The morning sun poured in through soft lace curtains, its light dancing across the marble floors of the royal suite. Our chambers were scented with rose oil and warm vanilla, drifting from the gold-trimmed linens to the silk canopy above our bed. I lay wrapped in his arms—Prince Émile, son of the High King of Valloire—his dark curls falling over his lashes, his breath slow, deep, and sweet.

I was the new princess of this lush, lavender-scented kingdom, still flushed from our wedding night. The entire royal court had been celebrating us for weeks. There was laughter, wine, violins, and gentle whispers of legacy… and heirs.

By breakfast, the king and queen themselves—my in-laws—had arrived in our private salon. They were grinning.

“You both look well rested,” Queen Amélie had said, handing me a velvet pouch filled with herbs “for fertility.” King Lucien simply smirked and raised his brows. “Perhaps today is a good day to try for twins,” he said with a wink.

I blushed so hard I nearly dropped my tea.

But they weren’t done. After brunch, the family took a “casual” stroll to the rose garden—just beneath the windows of our love room. Émile and I had been whisked back upstairs by maids who were “sent by the Queen” to draw the curtains, freshen the sheets, and leave a tray of strawberries and wine.

As soon as we were alone, Émile locked the door and scooped me into his arms. “Do you think your royal womb is ready, mon ange?” he teased, brushing his lips against my ear.

I laughed, swatting him playfully. “If you speak like that, we’ll make triplets.”

He grinned. “Then let’s give my mother something to brag about.”

What we didn’t expect was the faint sound of voices… right outside our chamber door.

“…Tell him to keep her legs high after,” someone whispered—probably the Queen.

“She needs more kisses. Long ones,” another chuckled—it sounded like one of Émile’s brothers.

We froze.

Émile rolled his eyes and whispered with a laugh, “They’re monitoring us.”

I whispered back, “Let them take notes.”

And with that, he kissed me again—deeper this time—ignoring the muffled suggestions outside, while the golden afternoon wrapped us in warmth and velvet.

Excerpt Rewrite from Whispers Beyond the Door (Expanded Scene)

…We were in the middle of tangled silk sheets, Émile's hand cupping my cheek with the kind of reverence only a man madly in love could give. My body ached in that sweet, familiar way, yet we were still breathless and tangled when we heard it:

A faint knock, then—voices.

“Don’t forget the hips, Émile! Angle her slightly—yes, like when the moon was full!” It was Queen Amélie. Her voice was muffled but unmistakable.

“Lift her legs higher this time, son. That’s how you get twin boys,” King Lucien added matter-of-factly, as if discussing hunting rifles or garden tools.

I stared at Émile, wide-eyed and blushing. He groaned into my shoulder.

“And stroke her back gently—it relaxes the spine, very good for holding seed,” added his grandmother, rather academically.

Someone outside stifled a laugh—probably one of Émile’s cousins.

“Deep breaths, my darling,” Émile whispered to me with a grin, “or they’ll bring out diagrams next.”

The door creaked. A servant slid in a silver tray with honeyed figs and more rose wine, mumbling, “By Her Majesty’s order.” On the napkin, a note: ‘Pillows under her hips this time.’

I rolled my eyes. Émile kissed me again, murmuring against my skin, “Ignore them, mon trésor. Only we know what works.”

But as he lifted my thigh gently and kissed the inside of my knee, I could still hear his aunt outside:

“Slow, Émile. Hold her like a violin. Let her sing.”

He chuckled into my skin. “Would you like to sing, ma Reine?”

I nodded, giggling despite myself. “If it makes them shut up.”

He looked at me like I was all the stars of France stitched into one gaze, and then—

We gave them something worth whispering about.