The mansion stirred gently with the morning light. Velvet curtains, deep champagne in hue, rippled with the breeze from the open window. The scent of blooming orange blossoms drifted in from the courtyard below. You lay beneath silk sheets, still tangled in your husband’s warmth, your legs entwined, your head resting just above his heart.

Émeric’s voice was hoarse with sleep. “Bonjour, mon ange.” He kissed your forehead slowly, as if time owed him that. “They’re still asleep, I think,” he murmured. “But I’m not.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers across the soft stubble on his jaw. “You never are when I’m near,” you whispered back.

In this mansion — this private kingdom of your own — you were more than royal. You were a lover, a mother, a woman fully adored. The city buzzed outside the iron gates, but inside, time curled like steam in a teacup. Soft and slow.

Your son, Valentin, woke shortly after. His voice was sweet, eager, calling “Maman!” down the marble hallway as his slippered feet padded toward your room. Émeric sat up, slipping a robe around his shoulders, and smiled toward the door.

“Come, petit roi,” he called, arms open.

Valentin climbed onto the bed, still warm with dreams, his curls tousled and cheeks flushed. He nestled into your arms, pulling your hand toward his little chest. “Il fait froid,” he mumbled.

Émeric laughed softly and wrapped you both in the blankets again. “We’ll warm you up, mon cœur.”

Later, in the kitchen, you baked. Flour dusted your nightgown, and your long silk robe had to be tied up above your waist so you could knead dough with care. Valentin stirred sugar into cream, standing on a stool beside you, his tongue sticking out as he focused.

The twins had woken, bright-eyed and giggling in their little bassinets by the window, swaddled in satin and lace. You kissed their foreheads, one after the other, whispering their names softly like a spell.

Afternoons were slower. The girls napped in the sunroom, and Émeric took Valentin into the garden, where they picked lemons and dandelions. You watched from the terrace, your dress flowing like water as you leaned over the balustrade. The sight of them — your prince, your son — made something inside you ache sweetly. As if your heart had never been this full until now.

Evenings were for silk and candles. You dressed slowly in your boudoir, combing your hair at the mirrored vanity, slipping on satin gowns that Émeric liked — the ones with buttons he could undo slowly, just before bed.

Dinner was served on the balcony, the lights of Paris glittering beyond the hedges. You sat beside him, the twins sleeping in their cradles, Valentin playing with silver toy soldiers on the rug nearby.

He watched you more than he ate. He always did.

After dessert — rose honey cakes and fresh fruit — Émeric rose from his seat, came behind you, and brushed your hair back from your neck. His lips touched your skin like a secret.

“Ma déesse éternelle… Will you come to bed with me, or shall I carry you like last night?”

You laughed, cheeks glowing, eyes soft with wine and candlelight.

“Only if you promise to let me sleep after,” you whispered.

He grinned. “You never sleep right away, mon amour. You always stay up to kiss me again.”

And he was right.

Because in that bed, beneath tapestries and linen sheets, with the babies dreaming down the hall and Paris sighing beyond the walls, nothing mattered more than the way he held you. Slowly. Deeply. Like he had waited his whole life for this peace.

And maybe, just maybe, he had.