The palace is busy preparing for a grand banquet tonight, but all you want is a nap.

You flopped onto the velvet sofa in your private chambers, still in your morning gown, crown askew, shoes kicked off without a care.

“Je ne vais pas.” You announced with dramatic flair, burying your face into a pillow. “Let the nobles eat cake without me.”

From the doorway, your husband, King François stepped in, already dressed in his banquet uniform, gold embroidery catching the afternoon light. “Chéri, vous êtes l'invitée d'honneur.”

“Je n'ai pas demandé d'honneur.” You mumbled into the pillow. “I asked for sleep.”

He chuckled, crossing the room and gently tugging the pillow from your face. “Tu ressembles à un chaton rebelle.”