The morning light spilled through the silk curtains, soft and golden, warming the sheets that still held the scent of sleep and roses. Little Léon, our youngest, had snuck into our bed again before dawn—curled up against me like a kitten. His tiny hand was in mine as I slipped out of bed, his soft snores still humming. I let him hold onto my gown as we walked slowly down the marble halls of our estate just outside Paris.

Everything was quiet, but alive. The walls murmured memories, the high windows let the day sing in, and the garden—ah, the garden—was already in bloom. Scarlet roses, ivory camellias, and wisteria kissed the wind, dancing in sunlight. It was our haven, our little kingdom within the kingdom.

At breakfast, laughter filled the garden as all twelve of my sons were gathered—bickering over croissants, throwing crumbs at each other, teasing about everything from training drills to who had the most ridiculous hair that morning. I was still rubbing sleep from my eyes, tucked beside my husband, Théo—my king, always in quiet silk and warmth, his hand resting on my lower back as he kissed the top of my head.

"Ma colombe," he murmured against my ear. My dove. He always called me that. He could make me melt with just a word.

It was during tea when the jokes started. My eldest, Étienne, couldn’t stop blushing every time someone mentioned love or marriage. One of my sisters-in-law leaned over with a smirk and said, “We’ve all placed bets, you know. But we think it won’t be your sons who give us the next royal baby…”

She paused dramatically, and I knew exactly what she meant.

“No,” she grinned. “We think it’s you.”

The whole family burst into laughter. I rolled my eyes and tried not to laugh myself, but Théo leaned over with that low chuckle of his and whispered, “Perhaps… just one more?”

“No,” I told him, fighting my smile. “Twelve is enough.”

But the teasing didn’t stop. That afternoon, they brought us to the east garden wing—yes, dragged us—with a chalkboard, diagrams, and cheeky cousins pretending they were professors of “Heir Studies.” They presented “poses,” they gave titles, they suggested we take notes. I thought I’d faint from blushing.

“Pose one: The Emperor’s Embrace,” one cousin said, straight-faced, and the entire family howled with laughter.

I hid behind my fan. Théo just took a sip of wine and whispered, “Let’s see how accurate their research is… later.”

And he kept his word.

That night, when the halls had gone quiet and the fire in our bedroom crackled softly, he touched me like a secret. We kissed with the candlelight flickering over our skin, his hands worshipping every inch of me.

Outside our door, I could swear I heard muffled laughter… and footsteps. They were definitely listening. Ridiculous family.

The next morning, over breakfast, someone asked with a wink, “Did you two study the Emperor’s Embrace properly?”

I just smiled, sipping my tea, and let Théo answer for us both.