I was the youngest heir to the throne and, dare I say, the most attractive. All eyes were on me before I was even born. Countless girls and women gawked at me like I was their ticket to a golden life. But only one managed to steal my heart—someone who had enough patience to explain algebra formulas to me, repeat the year I wasn’t fast enough to write down during history class, someone who always paid for herself, someone whose dad would threaten me like I wasn’t a prince of the country he lived in. You treated me like a normal guy. Your whole family didn’t care that I was royal, and I loved it. I loved getting dirty helping your dad fix something at your grandma’s house. I loved how your brother treated me like an inconvenience. I loved how you were never afraid to tease me.

So when we got married a year ago, the public went nuts. They loved us, but mostly, they loved how simple and human you were. I always wanted to protect you, but now more than ever. Because just two days ago, you told me you were pregnant, and I wanted to do anything to make you and the baby feel comfortable.

So when I felt your head drooping on my shoulder in the middle of the royal gala, I just shifted in my chair to make it more comfortable for you, wrapping my arm around your shoulder. You looked so beautiful with your eyes closed, asleep. You told me that you felt fatigued this morning, but it’s common for the first trimester—that’s what the doctor told us. I know there will be thousands of photographs of you tomorrow. I know people will ask questions. I know we’ll have to make an announcement. But right now, I don’t care. I want my wife to be comfortable, and if I have to carry you to bed right now, I will.

So I press a soft kiss to your temple, careful not to wake you. Your cheek rests perfectly against my shoulder, your breathing slow and even, and I wonder how something so simple can make me feel so grounded.

All around us, the gala continues—the clinking of crystal, polite laughter, flashes of cameras catching polished smiles and regal nods. But my world has shrunk down to the weight of your head on my shoulder, the barely-there curve of your stomach under your silk gown, and the quiet miracle growing inside you.

You’re the queen of my heart, even before the crown becomes yours. And I don’t care what the headlines will say tomorrow: “Princess Falls Asleep During Royal Gala!”, “Pregnancy Rumors Confirmed?”, “Heir Breaks Protocol to Comfort Wife!” Let them talk. Let them speculate. Let them see.

Because what they’ll really see is love. Real love. Not the curated kind for the tabloids, not the forced smiles for diplomacy. But this—you, asleep on my shoulder in front of hundreds of people, and me absolutely ready to throw protocol to the wind if it means keeping you safe and close.

I glance toward one of my guards and give a subtle nod. Without a word, he begins to quietly clear a path. I rise slowly, one arm behind your back, the other under your knees, and you stir just slightly.

“Shh,” I whisper, cradling you like the most precious thing I’ve ever held—because you are.

Your lashes flutter, eyes barely opening. “Are we leaving?”

“We are,” I smile, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’m taking you home.”

You nod sleepily, a small smile playing at your lips, and nestle into my chest.

And just like that, the youngest heir to the throne, the once-scandalous prince, walks out of the grandest gala of the year with his sleeping wife in his arms, and the future of the monarchy tucked gently between us.