a girl.”

He pulled out a second sheet with a triumphant little sound.

“Voilà. The feminine equivalents.”

I braced myself. “Oh goodie. I cannot wait …”

He cleared his throat with the same theatrical flourish as before.

“Bathilde.”

I stared at him. “Luc Sébastien. Tell me you are not serious.”

He bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Aliénor.”

“Absolutely not. I am not naming my daughter after something that sounds like an extraterrestrial.”

“Isabeau.”

“That sounds like a perfume for old ladies. Or like me trying to say Isabelle while my twin brother Beau is up to the usual nonsense again.”

“Perrine.”

“Luc. That is sounds like a brand of sparkling mineral water.”

He was shaking with laughter now. “Mahaut.”

“Bless you.”

He wheezed. “Briony—mon cœur—please—you are murdering me with this.” He laughed.

“No,” I said, pointing at the list. “Your ancestors were unhinged.”

He wiped his eyes, still laughing. “Herminie. Non?”

“That sounds like a Victorian disease.”

“Sibylle.”

“That sounds like a witch.”

“Clémence‑Hortense.”

I stared at him in horror. “That is TWO witches.”

Luc finally collapsed back against the headboard, laughing helplessly, unable to speak.

I snatched the paper from his hands. “Are there ANY normal names on here? Or did Charles just open a crypt and copy whatever he found carved on the walls?”

Luc leaned over, gently flipping the page. “Ah. Here. At the bottom.”

I squinted.

“Marie… Margaux… Céleste… Amélie…”

I exhaled. “Finally. Names that don’t sound like they died of gout in 1472.”

Luc smiled softly. “My father saves the best for last.”

“Or he wanted to see if we’d suffer through the whole list first.”

Luc kissed my cheek. “Mon amour… we are Beaumonts. Suffering is tradition.”

I shoved him lightly. “Speaking of suffering, your majesty, if you name our daughter Bathilde, I will take the baby and run.”

He laughed again — warm, bright, unguarded — and the whole room felt lighter.

“Mon coeur, you have run from me so many times, and I always have found you and made you want to come back home with me. But it won’t be for a name. Most of those are meant as middle names. Like my Sebastien. It’s not too bad, but also ancient. Several ancestors ago he was a king. Before the title was changed to Sovereign Prince.”

We ended up making our own lists to debate further as the pregnancy went on.

Rollercoaster

First Trimester — The Miserable Beginning

While I clearly didn’t suffer the conception issues that ran in my family, I couldn’t claim the pregnancy was easy. Not even close. The first trimester hit me like a diplomatic crisis — sudden, dramatic, and with absolutely no regard for my schedule.

The nausea wasn’t “morning sickness.” It was all‑day, all‑night, everywhere sickness.

Other mothers gained weight. I lost it. I tried to eat, tried to fight the nausea, but everything came right back up. Several times I ended up on an IV “for precautionary measures.” Lovely. Other mothers glowed; I had a needle in my arm and strict orders not to move.

Whenever I wasn’t tied to an infusion, Luc hovered like a panicked golden retriever.

“Mon cœur, enough walking. Sit.” “Mon amour, drink water. Dehydration is bad in your state.” “Briony, you are pale.”

Mom and Brad came to stay for a week, and having a doctor right there calmed everything down. Mom made me feel safe.

But they had to leave again.

Dad couldn’t come — the ranch needed him — but we talked on the phone constantly. Sometimes he handed it to Amy, my stepmom, who talked brass tacks about everything I was going through.

Luc refused to let me leave the palace alone. If he couldn’t be with me, Geneviève was. Even Charles a few times. If you look up “awkward” in a dictionary, you will see a photo of us.

When Luc was with me, he carried crackers in every pocket. He Googled symptoms at 3 a.m. He panicked every time I sneezed.

Eloise, my best friend and Duchess of Bellacorde, arrived with a Survival Kit: ginger tea, mints, a silk eye mask, and a note that said:

You’re not dying. This is normal. I promise.

Anastasia, pregnant again with Thiago’s second child, joined the misery club. We compared cravings. We cried over baby socks. We accidentally set off a palace fire alarm microwaving pickles between chocolate chip cookies.

Don’t ask.

I felt like a wilted hydrangea. Luc insisted I was “radiant.” He was lying. Badly.

But somehow, we survived.

Second Trimester — The Glow Era

It didn’t happen overnight. More like sunrise — slow, warm, soft — and then suddenly everything was bright.

I could eat again. And oh, did I eat. I put on every pound I’d lost and then some.

I could walk without fainting. I could look at the palace chef without gagging. I could enjoy my favorite foods — though not my favorite Beaumont champagne. The doctors said once a week was fine; Luc said absolutely not.

We walked every day — through the vineyards on strong days, through the palace gardens on gentler ones.

“Mon amour… tu brilles. You glow,” Luc whispered, staring at me like I’d been dipped in sunlight.

And honestly? I kind of did. I didn’t even need makeup. I just looked great. And I felt great.

The Great Family Tour of 2026

Because I’d been too sick to travel in the first trimester, the second became the Great Family Tour.

Stop 1: Mom & Brad in Brindleton Bay

Mom cried the moment she saw me. Nathaniel, now seventeen, commented on my “huge bump,” and somehow it didn’t feel like an insult. Eden and Charley mirrored their dad — gentle, careful, oddly quiet for two exuberant teenage girls.

They fed me. They fussed. They made me nap.

Brad gave Luc a “Welcome to Fatherhood” kit:

earplugs whiskey Babies: A Survival Manual

Luc read it like scripture. Brad had raised five kids — plus me, half the time — and Luc treated his advice like royal decree.

Stop 2: Dad, Amy, Beau, the twins, Grandpa Jack & Izzy, Uncle Cody

The ranch was chaos in the best way.

Dad hugged me, stared at me, then abruptly walked out mid‑meal. Amy told us to leave him be. Yes — he cried.

Amy cried too. She’d thought motherhood would never happen for her, and now she had four kids with Dad — five if you counted Beau, who was technically older than me by minutes but often acted like a pubescent boy.

Beau was stoic… until I walked to his cabin and found him sobbing while feeding the horses. He dropped the feed bucket and hugged me so tight I could barely breathe, mumbling about me having the life I deserved and making him an uncle.

The twins climbed me like a jungle gym until Luc panicked and carried them off like sacks of potatoes, confining them to a playpen. They screamed like banshees. Lovely preview of my future.

Grandpa Jack told Luc, “Ya think yer ready. Yer not. Ya ain’t now and never will be, son.”

Izzy fed me pie. Literally fed me. I said I was full. She said I was eating for two. And shoveled it in anyway.

Cody lectured Luc on diaper technique until Grandpa shut him down by announcing he’d drag Cody and his girlfriend to church himself if they produced another grandbaby out of wedlock.

Stop 3: The Grandparents & The Doctors

This one hurt.

My grandparents — Chase and Hailey — and their best friends Colton and Maddie had always been vibrant, unstoppable forces. Now they were older. Slower. Still fun, but fragile.

The writing was on the wall. They were in their eighties. Decline was obvious. And I knew someday soon, the phone would ring with news I didn’t want.

But for now, they were here. And I loved being back at the estate where I’d grown up.

Uncle Connor and Aunt Keira checked on them daily. Connor, ever the doctor, assured me I’d be a great mom to a healthy baby.

Since we were there, I asked him to do the sonogram — with the whole family present.

A baby girl.

We spent two days with my cousin Chris, his wife Cadence, and their two kids. They’d battled fertility issues too, but they were happy. Whole. And I kept imagining Luc and me in their place.

Third Trimester — When the Glow Fades

The third trimester started beautifully.

The bump was perfect. The baby kicked like a tiny gymnast. Luc talked to my belly every night.

But then… things shifted.

Pressure. Back pain. Tightening that wasn’t quite a contraction.

The doctor put me on modified bedrest. Not fun.

Luc became a one‑man security detail.

“Mon cœur, don’t move.” “Mon amour, let me get that.” “Briony, you are NOT allowed to walk up stairs.”

I got cabin fever. Bad.

I cried because I couldn’t go to the gardens. I cried because I missed Eloise. I cried because Luc brought me the wrong yogurt.

The Night Everything Changed

I woke up to a warm gush.

At first I thought I’d peed myself. Then I stood up.

More fluid.

“Luc?” I whispered.

He was out of bed instantly, barefoot, hair wild, eyes wide.

“Mon amour? Qu’est‑ce qui se passe?”

“I think… my water broke.”

We panicked. Too early. Way too early.

He carried me — literally carried me — to the car. The motorcade flew through Bellacorde.

The Hospital

The diagnosis came quickly:

PPROM — Preterm Premature Rupture of Membranes.

My world tilted.

But the baby’s heartbeat was strong. So strong.

They hooked me up to everything — steroids, antibiotics, fluids, monitors. I didn’t understand half of it. Neither did Luc. Later, Brad explained it all in simple terms.

Luc never left my side.

Days passed. Then a week. Then another.

Eventually I was allowed home — on strict bedrest. Luc carried me up and down the stairs like a Victorian heroine.

Every day felt like a miracle. Every hour felt like a victory.

I was terrified. Luc was terrified. But we held on.

And so did she.

Thirty‑Seventh Week — The Birth

I woke to a low, twisting ache.

Not sharp. Not alarming. Just uncomfortable.

Luc was asleep beside me, one arm draped over my waist. I tried to shift quietly, but I groaned — involuntarily — and he shot upright like a cannon blast.

“Mon amour? Are you in pain? Is it the baby? Should I call someone? Should I—”

“Luc,” I whispered, grabbing his wrist, “calm down. It’s probably nothing.”

I grabbed the baby book Eloise had given me and read the section on Braxton‑Hicks aloud.

“Mild tightening… irregular… uncomfortable but not painful…”

Luc stared like I’d recited prophecy.

“So… not labor?”

“Not labor,” I said confidently.

Another cramp hit.

“…probably.”

We lay back down. Lights off. His hand on my belly.

Another contraction — stronger.

He got up, muttering in French, and returned with a hot water bottle, fennel tea, a cold compress, and a banana.

“Luc,” I said, “why the banana?”

“I panicked.”

We tried to sleep again.

Then a contraction hit so hard I cried out.

Luc was out of bed instantly.

“C’est fini. Enough. We are going.”

“Luc—”

“No. No arguing. No discussion. No book.”

He pointed accusingly at the baby book.

“You are in pain. We are going.”

He dressed, called the guard, ordered the car, grabbed my hospital bag, and somehow helped me stand all at once.

I tried to fight him. He was unrelenting.

He practically carried me to the car.

At the Hospital

Everything happened fast.

A nurse took one look at me, one look at Luc’s face, and whisked us into triage.

The doctor checked me — and her eyes widened.

“Oh — she’s fully dilated. We need to move. Now!”

Luc went pale.

“Déjà? Already?”

“Yes. This baby is coming.”

They rushed us to the delivery room.

I barely had time to process anything before the next contraction hit — and suddenly the fear evaporated. My body knew exactly what to do.

Luc held my hand like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Mon amour, I’m here. I’m right here.”

Three pushes.

Three.

And then—

A cry. Sharp. Strong. Furious.

The doctor laughed. “She’s got lungs.”

Luc choked out a laugh through tears. “Mon dieu… that must be from your side of the family.”

I sobbed. He sobbed. The baby screamed louder.

“She’ll be an opera singer one day,” a nurse joked.

They placed her on my chest — tiny, warm, perfect. Luc leaned in, completely forgetting decorum.

Our little princess royale, Aurelie Sophie Rose Beaumont.

Early, but healthy. Small, but fierce. And hungry.

She latched like an alligator. The nurse had to pry her off.

“Has her mother’s feistiness,” Luc chuckled.

“Yeah, and her dad’s royal glare,” I said, as Aurelie glared at us like a furious newborn empress.

“She will need that,” he whispered.

The first female heir in generations. My daughter. Our daughter. Bellacorde’s future. A Cameron princess.

Luc kissed my forehead, trembling.

“Mon cœur… you did it.”

“No,” I whispered, staring at her tiny face. “We did.”