The sky was soft with spring rain when you arrived, and the vineyards shimmered with mist. The château itself, laced with marble balconies and ivy-covered walls, looked like something out of a love story. But you didn’t step into it alone.

Your mother-in-law, Queen Marguerite, had personally escorted you and Théo to the estate. Her voice echoed behind you like silk, light and commanding. “The rooms have been blessed,” she said. “The linens are Egyptian cotton, soaked in rosemary water. Perfect for fertility. You’ll thank me once the twins are born.”

You flushed. Théo laughed gently and reached for your hand. “Maman,” he murmured, “we’ve not even kissed properly.”

She scoffed. “Then hurry. France awaits an heir. Or two.”

The family stayed through the night. Your sisters-in-law prepared tea with petals and orange blossom to “open the womb.” The King himself—Théo’s father—clapped him on the shoulder with a smirk at dinner. “Try her on her back first. Then side. Then knees. You’re young. Be thorough.”

You nearly choked on your wine.

Théo leaned to you, his voice low and wicked at your ear. “I might just follow all their advice… every single one.”

That night, the family stayed in the east wing.

You and Théo were left alone in the west.

The air was warm with firelight. The sheets were pearl white and smelled faintly of roses. You sat at the vanity, brushing out your hair in your nightgown, when he came behind you, bare-chested in silk trousers, his curls slightly damp.

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

You met his gaze in the mirror. “No.”

He smiled. “Good.”

He kissed your bare shoulder, then your neck. His hands moved with reverence, slipping your nightgown off with the care of unwrapping sacred cloth.

When he laid you back, it was not fast or wild — it was devotion. His hands knew only you. He whispered your name like a hymn, pressing into you slowly, deeply, as if he could write his lineage into your very soul.

And you whispered his back — mon roi, mon amour, as your legs wrapped around his waist, breath tangled in the lace canopy above you.

“Do you think they’ll hear?” you teased between gasps.

“I hope they do,” he answered, biting softly into your collarbone. “Let them know France will soon have its future.”

The lovemaking was long, dreamy, almost surreal. And when you both fell asleep in a nest of twisted sheets and sweaty silk, you could still feel the promise he made with every touch.

The Next Morning

You awoke wrapped in his arms, your cheek against his bare chest. Morning sun spilled across the bed, golden and gentle.

Before long, there was a knock.

Queen Marguerite entered without waiting. “Good morning, darlings,” she cooed, eyes scanning the mussed sheets and flushed cheeks. “Ah. Excellent. How are your hips, Élise?”

“I—I…” You turned red as a rose.

“Still intact,” Théo replied lazily, brushing a kiss to your shoulder. “But give us a few minutes and I’ll change that.”

Everyone insisted on breakfast in the grand salon — all smiles, all heir-driven. Toasts were made to your beauty, your glowing skin, your “fine, strong thighs,” as one aunt said with a proud nod.

You weren’t embarrassed anymore.

Because you could feel it — you belonged here. Loved not just as a royal, but as a woman. The Queen was already planning names. The King kept asking Théo if he’d tried certain angles for “maximizing royal potency.”

Later, Théo pulled you into the garden to escape them.

You walked barefoot through the violets as he hugged you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“We’ll give them what they want,” he murmured.

You turned to him, arms around his neck. “And what do you want?”

He kissed you slow.

“You. Always you. And if we must create heirs for France… then let them be born of silk, honey, and a thousand nights just like this.”