[Christina’s POV]
Seventeen weeks pregnant, and my body has apparently decided subtlety is overrated.
The mirror delivers its daily verdict with cruel efficiency. A slight roundness to my belly that no amount of strategic posture corrects. A fullness to my breasts that makes my usual fitted blazers feel like torture devices designed by sadists.
Everything is shifting, expanding, betraying the secret I'm desperately trying to keep beneath oversized sweaters and creative layering.
I've taken to wearing looser clothes. "Comfort," I tell anyone who asks. "The palace drafts are brutal this time of year." Nobody questions it. Why would they? Future queens are entitled to their fashion eccentricities.
Today's ensemble is a flowing silk blouse in deep burgundy, tucked loosely into high-waisted trousers. The fabric drapes strategically over my changing silhouette. I look professional rather than pregnant. At least, that's what I tell myself while avoiding mirrors.
Parliament awaits. And so does Lord Ashford, the minor noble who claims he was secretly betrothed to my mother. The Montclairs' latest fabrication, delivered with impeccable timing and impressive documentation.
Impressive. But not impressive enough.
The parliamentary chamber buzzes with anticipation as I take my seat. The gallery overflows with spectators hungry for drama. Catherine Montclair sits among them, her smile sharp as broken glass. She expects entertainment today.
She's about to get it. Just not the kind she anticipated.
Lord Ashford approaches the podium with the swagger of a man who believes his victory is assured. He's older than I expected—silver-haired, distinguished, carrying a leather folder stuffed with "evidence" of his tragic romance.
"Your Highness." He bows with theatrical flourish. "I come before this chamber with a heavy heart, bearing truths long buried."
"How poetic," I reply, keeping my voice deceptively sweet. "Please, enlighten us all with these long-buried truths."
He launches into his prepared narrative with practiced emotion. Secret meetings in palace gardens. Whispered promises of marriage. A love affair cut tragically short by Princess Clara's untimely death.
His voice catches at all the right moments. His eyes glisten with manufactured grief. The performance would be convincing if I didn't know it was complete fabrication.
"And you have proof of this relationship?" I ask when he finally pauses for breath. "Beyond your remarkable memory?"
"Indeed, Your Highness." He produces letters from his folder with reverent care. "Correspondence between myself and Princess Clara. Her own hand, declaring her love for me."
The chamber murmurs. Catherine leans forward in her gallery seat, satisfaction barely concealed beneath her carefully neutral expression.
I let the moment stretch. Let them believe I'm cornered. Let them taste victory before I snatch it away.
Then I produce my own documentation.
"Fascinating letters, Lord Ashford. The handwriting is quite skillful." I slide papers across the table toward the parliamentarians. "Unfortunately, it's not my mother's. These are authenticated samples from the royal archives."
His face pales. The murmuring grows louder, taking on an edge of anticipation.
"Furthermore," I continue with deliberate calm, "I have correspondence between my mother and her ladies-in-waiting. From the exact period you claim this romance occurred. She mentions you exactly zero times."
"Your Highness, I can explain—"
"She does, however," I interrupt smoothly, "extensively discuss a diplomatic mission to the neighbouring country. A mission during which she was continuously accompanied by witnesses."
Lord Ashford's swagger has evaporated entirely. He clutches his folder of fabricated evidence like a drowning man grasping debris in a storm.
"Those witnesses have provided sworn statements that she never met privately with any minor nobles." I let each word land like a hammer blow. "Particularly not ones claiming secret betrothals."
"The handwriting analysis confirms forgery. The timeline proves impossibility. The witnesses establish absence." I pause for effect. "Would you care to revise your testimony, Lord Ashford? Or shall we proceed to charges of perjury and conspiracy to defraud the crown?"
The silence that follows is exquisite. Delicious, even.
He stammers something unintelligible. His carefully constructed narrative collapses around him like a house of cards in a hurricane. The chamber watches his humiliation with hungry attention.
I glance toward the gallery. Catherine Montclair's face has gone rigid with fury she can barely contain. Her allies shift uncomfortably in their seats. Another scheme dismantled. Another attack neutralized.
Lord Ashford retreats from the podium in disgrace. The parliamentary session concludes with my supporters openly celebrating while the opposition nurses their wounds in bitter silence.
I walk out of Parliament feeling lighter than I have in weeks. The autumn air tastes like victory.
That evening, I reach for my phone before I can overthink it. The message is simple: Done.
Hunter's response arrives within minutes: Watched the broadcast. You were magnificent.
I stare at those words longer than I should. The screen glows in the dimness of my chambers, his praise warming something I'd rather not examine too closely. Magnificent. He called me magnificent.
Not useful. Not strategic. Magnificent.
The knock at my door interrupts the dangerous spiral of my thoughts. I tuck the phone away quickly, feeling oddly guilty for no reason I can name.
Daniel enters carrying champagne and a smile that makes my chest ache in entirely different ways. "I heard you committed political murder in Parliament today. Seemed worth celebrating."
"It was more of a gentle evisceration," I correct, accepting the glass he offers. "Very civilized. Minimal blood. Practically elegant, really."
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine, and sets the champagne aside. He crosses to where I stand, and his arms wrap around me with familiar comfort. I let myself sink against his chest, breathing in cedar and safety.
"You destroyed him," Daniel murmurs against my hair. "Ashford will never recover from that humiliation."
"He shouldn't have lied about my mother."
"He shouldn't have underestimated you." His lips brush my temple with gentle affection. "They all keep making that mistake. You'd think they'd learn eventually."
I tilt my face up, and he kisses me properly. Slow and thorough and exactly what I need. His hands trace familiar patterns on my back while his mouth reminds me why I chose him. Why I keep choosing him.
But Hunter's words linger in my mind alongside Daniel's kiss. Magnificent. Such a simple word. Such a complicated feeling blooming in my chest.
Daniel pulls back slightly, studying my face with those perceptive grey-green eyes that see too much. "Where did you go just now?"
"Nowhere." The lie slides out easier than it should. "Just processing. Long day of political evisceration takes its toll."
He accepts the explanation without pressing. Because he trusts me. Because he loves me. Because he came back when he could have walked away forever. That's the kind of man Daniel is.
Hunter would never have come back. Hunter would have chosen political advantage over emotional truth every single time. Hunter is not the man Daniel is. I know this with absolute certainty.
So why can't I stop thinking about those three words on my phone screen?
I kiss Daniel again, harder this time. Trying to drown the confusion in something simpler. Something I understand completely. His response is immediate and gratifying.
But later, after he's fallen asleep beside me, I find myself reaching for my phone again. Reading those words one more time in the darkness.
You were magnificent.
I'm not sure what to do with that.
I'm not sure what to do with any of this.
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