[Christina’s POV]
Two weeks until coronation. Eighteen weeks pregnant. The mathematics of my life have become increasingly hostile to my sanity.
The fitting room smells like silk and impending disaster. Madame Beaumont arrives with the coronation gown draped across her arms like a sacrifice to fashion gods who clearly hate me personally.
"Your Highness." She curtsies with the reverence of someone handling museum artifacts. "Shall we begin?"
The gown is magnificent. Ivory silk embroidered with gold thread, seed pearls cascading down the bodice like frozen tears. It cost more than some people's houses. It was measured six weeks ago.
Six weeks ago, my body hadn't declared war on my wardrobe.
"Arms up, please."
I comply. The fabric whispers over my skin as she guides it into place. Cool silk settles against my shoulders, my back, my waist—
The zipper stops halfway up.
"One moment." Madame Beaumont's voice carries forced brightness. "Sometimes the fabric catches on the lining."
She tugs. Adjusts. Tugs again with more determination.
The zipper does not move. Because the zipper cannot move. Because my waist has expanded beyond the gown's carefully measured parameters.
"Perhaps if Your Highness exhales completely—"
I exhale until my lungs protest. The zipper gains perhaps half an inch before surrendering entirely to the laws of physics.
The bodice strains across my breasts like it's auditioning for a period drama about corsets and respiratory distress. The waistline—what remains accessible—pulls tight against curves that definitely weren't there during the first consultation.
Madame Beaumont's hands still on the fabric. I watch her reflection in the mirror. Watch her eyes travel slowly from the straining bodice to the resistant waist to my carefully neutral face.
Understanding blooms across her features like sunrise over a battlefield.
She knows.
"Your Highness." Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. "I... I see."
"Madame Beaumont." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "What you see stays in this room. Permanently."
"Of course, but—"
"I am invoking royal authority." The words taste like desperation dressed in formal language. "Whatever conclusions you've drawn, they remain unspoken. To anyone. Ever."
She meets my eyes in the mirror. I see fear there—reasonable, given I could destroy her career with a word. But I also see something softer beneath the fear. Something almost maternal.
"I have dressed three generations of royalty," she says quietly. "I have kept secrets that would topple governments."
"This one could topple mine."
"Then it dies with me." She begins carefully removing the gown, her movements gentle and practiced. "I can alter the design. Let out the waist. Restructure the bodice with additional boning. Empire waistlines are flattering and... forgiving."
"Will anyone notice the changes?"
"I'll add decorative panels. Claim artistic vision." She pauses, considering. "By the time I'm finished, it will look entirely intentional."
"How much time do you need?"
"Two weeks will be difficult. But not impossible." She folds the gown with practiced care. "I'll need three fittings minimum. And Your Highness should avoid anything that might cause further... expansion."
"I'll try not to grow an additional human overnight."
Her lips twitch. Almost a smile. "The alterations will be ready. No one will suspect anything."
I step down from the platform on legs that feel disconnected from my body. The relief flooding through me wars with residual terror. She knows. Someone outside my inner circle knows.
"Madame Beaumont." I catch her arm before she can leave. "Thank you."
"I dressed your mother once." Her voice softens with distant memory. "She was kind to me when others weren't. Consider this debt finally repaid."
The door closes behind her. I sink into the nearest chair and press my palms against my face until I see stars.
My secret has started leaking. One person becomes two becomes rumor becomes scandal. The timeline is shrinking faster than my coronation gown.
Daniel arrives at my chambers that evening looking exhausted but carrying wine I can't drink and concern I desperately need.
"The fitting went well?" He settles beside me on the sofa.
"We need to accelerate the coronation."
His expression sharpens instantly. "What happened?"
"The gown didn't fit." I wrap my arms around my middle—around the evidence growing there. "She figured it out. The seamstress. She won't talk, but if she noticed..."
"Others will too." Daniel's jaw tightens visibly. "How much time do we have?"
"Weeks. Maybe a month before concealment becomes physically impossible." I meet his grey-green eyes. "The coronation needs to happen before I'm obviously pregnant. And before the Montclairs can mount another challenge."
"Moving the date creates its own complications. Parliament must be notified. Foreign dignitaries need travel arrangements adjusted. Security protocols require complete revision—"
"Can you do it?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Then he nods slowly. "I can do it. I'll start making arrangements tonight."
"Daniel." I catch his hand, threading my fingers through his. "Thank you. For everything. For staying."
"Always." He kisses my forehead with devastating tenderness. "Get some rest. Tomorrow begins the sprint to your throne."
He leaves me alone with my thoughts and my secrets and the growing life that complicates absolutely everything.
The chambers feel too quiet after he's gone. Too empty. I change into pjs and crawl into bed, but sleep seems laughably distant.
I press my hand against my stomach. Eighteen weeks. Nearly halfway through this pregnancy. The books say I should feel movement soon—quickening, they call it.
Then I feel it.
A flutter. Barely there. Like butterfly wings brushing against the inside of my palm from the other side.
I freeze. Wait. There—again. Faint and tentative and absolutely unmistakable.
The baby moved.
My breath catches somewhere in my chest. Tears sting my eyes before I can stop them. This tiny person inside me, this impossible complication, just announced their presence.
I reach for my phone before thinking. The message types itself: The baby moved today.
Hunter's response arrives within seconds: Tell me everything.
My thumbs hover over the screen. I should ignore him. Should keep this moment for myself. Should maintain the careful distance I've constructed between us.
Instead, I type: Like butterfly wings. Very faint. I almost missed it.
Where were you? What were you doing?
In bed. Alone. Just thinking.
Did it hurt?
No. It felt... strange. Good strange. Unexpected.
I wish I could have felt it.
I stare at those words. The raw honesty in them. The longing that bleeds through the screen.
Maybe someday, I type. Then delete it. Too much. Too dangerous.
I'm glad you told me, he sends. Thank you for sharing this.
You're the father. You should know.
I know I don't deserve to know anything. But I'm grateful anyway.
Another flutter. Stronger this time. Like the baby knows we're discussing them and wants attention.
It happened again, I type. Right now.
What does it feel like?
I consider the question. Like hope, I finally answer. It feels like hope.
His response takes longer this time. That's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever told me.
I set the phone aside. Press both hands against my stomach. Feel the tiny movements of my child—Hunter's child—making themselves known.
Two weeks until coronation. Eighteen weeks pregnant. The mathematics of my life grow more complicated by the minute.
But for the first time, complicated doesn't feel like disaster.
It feels like beginning.
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