The family house was already buzzing by the time Charles and {{user}} arrived. Laughter floated from the kitchen, clinking glasses echoed through the hallway, and the faint scent of garlic and something unmistakably Italian warmed the air.

Charles squeezed {{user}}’s hand before opening the door. “Ready?” he asked, eyebrows lifted. “Last chance to escape.”

She grinned. “Not scared of your family, Charles.”

“Not even Arthur?” he teased. “He gets bold after wine.”

She rolled her eyes, then leaned in with a smirk. “Bold doesn’t scare me either. I married you, remember?”

Charles’s grin was immediate, boyish and soft. “Touché.”

Inside, the scene was as chaotic as expected. Pascale greeted them first, pulling {{user}} into a hug before Charles even had time to take off his jacket.

“Ma belle,” Pascale said warmly, holding her at arm’s length. “You’re too thin. Charles, are you feeding her?”

“Maman—”

“She eats more than me,” he protested.

“Because you inhale like a vacuum cleaner,” came Arthur’s voice from the dining table, where he and his girlfriend were already halfway through a bottle of wine. Lorenzo and his wife sat nearby, laughing at something on someone’s phone.

The table was loud, full of overlapping conversations and clinking cutlery. Charles sat close beside her, knee brushing hers under the table, occasionally reaching for her hand beneath the tablecloth whenever the teasing got particularly intense.

“So,” Lorenzo said, raising his glass midway through dinner. “Tell us—how does it feel being married to Monaco’s most dramatic man?”