Royal Photoshoot for France's First Lady-Lady Couple

The grand hall of the Versailles winter wing had been transformed into a dream.

Pale gold drapery cascaded from the high windows, soft pink roses bloomed from marble vases, and crystal chandeliers glittered overhead like constellations caught in daylight. At the center of it all stood you—draped in cream silk, the fabric hugging you like whispered devotion. A tiny embroidered lily nestled just beneath your collarbone, a quiet tribute to the child blooming within you.

And beside you, Oscar.

Oscar stood tall in her tailored white military jacket, the buttons glinting, the royal crest proudly stitched to her chest. Her golden hair was brushed back, but a few wild strands still curled near her temple, refusing to obey even the strictest styling. She looked like war and peace and poetry all at once.

The photographers buzzed around you both like bees in a glass garden.

“Just there, Your Graces—yes, closer, if you please…”

Oscar didn’t wait for permission. She stepped in close behind you, her hand finding your waist like it belonged there, pulling you gently until your back rested against her. Her chin dipped to your shoulder, her lips brushing your cheek, featherlight.

Click.

“Hold that pose, it’s divine,” someone breathed.

She did more than hold it.

She turned your face gently toward her, your noses nearly touching, her eyes soft with something that made your knees weak. Her hands weren’t shy—they spread over your belly, your hips, her fingers splayed in possession and reverence all at once.

“You’re the future of this country,” she murmured, only for you. “And I get to keep you.”

Click.

You turned slightly, your fingers trailing up her chest, settling lightly near her collar. The photographers murmured in awe. One woman gasped when Oscar kissed the tip of your nose.

Then your lips.

Soft. Certain. A kiss that wasn’t posed—it was real. Just like everything else between you.

Later, the final set was outdoors, in the royal gardens.

You were seated on a marble bench, the glow of the setting sun dancing along your skin. Oscar stood behind you with both hands on your shoulders, her gaze low, protective. You smiled, a private thing just for her, and her fingers tightened slightly on you—as if to say I see it, and I love it.

“A little more tender,” the lead photographer suggested.

Oscar gave a soft laugh. “Tender is all I know when it comes to her.”

Click.

When the shoot ended, and the crowd of stylists and nobles slowly drifted away, Oscar stayed behind with you. The air smelled like roses and quiet pride.

She crouched in front of you, kissing your belly.

“France can have the pictures,” she whispered. “But the real thing?” Her eyes flicked up to meet yours. “That’s mine. Always mine.”

And when she stood, she didn’t care who saw her kiss you again—this time, slower. Deeper. Her hand in your hair, her arm wrapping fully around your waist.

You let her.

You always would.