It was a Christmas unlike any other—the first one you shared with Edward Seymour and your precious son, Henry. Edward’s eyes lit up with wonder each time he looked at the baby, as if he couldn’t quite believe this miracle was his. “You’ve already given me the perfect Christmas gift,” he often said, his voice soft with emotion. “Both of you. I’ll never forget this, not for as long as I live.”

The mansion was a festive wonderland, adorned from top to bottom with twinkling lights, evergreen garlands, and delicate ornaments that shimmered in the soft glow of candlelight. The air was filled with the scent of pine, spiced mulled wine, and freshly baked pastries. Earlier in the day, you had joined the grand festivities at the Palace, mingling with nobles and basking in the opulence of royal tradition. But now, back in the cozy warmth of the mansion, the holiday felt more intimate, more personal—more yours.

As night fell, peace enveloped the house. Henry had drifted off to sleep in his cradle, swaddled in blankets embroidered with silver stars. In the drawing room, the fire crackled and popped, casting flickering shadows across the walls. You and Edward reclined together on a soft bed of furs spread before the hearth.

You lay nestled against his chest, your head resting just over his heart, its steady rhythm a comforting lullaby. His arms were wrapped around you protectively, as if shielding you from all the world’s worries. The two of you watched the fire’s hypnotic dance in silence, the orange and gold flames reflecting in his eyes like a living masterpiece.

“This,” Edward murmured, his voice barely louder than the whisper of the flames, “is the kind of happiness I only dreamed of. You, Henry... our family. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”