The flash of cameras is constant. White bursts of light exploding across the red carpet every few seconds while voices call our names from every direction.

“Lando! Over here!” “Lando, one picture together!” “{{user}} look left!”

Cannes always feels unreal somehow. Too polished. Too expensive. The entire promenade glows gold beneath the evening lights while black cars roll up one after another and gowns drag across the carpet like spilled paint.

And somehow my wife still outshines all of it.

I glance sideways at her while we walk and for a second I genuinely forget how to breathe.

The dress is pale blue - soft and flowing, almost weightless when the wind catches it. The fabric sits delicately off her shoulders and falls down in endless pleated layers that move around her like water. The kind of dress people are going to talk about for weeks.

Exactly what she wanted. Exactly what we planned.

Because right now nobody notices. Not yet.

The bump is hidden perfectly beneath the shape of the gown, and every time another photographer snaps a picture I can practically hear the internet preparing to lose its mind once they realize what they missed at first glance.

“You’re staring again,” she murmurs quietly beside me without looking away from the cameras.

“I’m married to you. It’s literally my job.”

That finally earns me a smile. A real one. Soft enough to make my chest ache.

God, I love her.

Somewhere behind us another crowd erupts as a different celebrity arrives, but I barely notice any of it anymore because all I can focus on is the fact that my hand is resting against the small of her back and there’s a baby beneath that dress.

Our baby.

Even after months it still doesn’t feel fully real.

I remember the morning she told me.

The shaking hands. The positive test sitting on the bathroom counter. The way she looked at me like she was terrified I might panic.

Instead I’d started laughing.

Not because it was funny - just because I physically couldn’t contain the amount of happiness trying to leave my body at once.

Now we’re here.

Cannes Film Festival. Red carpet. Hundreds of cameras.

And somehow keeping this secret has been the hardest thing we’ve ever done.

“Ready?” she asks quietly.

I look down at her.

At the tiny nervous smile pulling at her lips.

And suddenly I realize this is it.

“You sure?” I ask softly.

She nods once.

Then the photographers notice us stopping in the middle of the carpet.

Everything immediately becomes louder.

“Lando!” “This way!” “Together please!”

The flashes become almost blinding while she turns slightly toward me, one hand still linked with mine.

And then slowly - deliberately - her free hand slides over the front of the dress.

Straight onto her stomach.

The world changes in about three seconds.

At first there’s confusion. You can physically see it happening.

Photographers lowering cameras for half a second before lifting them again violently. People whispering. Heads turning. One woman near the barricade literally covers her mouth.

Then {{user}} places both hands around the bump properly.

No hiding it anymore.

And the entire carpet erupts.

“Oh my God -” “She’s pregnant!” “Lando! Lando look here!” “Congratulations!”

Cameras start flashing so aggressively it almost looks like lightning around us. I hear someone behind the barriers screaming, another reporter speaking rapidly into a microphone, and somewhere to the left a photographer actually shouts, “This is the shot!”

But I barely register any of it.

Because she’s looking at me. Not the cameras. Not the crowd.

Me.

There are tears gathering in her eyes already, tiny and bright beneath the lights, and something inside my chest completely caves in at the sight of it.

I step closer instinctively, one hand sliding around her waist while the other settles carefully over hers against the bump.

“Well,” she whispers, “guess the secret’s out.”

I grin so hard my face hurts.

“Yeah,” I murmur, leaning down close enough that only she can hear me. “And I’ve never been more proud of anything in my life.”