You felt it first in the quiet. A strange stillness in your body. A soft tiredness. You were brushing your fingers along the flowering rosemary hedges when you turned to Théo and whispered, “I think I’m with child.”

He didn’t speak.

Just stared at you — then pulled you into his arms and spun you through the garden with joy and awe in his eyes.

The next morning, a physician confirmed it. The Queen cried with joy. The King kissed your forehead and toasted to "a new golden age of d’Aramont heirs."

But the celebration wasn’t the end — oh no.

It was the beginning of an onslaught.

You were now a national treasure. A royal flower in bloom. And everyone — everyone — suddenly had suggestions.

At lunch that day, the King leaned over his roast duck to tell Théo, “Lay her on her side next time — left hip downward. It favors girls, but twins are possible.”

The Queen sipped tea and added, “Or have her on all fours by candlelight. That worked for my second son.”

You nearly dropped your fork.

Théo winked at you and whispered at your ear, “Shall we test them all?”

That night, you barely made it to bed.

He kissed down your belly with worshipful hands, whispering, “Our baby is here… but why stop at one?”

He took you gently, slowly, like you were made of moonlight. The kind of intimacy that felt endless — heat, honey, and silk.

Afterwards, as you curled against him, he murmured with a grin, “I say we try the King’s pose next… and then your left hip… and then the candlelight one… twice.”

You both did. For days. Weeks. Every suggestion from the royal family became a playful challenge.

One night, after trying a particularly strange one suggested by your cousin (legs over his shoulders, pillows beneath your spine, lavender oil burning beside the bed), you collapsed into him giggling. He kissed your fingers and said, “France will owe you a monument after this.”

Your Pregnancy Progressed Like a Poem

You began to glow. The maids called you la lumière — the light. Your dresses softened, flowing gowns of cream and pearl with ribbons that tied above your belly.

Théo never left your side.

He painted your belly with gold dust on your birthday. He kissed your ankles while you napped. He spoke to your womb every night in French.

“Bonjour, mon trésor. Papa t’aime déjà.”

(Hello, my treasure. Papa loves you already.)

The Night Before the Royal Ball

The Queen hosted a private family dinner. Again, the pregnancy tips were flying.

“Eat figs. For strength.” “No, sweet grapes. It’s for twin boys.” “Position him above, with hands on your hips!” “Try placing a rose under the bed!”

You covered your face with your fan, laughing into Théo’s shoulder.

He leaned down and whispered, “Tonight, we’ll do them all.”

You spent the night in satin sheets, limbs tangled, his voice low and coaxing in your ear.

"Give me one more heir… or two," he growled, nipping at your collarbone. "Let me give France more sons from this perfect body…"

The candles flickered.

The windows were open.

And Paris glowed just for you.