☆KC☆

A storm wearing a crown, she thought.

“Miss Bennett,” he said.

“Your Royal Highness.”

She dipped into a polite curtsy.

“You don’t have to do that every time you see me.”

“That’s good. My knees aren’t built for repeated diplomacy.”

His mouth twitched.

Not quite a smile, but close.

Finn gestured toward a chair. “Please.”

They sat across from each other.

He studied her application. “You taught for twelve years.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you leave?”

“My mother became ill. I moved home to care for her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

Finn looked down at the paper again. “Your mother passed away eighteen months ago.”

“She did.”

“And now you want to become a nanny?”

“I want to work with children again.”

“My siblings are not ordinary children.”

“Because they’re royal?”

“Because they’ve been through something no child should have to experience.”

Isabella’s expression softened.

Finn continued before she could offer him sympathy.

“Niamh is angry. Callum barely speaks. Orla believes our father is coming home.”

“And you?”

Finn frowned. “What about me?”

“How are you handling your father’s death?”

The room went silent.

No one asked him that.

People asked about the coronation.

They asked about the stability of the monarchy.

They asked whether he planned to marry.

No one asked how he was handling the loss of his father.

“That isn’t relevant to the position,” he said.

“With respect, Your Royal Highness, it is.”

His eyes sharpened.

Isabella remained calm.

“Children feel the emotions adults try to hide,” she explained. “Your siblings are grieving, but they’re also watching you. If you act as though sadness is something shameful, they may believe they have to hide theirs too.”

“You’ve been in the palace for seven minutes.”

“Eight.”

“And you’ve already decided I’m emotionally repressed?”

“I didn’t say repressed.”

“You implied it.”

“I was thinking constipated, emotionally speaking.”

Finn stared at her.

Isabella’s heart hammered, but she held his gaze.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.

It was brief and rough, as though the sound had not been used in months.

“You are either extremely brave,” he said, “or you have no sense of self-preservation.”

“A little of both.”

The sitting room door flew open.

A small girl in a pink nightgown rushed inside, clutching a stuffed rabbit by one ear.

“Finn!”

Orla ran directly to him.

He caught her and lifted her into his arms.

“What happened, love?”

“I had the dream again.”

Her lower lip trembled.

Finn held her against his chest. “You’re safe.”

Orla noticed Isabella over his shoulder.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Isabella.”

“Are you another doctor?”

“No.”

“A teacher?”

“I used to be.”

Orla narrowed her eyes. “Are you here because I’m bad?”

Finn’s face changed.

Pain flashed across it so quickly that another person might have missed it.

Isabella did not.

She stood and approached slowly.

“No,” she said. “I’m here because things have been difficult, and sometimes families need an extra pair of hands.”

Orla considered this.

“Can you braid hair?”

“I can.”

“Can you make pancakes shaped like dragons?”

“I’ve never tried.”

“That means no.”

“That means we may accidentally create pancakes shaped like potatoes.”

Orla looked at Finn. “I like her.”

Finn glanced at Isabella.

“So do I,” he said quietly.

She got the job that afternoon.

Her first week at Briarcliff Palace nearly destroyed her. The emotional weight of caring for three grieving children pressed on her shoulders, while the maze of royal rules and constant scrutiny from palace staff left her drained. Every day, she battled her own self-doubt, wondering if she could truly reach the siblings who shut her out or forgive herself for every small mistake. Each night, loneliness curled around her as she tried to settle into a home that was not yet hers. Niamh refused to attend breakfast. Callum locked himself in the library. Orla poured strawberry syrup into one of the grand pianos because she believed the instrument looked hungry. Isabella discovered that royal children were remarkably similar to other children, except their tantrums occasionally damaged historically significant furniture. On her fourth morning, she found Niamh sitting on the kitchen counter, eating chocolate cake directly from the serving tray.

“You aren’t supposed to be in here,” Niamh said.

“Neither are you.”

“I’m a princess.”

“I’m holding the key to the pantry.”

Niamh froze with the fork halfway to her mouth.

Isabella leaned against the counter.

“Rough morning?”

“I hate my school.”

“Why?”

“Everyone stares at me.”

“They probably don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t want them to say anything.”

“That’s fair.”

Niamh studied her suspiciously. “You’re not going to tell Finn about the cake?”

“I might.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“That’s accountability wearing a nice blouse.”

Niamh almost smiled.

Isabella picked up a second fork.

“Move over.”

They ate cake in silence until Niamh whispered, “My father used to let me have dessert for breakfast on my birthday.”

Isabella rested her fork on the tray.

“That sounds like an excellent tradition.”

“He said rules were important, but sometimes joy was more important.”

“He sounds wise.”

“He was.”

The word broke apart in Niamh’s mouth.

Isabella did not offer hollow reassurance. She did not say everything happened for a reason or that time healed all wounds.

She simply sat beside her.

After a moment, Niamh leaned her head against Isabella’s shoulder. Across the kitchen, Finn stood unnoticed in the doorway. He had been searching for his sister for twenty minutes. Instead of interrupting, he stepped back into the corridor. Something warm and painful moved through his chest. During Isabella’s second week, Callum spoke to her for the first time. She found him beneath the dining table during a state luncheon, his knees pulled to his chest while ambassadors and dignitaries searched the palace. Isabella crawled underneath and sat beside him. He did not look at her.

“You’re missing lunch,” she said.

Silence.

“There are tiny sandwiches.”

Nothing.

“They cut the crusts off.”

Callum picked at the carpet.

Isabella lowered her voice. “Too many people?”

He nodded.

“All of them are asking how you’re feeling?”

Another nod.

“That would annoy me too.”

Callum glanced at her.

“Adults ask questions when they’re afraid of silence,” Isabella said. “They think they have to fill every empty space.”

“They lie.”

His voice was so quiet she almost missed it.

“Sometimes.”

“They say Papa is watching us.”

Isabella swallowed.

“What do you think?”

“I think he’s gone.”

“I think so too.”

Callum’s eyes filled with tears. “Finn says Papa would want me to be brave.”

“Being brave doesn’t mean pretending you aren’t sad.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means being sad and still letting someone sit beside you.”

Callum leaned against her arm.

They remained beneath the table until the luncheon ended. By the end of the first month, Orla was sleeping through most nights. Callum had begun speaking during family meals. Niamh returned to school with the agreement that she could call Isabella whenever things became overwhelming.

And Finn began coming home earlier. At first, he told himself it was because the palace had become more organized. Then he claimed it was because his siblings needed him. The truth was more complicated.

He liked hearing Isabella’s laughter echo through the halls. He liked finding her in the kitchen, teaching Orla how to decorate biscuits while flour covered every available surface. He liked the way she challenged him when he became too strict.

“You cannot cancel Niamh’s riding lesson because she forgot one homework assignment,” Isabella told him one evening.

“She needs consequences.”

“She needs balance.”

“She needs discipline.”

“She needs a brother, Finn.”

The use of his name startled him.

Everyone now calls him Your Royal Highness. Ministers called him Sir. Staff members called him Your Highness. The press called him the future king.

Isabella called him Finn. And somehow, when she said it, he remembered he had been a man before he became an institution.

Months passed. Spring painted the palace grounds with wildflowers. Finn’s coronation approached, bringing endless meetings, fittings, ceremonies, and rehearsals. Through it all, Isabella remained the calm center of their household. She helped Orla learn to ride the bicycle that their father had promised to teach her.

Finn watched from the terrace as Isabella ran behind the little girl, one hand gripping the back of the seat.

“Don’t let go!” Orla screamed.

“I’m right here!”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Isabella released the bicycle.

Orla pedaled across the lawn by herself, shrieking with joy. Finn clapped as she circled the fountain. When Orla finally stopped, she threw herself into his arms.

“I did it!”

“You did.”

“Isabella let go, but I didn’t fall!”

Finn looked over Orla’s head. Isabella stood several feet away, breathless and smiling. For one reckless moment, he imagined her there years from now. Standing beside him during summer evenings.

Laughing with the children. Belonging to the palace. Belonging to him. The thought frightened him enough that he looked away. That evening, after the children were asleep, Finn found Isabella sitting alone on the garden steps. She held a cup of tea between both hands.

“You should be inside,” he said. “It’s cold.”

“So should you.”

He sat beside her.

For a while, neither spoke. The palace windows glowed behind them.

“My father loved this garden,” Finn said eventually. “He planted those roses with my mother before she died.”

“I didn’t know.”

“He kept them alive after she was gone. Even when he became ill.”

Isabella looked toward the rose bushes.

“They’re beautiful.”

“He used to say grief was love with nowhere to go.”

Her eyes lowered.

Finn studied her profile. “Do you still miss your mother?”

“Every day.”

“Does it become easier?”

“No.”

The answer surprised him. Isabella turned toward him.

“But you become stronger around it,” she continued. “At first, grief fills the whole room. Eventually, you build a life large enough to hold it without letting it crush everything else.”

Finn stared into the darkness.

“I don’t know how to build that life.”

“You already are.”

He looked at her.

“Callum laughs again,” she said. “Niamh trusts you enough to argue with you. Orla talks about her father without believing she has to hide her tears. You’re building it every day.”

“We’re building it.”

The words emerged before he could stop them.

Isabella’s breath caught.

Finn could have corrected himself. He could have retreated behind his title and responsibilities. Instead, he reached over and brushed a loose curl away from her cheek. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers.

“Isabella,” he whispered.

The air changed.

The distance between them became suddenly fragile.

Her eyes moved to his mouth. Finn leaned closer. Then a tiny voice called from behind them.

“Isabella?”

They pulled apart.

Orla stood in the doorway, hugging her rabbit.

“I can’t sleep.”

Isabella rose immediately. “I’m coming.”

Orla reached for her hand.

Before Isabella followed her inside, she glanced back at Finn. The unfinished moment remained between them, glowing quietly in the darkness. Finn sat alone on the garden steps long after they had gone. He had hired Isabella because his siblings needed someone to stay with them. He had not expected her to mend the broken rhythm of their family. He had not expected her to bring warmth back into rooms that had felt cold since his father died.

And he certainly had not expected to fall in love with her.

But as days had turned into weeks, and weeks had folded softly into months, Isabella had become part of every corner of his life.

Now Finn faced a truth more frightening than any royal duty. The future king had given his heart to the one woman he could not command to keep it. The palace was quieter at night.

Not truly silent, of course. Briarcliff Palace was too old for silence. Pipes groaned behind stone walls, floorboards whispered beneath careful footsteps, and the wind often slipped around the towers with the low murmur of someone telling secrets. But after the children went to bed, the vast halls settled into something peaceful. Earlier, the palace had been filled with the noise and bustle of bedtime routines, faint music drifting through corridors, and the shifting patterns of staff completing their nightly rounds. Now, as the hush deepened, the story moved from the children's quarters to a different corner of Briarcliff Palace. 

That evening, Finn was trapped in the west wing with his advisors, reviewing security plans for the coronation. Niamh had finished her homework without argument, Callum was reading in bed, and Orla had requested three stories, two glasses of water, and a solemn promise that dragons could not enter through locked windows.

Isabella had given her the promise. Now she stood in the palace kitchen warming milk for Callum, who had complained that he could not sleep. She wore a soft green cardigan over her dress, her curls gathered loosely at the back of her head. The kitchen staff had retired for the evening, leaving only the low hum of the refrigerators and the gentle ticking of the clock above the pantry door. Isabella poured the milk into a small silver pot.

“Working late again?”

She turned.

One of the royal guards stood in the doorway.

Lieutenant Marcus Hale.

He had been assigned to the palace’s interior security team several weeks earlier. Isabella had seen him stationed near the schoolroom and walking the eastern corridors, but they had never spoken beyond polite greetings.

“Callum couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I’m making him warm milk.”

Marcus entered the kitchen.

“You’re very devoted.”

“They’re good children.”

“They seem fond of you.”

Isabella gave him a brief smile, then turned back toward the stove. The guard did not leave.

Instead, he moved closer. Too close.

Isabella felt his presence behind her before she saw his reflection in the dark kitchen window. She shifted to the side.

“Was there something you needed, Lieutenant?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

His voice had changed.

The friendliness had sharpened into something that made the back of her neck tighten.

“No,” Isabella said. “I’m fine.”

Marcus leaned against the counter beside her.

“You spend nearly every evening alone.”

“I spend them with the children.”

“You know what I mean.”

Isabella reached for the wooden spoon.

“Actually, I don’t.”

He laughed under his breath.

“The prince keeps you busy.”

“Prince Finn is my employer.”

“Is that all he is?”

She looked at him.

“That is none of your concern.”

His smile faded slightly.

“I’ve seen the way he watches you.”

Isabella lifted the pot from the stove.

“Excuse me.”

She moved toward the door.

Marcus stepped into her path.

Her grip tightened around the pot handle.

“Please move.”

“Don’t be so serious.”

“I asked you to move.”

He reached out and touched her waist.

Isabella froze.

The contact lasted only a moment, but it was enough. A cold, sick feeling twisted through her stomach. She stepped back quickly, nearly striking the counter.

“Do not touch me.”

Marcus lifted his hands as though she were overreacting.

“Calm down.”

“I said, don’t touch me.”

“I was only being friendly.”

“That was not friendly.”

She tried to move past him again.

Marcus caught her wrist.

Isabella’s breath stopped.

“Let go of me.”

“Isabella.”

“Let go.”

A voice thundered from the doorway.

“Remove your hand.”

Marcus released her instantly.

Finn stood at the kitchen entrance.

He had removed his suit jacket, but the rest of him was still dressed for his council meeting. His white shirt sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and his dark tie hung loose around his neck. His expression was terrifyingly calm. Isabella had seen Finn angry before. She had seen him frustrated by politicians, irritated by newspaper stories, and furious when Niamh’s school failed to protect her privacy.

This was different. This was the stillness before lightning struck. Marcus straightened.

“Your Royal Highness.”

Finn walked into the kitchen. His eyes went first to Isabella’s wrist. Then to her face. She must have looked shaken, because his expression hardened further. He moved between them without hesitation.

“What happened?”

Marcus began speaking immediately.

“It was a misunderstanding, Sir.”

Finn did not look at him.

He kept his eyes on Isabella.

“I asked her a question,” Marcus continued. “She became upset.”

Finn’s voice was low.

“I was not asking you.”

Marcus fell silent.

Finn turned slightly toward Isabella, carefully keeping himself between her and the guard.

“What happened?”

Isabella opened her mouth, but no words came. Her heart was pounding so hard that she could hear it. Finn’s anger softened the moment he saw her struggle.

“You are safe,” he said quietly. “Take your time.”

She swallowed.

“He came into the kitchen.”

Finn waited.

“He started asking me personal questions.”

Marcus shifted behind him.

Isabella stared at the floor.

“I tried to leave, but he blocked the door.”

Finn’s jaw tightened.

“He touched my waist.”

The kitchen became deathly quiet.

“And when I tried to walk away, he grabbed my wrist.”

Finn slowly turned toward Marcus.

The guard’s face had gone pale.

“Is that true?”

Marcus shook his head.

“Sir, she’s making it sound worse than it was.”

Finn took one step forward. Marcus immediately stepped back.

“She said no.”

“I didn’t hurt her.”

“She told you not to touch her.”

“It was nothing.”

Finn’s voice sharpened.

“It was nothing.”

Marcus glanced toward Isabella.

“I was only flirting.”

Finn moved again, blocking his view of her.

“Do not look at her.”

“Sir.”

“You used your position to corner a woman who should have been safe in this palace.”

Marcus lowered his voice.

“I made a mistake.”

“A mistake is entering the wrong room. A mistake is misreading a schedule.”

Finn pointed toward Isabella.

“She told you to move, and you refused. She told you not to touch her, and you grabbed her.”

Marcus stood rigidly.

Finn’s eyes burned.

“You crossed a line that should never have required explanation.”

“I apologize.”

“You will not address her.”

Finn stepped closer.

“You will not speak to her. You will not approach her. You will not enter any room where she is alone.”

Marcus swallowed.

“Understood.”

“No,” Finn said. “I don’t believe you do.”

He turned toward the hall.

“Guard!”

Two officers appeared almost immediately. Finn’s tone became formal.

“Lieutenant Hale is relieved of duty. Remove his weapon and escort him to the east security office.”

Marcus stared at him.

“Sir, please.”

“There will be an investigation.”

“My career will be destroyed.”

Finn looked at him coldly.

“You should have considered that before you placed your hands on someone without permission.”

The officers approached Marcus. He glanced toward Isabella once more. Finn stepped directly into his path.

“You will leave this kitchen without looking at her again.”

Marcus’s shoulders dropped. The officers removed his ceremonial sword and escorted him away. The door closed. For several seconds, Finn remained facing it. His fists were clenched at his sides. Then he turned toward Isabella. The fury disappeared from his face almost instantly. What replaced it was concern.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t think so.”

Finn glanced at her wrist. A faint red mark had begun to appear where Marcus had grabbed her. His mouth tightened.

“May I see?”

The question caught her off guard. He did not reach for her. He waited. Isabella slowly held out her arm. Finn examined the mark without touching it.

“I’ll call the physician.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“It may bruise.”

“Finn.”

He looked up.

“I’m all right.”

He searched her face.

“You are not all right.”

The gentleness in his voice nearly broke her.

Isabella blinked quickly.

“I should take Callum his milk.”

Finn looked toward the pot sitting forgotten on the counter.

“The milk can wait.”

“He needs me.”

“So do you.”

Her lips parted.

Finn moved closer, but stopped before entering her space.

“May I touch you?”

Isabella’s throat tightened. The fact that he asked, so soon after someone else had taken that choice away from her, made tears sting her eyes. She nodded. Finn placed his hands gently on her shoulders. Nothing more. His touch was careful and steady.

“You did nothing wrong,” he said.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“I should have called for help sooner.”

“No.”

“I should have shouted.”

“No, Isabella.”

“I froze.”

Finn’s voice became firmer.

“You do not have to defend the way you survived a frightening moment.”

She lowered her head.

“He made me feel foolish.”

“He should feel ashamed.”

“I didn’t want trouble.”

“You did not create trouble. He did.”

Finn lifted one hand from her shoulder and slowly brushed the tear from her cheek. His thumb barely touched her skin.

“I brought you into this palace,” he said. “I promised you that you would be protected here.”

“You never promised me that.”

“I promised myself.”

She looked at him. Pain shadowed his expression.

“I saw your face when I entered the kitchen,” he continued. “For one second, you looked frightened of this place.”

“I wasn’t frightened of the palace.”

“But you were frightened.”

“Yes.”

Finn exhaled slowly.

“I should have reached you sooner.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have.”

“Finn, you cannot be in every room.”

“I can make certain the people guarding those rooms are worthy of the responsibility.”

Isabella’s voice softened.

“What will happen to him?”

“There will be an official investigation. He will be suspended immediately. You may provide a statement when you are ready.”

She hesitated.

“Do I have to?”

“No.”

Finn answered without pause.

“No one will force you to speak before you are ready. No one will question you alone. You may have me, Declan, or another person you trust present.”

“Won’t people talk?”

“Let them.”

“The newspapers may hear about it.”

“Then the newspapers will report that a royal guard violated palace conduct and was removed.”

“They may blame me.”

Finn’s eyes darkened again.

“Then they will answer to me.”

She gave a shaky laugh.

“You cannot fight every newspaper in the kingdom.”

“I can make a respectable attempt.”

The faint smile that crossed her face eased something inside him.

Finn lowered his hands.

“Would you like me to call Niamh?”

“Niamh?”

“She trusts you. And she has expressed a strong desire to throw something at nearly every guard in the palace.”

Despite herself, Isabella laughed.

Finn’s mouth curved.

“There she is.”

“Who?”

“You.”

The room became quieter. The fear had not vanished, but the air no longer felt suffocating. Finn took the pot from the counter.

“I’ll bring this to Callum.”

“You?”

“I am capable of carrying milk.”

“You once burned tea.”

“That kettle was defective.”

“You placed it on the stove without water.”

“A design flaw.”

Isabella wiped her cheek.

“Callum likes honey in it.”

“How much?”

“One spoon.”

Finn picked up a spoon.

“That is a ridiculous amount of honey.”

“He’s nine.”

“He has royal teeth.”

She smiled again.

Finn poured the milk into a cup, then paused.

“Isabella.”

“Yes?”

“If you would prefer to leave the palace tonight, I will arrange it.”

Her expression changed.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

The answer came too quickly.

Finn steadied himself.

“No,” he repeated more softly. “But I want you to choose what makes you feel safest.”

Isabella looked around the kitchen. At the warm lights. At the milk prepared for Callum. Finn was standing in front of her with concern written across every line of his face.

“I want to stay.”

Finn’s shoulders loosened.

“Then you will stay.”

He carried the cup toward the door.

Isabella followed, but stopped when he turned back.

“One more thing,” Finn said.

“What?”

“You will not walk through the palace alone tonight.”

“I’m not helpless.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

“Because protection is not an insult.”

She studied him.

“And who is supposed to escort me?”

Finn held out his hand.

“The prince.”

Her eyes dropped to his palm. Then she placed her hand in his. Finn’s fingers closed gently around hers. Together, they walked through the dark palace corridors toward the children’s rooms. When they reached Callum’s door, Finn stopped.

“I meant what I said.”

“About the investigation?”

“About all of it.”

His thumb moved once across the back of her hand.

“You did nothing wrong.”

Isabella nodded.

Finn’s gaze held hers.

“And no one will ever place their hands on you in this palace again without your permission.”

The words were not possessive. They were a vow. Isabella squeezed his hand.

“Thank you.”

Finn lifted her fingers and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. His eyes never left hers.

“You never have to thank me for standing beside you.”

From inside the bedroom, Callum called sleepily, “Is my milk ready?”

Isabella and Finn pulled apart. Finn opened the door.

“Yes,” he answered. “And apparently it contains enough honey to bankrupt the kingdom.”

Callum sat up in bed.

“That was Isabella’s idea.”

Finn glanced at her over his shoulder.

“Of course it was.”

Isabella smiled. The evening had shaken her, but as she watched Finn sit beside his brother and test the milk to make sure it was not too hot, she felt something settle inside her. The palace no longer felt frightening. Not with Finn there. And Finn, watching Isabella tuck Callum’s blanket around his shoulders, understood something with absolute certainty. His love for her was no longer quiet.It had teeth now. Not the kind that controlled or claimed. The kind that stood at the door, drew a line, and dared anyone to cross it again.

By the beginning of summer, Isabella had been living at Briarcliff Palace for nearly six months. In that time, the sharp ache of the family's loss had dulled into something quieter but still present, like a bruise just beneath the skin. The children trusted her now in different ways: Orla threw her arms around Isabella each morning, Callum waited for her opinion on each new song he learned, and even Niamh sometimes confided secrets she would not tell her friends. Finn, once remote except in crisis, now sought her out in quieter moments, his presence gentler, his laughter easier around her. The palace, unfamiliar and forbidding in those cold early days, had slowly become a place where warmth, belonging, and subtle hope began to bloom alongside the children’s healing. The palace no longer felt like a maze of marble corridors and locked doors. It had become a home filled with familiar sounds.

Orla’s footsteps race down the hallway every morning. Callum practiced the piano, stopping whenever he made a mistake, then beginning again with stubborn determination. Niamh is arguing with her tutors as though every history lesson were a parliamentary debate.

And Finn.

Finn’s voice was coming from the library late at night. Finn’s laughter drifted through the garden when Orla convinced him to play hide-and-seek. Finn’s quiet knock against the schoolroom door whenever he returned from his royal duties. Sometimes he claimed he was checking on his siblings.

Isabella knew better. He would enter the room, ask the children about their day, then somehow find himself standing beside her desk while she organized lesson plans.

“How was the meeting?” she would ask.

“Unbearable.”

“You say that about every meeting.”

“Because every meeting is unbearable.”

“You are going to be king.”

“That does not make committees less irritating.”

Then he would remain there, speaking with her about things that had nothing to do with his schedule, the government, or the crown. He told her about the summer holidays he had taken with his father as a child. He confessed that he hated formal dances because he could never remember where to place his hands. He admitted that he sometimes rode his motorcycle beyond the palace gates simply to feel like no one knew who he was.

And Isabella listened.

She listened far too closely. She noticed the way Finn rubbed the back of his neck when he was tired. She noticed how his expression softened whenever Callum laughed. She noticed how he always made sure she had eaten, even when he skipped meals himself. Her feelings had begun as admiration.

Then admiration became affection. And affection slowly turned into something she could no longer pretend was harmless.

Isabella had a crush on the future king. Not a small one. Not the sort that could be tucked neatly away and forgotten. It had become a persistent warmth beneath her ribs, appearing every time Finn smiled at her or said her name in that low, gentle voice.

She reminded herself daily that he was her employer. She reminded herself that she had been hired to care for his siblings. She reminded herself that men like Finn married duchesses, princesses, and women whose family trees appeared in history books. They did not fall in love with nannies who occasionally burned biscuits and argued with them about bedtime.

Unfortunately, her heart had never shown much respect for logic.

One afternoon, Isabella stood inside Niamh’s bedroom helping her choose a dress for the Royal Children’s Foundation Gala. The annual event raised money for schools, hospitals, and grief counseling programs across the kingdom. It was also the first major royal event Finn would host without his father.

Niamh held up a glittering silver gown.

“Too much?”

“Much too much.”

Niamh grinned. “Perfect.”

“You are thirteen.”

“I’m nearly fourteen.”

“That is still thirteen wearing ambition.”

Orla sat on the carpet, surrounded by shoes and ribbons.

“I want to wear my crown.”

“You cannot wear a crown to every event,” Niamh said.

“Why not?”

“Because you look ridiculous.”

Orla gasped.

Isabella turned toward Niamh. “Apologize.”

“She does.”

“Niamh.”

Niamh sighed. “You do not look ridiculous. You look slightly excessive.”

Orla accepted this compromise.

A knock sounded against the open door. Finn entered wearing dark trousers and a white shirt. His jacket was draped over one arm, and his tie hung loose around his neck.

Isabella’s hands stopped moving. He had not even finished dressing, yet he already looked unfairly handsome. Niamh glanced between them. Something knowing appeared in her eyes.

Isabella immediately turned back toward the dresses. Finn cleared his throat.

“Declan said there was a clothing emergency.”

“There is,” Niamh answered. “Isabella refuses to admit silver is appropriate for charity.”

“It is appropriate for a chandelier,” Isabella said.

Finn walked farther into the room. His gaze found Isabella. It always found her.

“What are you wearing tonight?” he asked.

“I’m not attending.”

The room fell silent.

Finn frowned. “Why not?”

“I’ll stay here with the children.”

“We are going,” Niamh said.

Isabella looked at her. “I thought you wanted to stay home.”

“I changed my mind twenty seconds ago.”

Callum appeared behind Finn in the doorway.

“Isabella has to come.”

“I do not have an invitation,” Isabella said.

Finn’s eyes remained on hers.

“You do now.”

She folded a dress and placed it on the bed.

“Finn, this is a royal gala.”

“Yes.”

“There will be ministers, diplomats, and half the aristocracy.”

“I am aware. I was unfortunate enough to invite them.”

She tried not to smile.

“I would be out of place.”

Finn stepped closer.

“No, you wouldn’t.”

The softness in his voice made her chest ache. Niamh leaned toward Callum and whispered loudly, “He’s doing the staring thing again.”

Finn turned. “What staring thing?”

“Nothing,” Callum answered quickly.

Orla climbed to her feet.

“Isabella needs a princess dress.”

“She does not,” Isabella said.

“She does,” Niamh replied. “And I know exactly which one.”

Before Isabella could object, Niamh grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the wardrobe room. Three hours later, Isabella stood in front of a mirror wearing a deep emerald gown. The dress had a graceful neckline, fitted sleeves, and a skirt that moved like water around her legs. Her curls fell around her shoulders, held back on one side by a delicate gold comb. She hardly recognized herself.

Niamh stood behind her, looking proud.

“You’re welcome.”

“I feel as though I’m wearing someone else’s life.”

“You look beautiful.”

Isabella met Niamh’s eyes in the mirror.

The girl’s teasing expression had softened.

“Truly,” Niamh said. “You do.”

Isabella turned and hugged her.

Niamh pretended to protest, but wrapped her arms tightly around Isabella’s waist. When they descended the grand staircase together, the palace entrance hall was filled with guests and staff preparing to leave. Finn stood at the bottom of the stairs speaking with Declan. He wore a black tuxedo with a dark green sash representing the royal house. A silver medal rested against his chest, and the royal insignia was pinned near his heart.

He looked every bit the future king. Then he glanced up. His conversation stopped. Isabella paused halfway down the staircase. Finn stared at her.

Not politely. Not casually. He looked at her as though the rest of the palace had disappeared. Declan followed his gaze and smiled to himself. Finn slowly approached the stairs.

“Isabella.”

She descended the final steps.

“Your Royal Highness.”

His brow furrowed.

“You never call me that.”

“There are people watching.”

“I don’t care.”

Her heartbeat stumbled.

Finn looked over her gown, then back into her eyes.

“You look…”

His voice failed.

Niamh appeared behind Isabella.

“Beautiful,” she supplied.

Finn did not look away.

“Yes.”

The word was quiet.

“Beautiful.”

Warmth flooded Isabella’s cheeks.

“You look very handsome,” she said.

Finn adjusted his cuff.

“I was told the jacket was mandatory.”

“I think the jacket may be innocent.”

His mouth curved.

A photographer called for the royal family to gather near the entrance. Finn offered Isabella his arm.

She hesitated.

“I’m staff.”

“Tonight you are my guest.”

People were watching.

Whispers had already begun around the hall. Isabella should have stepped away. Instead, she placed her hand on his arm. Finn’s gaze dropped briefly to her fingers. Then he escorted her into the waiting motorcade. The gala was held inside the Royal Conservatory, a glass-domed building overlooking the capital. Hundreds of candles illuminated the ballroom. White roses climbed the pillars, and a string orchestra played beneath the enormous dome. Isabella remained close to the children at first.

It was safer that way. Orla was fascinated by the miniature cakes. Callum became nervous whenever reporters approached. Niamh kept commenting on the hats worn by elderly duchesses.

Finn moved through the room, greeting dignitaries and donors, but his attention repeatedly returned to Isabella.

Every time she looked up, he was watching her. Sometimes from across the ballroom. Sometimes, while another person spoke to him. Sometimes, with an expression so open that she had to look away. Eventually, Finn stepped onto the stage to deliver the evening’s address.

The room grew quiet. He stood at the podium beneath the royal seal.

“When my father founded the Royal Children’s Foundation fifteen years ago, he believed every child deserved stability, safety, and the knowledge that someone would remain beside them during difficult times.”

Finn paused. The grief in his face was visible, but he did not hide it.

“My family has learned a great deal about grief this year. We have also learned that healing rarely arrives through grand gestures. Sometimes it arrives through patience. Through laughter. Through someone sitting beneath a dining table because a child is afraid to face a crowded room.”

Isabella’s breath caught. Callum reached for her hand. Finn looked directly at her.

“Sometimes family is not defined by blood, title, or tradition. Sometimes family is the person who enters a broken house and helps it become a home again.”

The ballroom was completely silent. Isabella’s eyes filled with tears. Finn looked down at his notes, perhaps realizing he had revealed more than intended. Then he finished the speech, thanked the donors, and stepped away from the podium. Applause filled the conservatory.Niamh leaned close to Isabella.

“That speech was about you.”

“It was about the foundation.”

“It was about you.”

Before Isabella could respond, several guests surrounded Finn. She watched him shake hands and accept praise, but the room suddenly felt too warm.

“I need some air,” she told Niamh.

She slipped through a side door and entered the moonlit gardens. The sounds of the gala softened behind her. She walked along a stone path until she reached a fountain surrounded by roses. Her emotions felt tangled.

Joy. Fear. Hope.

All of them are dangerous. She heard footsteps behind her.

“Isabella.”

She closed her eyes.

Finn. He approached slowly.

“You left.”

“I needed a moment.”

“Was it my speech?”

She turned toward him.

“You shouldn’t have said those things.”

His expression fell.

“I embarrassed you.”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

Isabella looked toward the fountain.

“You made it sound as though I belong with your family.”

“You do.”

Her heart beat painfully.

“I am your employee.”

“You are much more than that.”

“Finn.”

He moved closer.

“Tell me what I said that wasn’t true.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Then what is?”

She struggled to answer.

The moonlight reflected in his eyes. His formal jacket suddenly seemed at odds with the vulnerable man standing before her.

“You are going to be king,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“And I am the nanny.”

“You are Isabella.”

“To you, perhaps. But not to the people inside that ballroom.”

Finn glanced back toward the conservatory.

“I have spent my entire life surrounded by people who care about titles. I have never been more myself than I am when I’m with you.”

She looked at him.

Finn’s voice grew quieter.

“When my father died, I thought everything warm in this family had died with him. The children were hurting. I was failing them. Every room in the palace felt empty.”

He stepped closer.

“Then you arrived.”

Isabella’s eyes burned.

“You brought Orla’s laughter back. You gave Callum permission to speak. You taught Niamh that anger did not make her difficult to love.”

His jaw tightened.

“And you reminded me that I was still a man beneath all of this.”

He gestured toward his sash and medals. Isabella’s breath trembled.

“Finn, don’t.”

“I have tried not to.”

“Tried not to what?”

His eyes held hers.

“Love you.”

The garden seemed to go still.

Even the music behind them faded into nothing.

Isabella stared at him. Finn exhaled, as though the confession had taken the last of his strength.

“I have tried to call it gratitude,” he continued. “Then admiration. Then friendship.”

A sad smile crossed his face.

“I ran out of lies.”

She could barely speak.

“How long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Finn.”

“Perhaps the first time you told me I was emotionally constipated.”

A startled laugh escaped her.

“That cannot be the moment you fell in love with me.”

“It certainly made an impression.”

She shook her head, wiping a tear from her cheek. Finn grew serious again.

“I knew when Orla learned to ride her bicycle.”

Isabella remembered that afternoon. The sunlight. Orla’s laughter. Finn is watching from the terrace.

“I looked at you standing in the garden, and I saw you in every future I wanted.”

Her chest tightened.

“That isn’t fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“You cannot say something like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I have been trying not to love you too.”

Finn froze.

The vulnerability in his face was replaced by stunned hope.

“You love me?”

Isabella lowered her gaze.

“I tried not to.”

He took another step closer.

“Look at me.”

She did.

“I knew it was impossible,” she said. “You’re my employer. You’re a prince. Soon you’ll be king.”

“None of that answers my question.”

She swallowed.

“Yes.”

Finn’s expression softened.

“Yes, what?”

She gave him a watery smile.

“I love you.”

The words left her in a whisper. Finn closed his eyes briefly, relief washing across his face. When he opened them, he lifted one hand but stopped before touching her.

“May I?”

Isabella nodded. His fingers brushed her cheek. The touch was gentle.

Careful. Nothing like the touch she had endured in the kitchen months before. Finn’s thumb moved beneath her eye, catching a tear.

“I have imagined this so many times,” he admitted.

“You imagining things sounds dangerous.”

“It has become a serious distraction during council meetings.”

She laughed softly. Finn’s other hand settled at her waist only after she leaned closer. Their bodies were separated by barely an inch.

“Isabella,” he whispered, “if I kiss you, everything changes.”

“Everything changed before tonight.”

His forehead rested against hers.

“What about your position?”

“I don’t know.”

“The press?”

“I don’t know.”

“The crown?”

She looked into his eyes.

“I don’t know, Finn.”

He nodded.

For once, he did not demand a plan. He did not search for a solution. He simply stayed with her in the uncertainty.

“We can decide tomorrow,” he said.

“And tonight?”

“Tonight I would very much like to kiss the woman I love.”

Isabella smiled.

“You’re usually less polite.”

“I’m attempting not to frighten you.”

“You don’t.”

His eyes moved to her lips.

“May I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

Finn closed the distance between them. Their first kiss was soft. Almost hesitant. His lips brushed hers as though he feared the moment would disappear if he moved too quickly. Isabella’s hand rose to his chest, her fingers curling against the edge of his jacket. Finn kissed her again. This time, the restraint cracked. His arm tightened around her waist, drawing her close. Isabella slid her hand to the back of his neck as the months of hidden glances, unfinished conversations, and quiet longing poured into the kiss. When they finally separated, both were breathless. Finn kept his forehead against hers.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“I may have some idea.”

He smiled. A real smile. Not the careful public expression of a prince. The smile of a man who had finally been given something he had been afraid to ask for. Voices echoed from the conservatory. Isabella stepped back slightly.

“We should return.”

“We should.”

Neither moved.

“Finn.”

“Yes?”

“We are not behaving responsibly.”

“I have behaved responsibly for forty-three years. I believe I have earned three more minutes.”

She laughed. He kissed her forehead. Then her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth.

“That was more than three minutes,” she murmured.

“I’m a prince. We measure time differently.”

“That is not a royal privilege.”

“I will have it added to the constitution.”

She rested her head against his chest.

For a moment, Finn simply held her.

His chin rested against her curls as the orchestra began another song inside.

“I’m afraid,” Isabella admitted.

“So am I.”

She leaned back to look at him.

“You are?”

“Terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Of hurting you. Of the palace, turning something beautiful into a public argument. Of asking you to remain in a life you never chose.”

She placed her hand against his cheek.

“I chose to stay.”

“As the children’s nanny.”

“At first.”

Finn covered her hand with his.

“I will not hide you,” he said. “But I will not expose you before you’re ready either.”

“And the children?”

“We tell them together.”

Isabella smiled.

“Niamh already knows.”

Finn frowned. “How?”

“She has eyes.”

“That child is disturbingly observant.”

“She also caught you staring at me on the staircase.”

“I was not staring.”

“You forgot how to speak.”

“I was overcome by the architecture.”

“The architecture was behind you.”

Finn sighed.

“Niamh will be unbearable.”

“She will be delighted.”

“Those conditions are not mutually exclusive.”

A burst of laughter escaped Isabella. Finn looked at her with such affection that her smile slowly softened.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“That is clearly nothing.”

“I’m happy.”

The simple confession pierced her more deeply than all the romantic declarations. Finn had spent months carrying duty, grief, and fear. Now, beneath the moonlight, he looked peaceful. Isabella squeezed his hand.

“So am I.”

They returned to the gala several minutes later. Not touching. Not officially. But the secret moved between them like a current. Niamh noticed immediately. Her eyes narrowed as she examined Isabella’s flushed cheeks and Finn’s poorly concealed smile.

“You kissed,” she whispered.

Isabella nearly stumbled. Finn cleared his throat. “That is not an appropriate question.”

“That means yes.”

Callum looked up from his dessert.

“Who kissed?”

“No one,” Finn answered.

Niamh grinned.

“Finn and Isabella.”

Orla dropped her spoon.

“You kissed Isabella?”

Several nearby guests turned. Finn closed his eyes.

Isabella covered her face with one hand. Orla climbed down from her chair and ran toward them.

“Are you getting married?”

“We have only just kissed,” Isabella whispered.

“Papa said you kiss someone before you marry them.”

“There are several steps between those events,” Finn said.

“How many?”

Finn glanced helplessly at Isabella.

She bit back a laugh.

Niamh folded her arms.

“I approve.”

“No one requested your approval,” Finn replied.

“You would have received it anyway.”

Callum studied Finn.

“Does this mean Isabella is staying?”

The question erased the humor from the moment. Finn looked at Isabella. She saw the fear in Callum’s face. The fear that someone else he loved might disappear. Isabella knelt in front of him.

“I’m staying.”

“You promise?”

She took his hands.

“I promise.”

Callum wrapped his arms around her. Orla joined the hug immediately. Niamh pretended she was too old, then bent down and wrapped her arms around all three of them. Finn stood watching.

His family. Broken once.Healing now. Isabella looked up at him over the children’s heads.

“Are you joining us?”

Finn glanced around the ballroom. Diplomats were watching. Reporters were whispering. The royal photographer had already raised his camera.

Finn did not care. He knelt and wrapped his arms around them. For the first time since his father’s death, the future did not feel like something he had to endure.

It felt warm. It felt alive. It felt like Isabella.

And when the orchestra began playing again, Finn knew the music had changed. Not only for that evening.For the rest of his life. When the gala was over, everyone rode in silence back to the palace. Isabella’s mind was running as she replayed the kiss in her head. The feeling of Finn’s hand on her thigh brought her back to reality. 

“Are you okay?” Finn asked

Yeah, just thinking about everything that just happened.” Isabella said, looking out the window. 

“Listen, no matter what happens, we are in this together,” Finn said, giving Isabella a smirk.

Isabella smiled. 

When the limo stopped, everyone filed out and headed inside.  Isabella helped the kids get ready for bed and made sure everyone was tucked in. She was getting ready for bed when there was a knock on her door.  She put on her dressing gown and opened the door to see Finn on the other side. He had changed out of his suit, and he was wearing his dressing gown. He smiled when Isabella opened the door. 

“Is everything okay?” Isabella asked. 

“Yes, I just wanted to make sure you are okay.

“Come in…” Isabella said as she moved out of the way. 

Finn walked into Isabella’s room and looked around.  Isabella closed the door behind her, and she turned around to see Finn looking around. Isabella’s heart fluttered in her chest. She never thought she would be so close to Finn. Isabella’s eyes grew wide as she watched Finn turn around and walk towards her. 

“I know I don’t say this enough, but thank you for everything you do for us,” Finn said as he reached out and held Isabella’s wrist. 

“I love working here,”  was all Isabella would say. The feel of Finn’s hands on her made her lose her train of thought. 

Finn looked down at his hand and smiled. He lifted Isabella’s wrist to his lips and placed a soft kiss on her pulse point. Isabella bit down on her bottom lip as she felt Finn’s soft lips on her skin.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since I saw you tonight, walking down the stairs with the kids,” Finn said, kissing up Isabella’s arm. 

“So do it…” Isabella whispered.

Finn held Isabella’s face and pulled her close. He pressed her lips against hers. The kiss was soft and slow, giving Isabella all the time to pull away. But Isabella wrapped her arms around Finn’s neck and pulled him closer. When they broke the kiss, they rested their foreheads against each other.  Isabella lowered her hands to Finn’s chest. She could feel his heart beating under her palm. Isabella pushed Finn towards the bed until Finn’s knees hit the edge of the bed. 

“Isabella.. Are you sure you want to do this?” Finn asked.

“Yes, I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time,” Isabella whispered. 

Finn grabbed Isabella’s hips and flipped her onto the bed. He got between Isabella’s legs and leaned down and kissed her. He moved his kiss to her neck and down her chest. He pulled open her dressing gown and bit his bottom lip. He kissed Isabella’s chest, taking her breast into his mouth. Isabella’s back arched off the bed as she moaned at Finn’s touch.  Isabella reached up and started to tug on Finn’s head as he moved his way down her body. When he reached her lower waist, he inhaled her scent and smiled up at her. 

“You are so beautiful,” Finn said, his voice an octave lower and husky.

Isabella blushed, and she moaned as Finn started to rub her wet folds. 

“Finn…” Isabella moaned. 

“What do you need?” Finn asked. 

“I need you…” Isabella moaned. 

“I got you…” Finn said, entering Isabella with his fingers. 

Finn moved in and out of Isabella, causing her to moan louder and tug on Finn’s hair. Before she could say anything, she felt a knot forming in her stomach. 

Finn… I’m going to cum” Isabella moaned. 

Finn moved faster, and Isabella’s back arched off the bed. She moaned and yelled his name as her climax hit her.

Finn pulled his fingers out and looked down on Isabella and smiled. 

“Are you ready for more?” Finn asked. 

Isabella bit down on her lip and shook her head yes. Finn leaned down and kissed Isabella with passion and lust. He entered Isabella, and he moaned at her tightness.

“Damn…” Finn moaned as he moved in and out of Isabella.

Isabella grabbed onto Finn’s biceps, and her nails sank into his skin.  Finn hissed at the sting from her nails into his skin. 

Isabella and Finn had sex in every position you can think of. Isabella was on top, straddling Finn’s waist, when she felt the familiar knot filling her stomach again.

“Finn…” Iabella moaned, Finn held on to Isabella’s waist and thrust up into her, causing her to moan loudly as her climax hit her again. 

Isabella collapsed on Finn’s chest, and he flipped her over and continued thrusting until he felt his climax begin to build.  Finn held on to Isabella’s hips tight as his climax hit him and he emptied out in Isabella. 

Finn collapsed on Isabella's chest, trying to catch his breath. He looked at Isabella and smiled as he pulled himself out of her slowly. Isabella gasped at the empty feeling. 

Finn moved to her side and lay next to her on the bed. 

“Are you okay?” Finn asked as he rolled over on his side. 

Isabella smiled, her face warm and pink from the escapades. 

“Yes, I’m okay. 

Isabella turned around and kissed Finn on his lips as he wrapped his arms around her. 

As their breathing evened out and their eyes became heavy with sleep. Isabella smiled as she laid her head on Finn’s chest and her eyes drifted off to sleep. 

And as the palace settled into a new season, the future, once uncertain, began to open in new directions. Finn and Isabella would face challenges—questions about tradition and change, about family and duty—together. Soon, Finn would be crowned, and with Isabella by his side, the royal household would look different than it ever had before. Perhaps there would be new roles to shape, new family dinners, even more stories to share. For now, the promise was simple: whatever came next, they would greet it side by side.

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November 3rd, 2024

“Should you be drinking that?”

“You want some?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t answer mine, either.”

For the first time since you two boarded his private jet, Roman flits his gaze from the ceiling over to you. His eye contact has been everywhere and elsewhere for the past almost hour, but this time, he’s not looking at the obsidian bottle you're holding. Fingers spread and splayed over the cream wrapping. What it is, you haven’t a clue. You’d just asked for something “good,” and the nice flight attendant with a pointed nose and freckles spackled over her T-zone honored your request. 

The shit is very good.

Or maybe you’re just that bored.

You can fully understand why Roman asked you almost three times if you were sure you wanted to attend this PLE with him. International travel wasn't unfamiliar. You’d traveled overseas—Jamaica—the summer before your senior year of high school, and while it wasn’t a super long flight, it was the longest one you’d been on. Not the easiest, but not the worst, either. Stupidly, you’d put two completely different examples juxtaposed and were now paying the price. 

Not even an hour in, and you’re already over it.

Doesn’t help that it was such a short turnaround time, either. Granted, the initial plan was to stay an additional day or two. Do some exploring. Despite politics you find egregious, sexist, and misogynistic, Saudi Arabia, geographically speaking, is a beautiful ass country.

It’s also a country Roman was eager to get the fuck out of following the disaster that was Crown Jewel.

Hence the sour ass mood he’s been in since he walked into gorilla, his cousin, Jimmy, flanked on his side attempting to butter him up with toxic positivity that only earned him a glare and silence that extended all the way to their ride back to the hotel.

Even now. 

A part of you wishes that you knew what to say to help him feel better, but on top of still not being completely clear on the full backstory of how his family ended up so fractured and divided, you’re just….not good with that shit anyway.

Blind leading the blind. 

The almost squeaking sound from across drags your eyes from your lap to the man now leaning over and reaching for the bottle. You chuckle and oblige, handing it to him, studying the way he reclines, head tilted back, liquid swimming down his throat. The slight scowl from the aftertaste and brief shake of his head followed by him falling back into that funk.

It’s gotta be the therapy you’ve been surprisingly consistent with the past month paying off that gives you a ridiculous, sudden boost of confidence. A fleeting desire to at least try to lift his spirits. 

“There’s always next time.”

He waits until he’s downed his second swish, glare set on you, the same tone he’d used with his cousin. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I think we both know there’s nothing that could make you feel better right about now.” You roll your eyes, pulling your legs up to your chest. The sleeve of your shirt—his shirt—hanging off your shoulders, exposing your hot pink bra strap. “You lost that chance when you took that pin.”

Regret immediately fills you at your unfiltered, unintended shot at a man who was already down. Has, in many ways, been down since the night you both met and married him. Some of that down, no doubt, a result of your own actions. 

Though the same could be said for the other way around.

He snorts, placing the bottle down on the tray beside the cream, leather seat. “Surprised you got the terminology right.”

Him not snapping and slinging that mud right back at you is…surprising but appreciated. Maybe those therapy sessions as part of your overall treatment have been helpful for him, too. Or maybe not because if that were the case, his other cousin, Jey, wouldn’t still hold such a level of animosity towards him. So much so that it ultimately played a large role in the disaster that was this match.

But also….if anyone knows that some bridges are burned beyond the point of repair, it’s you.

You know it all too well.

It’s what shifts the tide. Makes something turn in your stomach as you mush your lips, doing your best to string words together in a way that’s helpful vs harmful. 

Lord knows you’d played your role of villain far too well over the past few months.

“You’ll figure all this out.” Roman once again looks over at you. That same guarded, irritated expression unchanging. “The fact that he agreed to even team with you and Jimmy has to mean something, right? He could have just told you to fuck off.”

Roman's reply is almost instantaneous. “He did.” 

Despite the indirect rejection of what’s probably a poor attempt at comforting, it doesn’t deter you. Confuses you initially, sure. But then you realize he’s referring to Jey’s conduct throughout the match. The lack of cooperation. “Maybe.” You shift in your seat, shrugging your shoulders. “But he still showed up. Still tried. In his own way….and so did you.” 

That’s when you see it. The subtle softening of his harsh, sharp features. The flick of his tongue to the corner of his mouth. It encourages you in a way that you can’t quite explain. “Trust me. If anyone knows about this whole fucking everything up and then trying to fix it shit, it’s me.”

Another quick reply, this one with a less austere tone. “Line starts behind me.” 

And for the first time in a while, you smile. Not forced for the camera, a post or video to upload, perpetuating and maintaining a fraud that felt like it’d become your norm. A genuine, fucking smile. 

“Well, make room for me next to you or something.”

And for the first time all night, he smiles. 

You bite down on your bottom lip, lowering your legs to the ground. Eye contact locked as you close the distance between the two of you, assisted by the way he reaches and tugs you onto his lap. Your arms wrap around his neck as his do around your waist, big hands dropping to palm your ass through your thick, gray sweats.

“It’ll all work out,” you repeat, voice softer. “It sucks right now, but….” The swipe of his tongue over that soft, thick bottom lip is all the encouragement that you need with the thought that crossed your mind the minute he pulled you close to him. “Then again….”

Th lines around his eyes make an appearance, deepening and creasing as you climb off his lap. Dragging your palms down his chest, you drop to your knees. A flash of something in his iris when your fingers toy with and snap the band of his own sweats before smoothing over his thighs, gentle force making them part just enough for you to shuffle between them. “Not everything that sucks is bad.” 

May, 2026

Your lips pressed together as you hum quietly to Mari's latest single clashes with the dark flooring as you make your way into the kitchen. But it's a sound that ceases when you’re met with the surprising sight of your husband’s broad back as he stands near the island. 

“Hey, babe.” You kiss him on the cheek, sauntering past and depositing your Gucci bag onto the counter. “I thought you’d still be at the gym.” Because Lord knows this man’s gym sessions are already long as hell, but ever since he won the WHC, they’ve been even more ridiculous. Twice, sometimes up to three times a day. His morning and evening ones are typically done at home, but the afternoon one he gets in at Paragon. The elite, private gym he’s a member of that has a ridiculous monthly membership fee and perks that seem like something out of a movie.

It still blows your mind sometimes just how wealthy he is. You weren’t exactly living in poverty before meeting him, having been one of the luckier ones who makes a decent amount of money off your various platforms. But your manic episodes often included reckless spending, so much so that it’d greatly depleted what was, at one time, a hefty savings account. You’ve built it back up, and then some, since being with Roman. But if not for him….

You shake your head, willing the thoughts away.

It’s best you not go there.

“Finished a lil’ early.” 

In the midst of opening up the refrigerator to pull out the cranberry juice, it’s his tone that immediately ceases your actions. 

Something…something is off.

Bumping the door closed with your hip, bottle in hand, you turn your attention back towards him only to instantly still, ajar mouth frozen in place.

He’s still standing near the island, black, sleeveless Nike fitted shirt clinging to his chest, and while your eyes start to travel the length of his sculpted arms, something else takes precedent.

The bag.

And not even the large TJ Maxx bag on the counter in as much as it is the contents that you immediately make out via the brief, exposed portion of a striped, pink and white onesie sleeve. 

Fuck

But if there’s one thing you’ve always been good at, it’s saving face.

Your hand tightens around the bottle, condensation dripping and melting between your fingers. “Oh.” You clear your throat, opening the closest cabinet to pull out a glass. “That.” You shake your head, back towards him while you fill the cup to the halfway mark. “Yeah, I was clearly in an episode. Hence why it was in the donation pile.”

“Y/N—”

“What? You going through my stuff now?” The teasing tone of your voice is intentional, a smirk on your face as you turn around and take a sip. Licking the rim with a wink. “Making sure I’m not getting rid of any of your memorabilia, old man?”

One look at his unchanged expression, however, tells you everything you need to know. You can’t charm your way out of this one.

A heavy sigh precedes the way you shake your head and place the cup back down on the counter. “Come on, Rome. It’s not a big deal.” Walking over, something tightens in your chest when you reach for the bag, hand hovering over the exposed item. It takes a second for you to push through it. Your eyes lift to his as you shove the onesie back with the rest of the pieces. “Seriously. It’s—”

“Y/N.” His deep voice cuts through your poor attempts at damage control once more. His eyes focused on you, peeling back every protective layer you’d attempted to frantically and desperately create. “This wasn’t just from one episode.” He gestures with a head nod, reaching to open what you wish nothing more to shove and throw away. God, something told you to load up your car before you left for your nail appointment. His hand messes around with the countless number of brand new, tag still on em’ baby clothes before he looks at you. “You’ve been buying this stuff, haven’t you?”

Lying has never done you any good, and you’ve worked so hard to be honest with him. But you also are in no mood to have this conversation. 

“It’s not—“

The hand not gripping a 3 to 6 month white shirt with a rainbow on the front grabs the back of the bar stool. He drags it across the floor and motions with his eyes. A part of you wants to protest, find a reason to leave, to deflect. But you also know your husband. Know that look.

It’s why you decide to not drag this out any longer than need be.

You sit down. 

Smoothing your hands over your exposed thighs, the desire to tuck and play with the hem of your skirt is a hell of a lot more interesting and desirable than focusing on the way he pulls out the chair opposite of you. Places it so that he’s sitting directly across from you. Your attention only subtly shifting to him when he leans over just enough so his elbows are on his knees, hands clasped together. As much as you really don’t want to have this conversation right now—or ever—something about the way he won’t look at you, stares at the ground, is unsettling.

Especially since you know he’s not upset. 

Roman’s anger is never quiet. It’s loud and always makes itself known. Any emotion similar or adjacent to that short, red creature is always visible and never hidden. Even in the early stages of development. 

This is none of that.

Truth be told, you don’t know what this is. 

You just know that you don’t like it.

Shifting in your seat, raking your nails over your thighs, you muster up the courage to break the silence. “Roman—”

“I want to have a child with you, Y/N.”

Acrylic tips wedged into your soft skin, toes curled against the bottoms of your YSL flip-flops, any non-verbal actions that you were in the midst of are immediately paused. Thinking, feeling, existing, and everything else in between also immediately halted to a sudden, abrupt pause in production.

Did he….

No…

He couldn’t have. 

But reality is suddenly turned upside down when he lifts his head, looks you dead in the eye, and doubles down on what you’d thought was imagined. “I want us to have a child together.” 

All you can do is blink. Once. Twice. Thrice. Stare and wait for the other shoe to drop. For him to cut the bullshit on this cruel joke. 

He doesn’t. 

Not even close.

He licks his lips, gaze collapsing once more. His jaw shifting before his words come out slower, quieter even. “You were right when you said I go back and forth. I do.” He shakes his head, rolling his neck. “But it’s not because I don’t know what I want. I do.”

“Roman…”

“I just….” He swallows. “I can handle when you’re manic. It’s not easy. Hell no, but….I’ve learned now what to do. What you need.” 

And you don’t disagree in the slightest. Like many other individuals living with Bipolar 1, when you’re in the midst of a manic episode, one of your symptoms includes a heightened sex drive. And for a man who possesses just that without a mental health diagnosis in his medical chart, that worked just fine for him. Everything else—the lack of sleep, impulsive spending, risky behavior—he’d created parameters to protect you. Ensuring to essentially stay with you at all times, taking and hiding your wallet and car keys. Even your phone during earlier, more extreme episodes. 

Essentially holding you hostage from the dangers that are you when you’re not in the right frame of mind. At the beginning, at the time, you hated it. Hated him. Told—screamed—at him just that.

Now….now, you’ve never been more grateful. 

“What I can’t handle….” Your eyes hone in on the way his voice falters and something indecipherable flashes in his eyes. “—is the other one.” He looks at you once more, displaying it all without any reservation. “When you’re depressed.” 

Your lips press together, hands shifting to the side of the stool. Cool metal under your palm, closing and tightening.

Despite only knowing him for a few years, you’ve probably talked to and with Roman more than anyone else in your life. And not once has he ever expressed anything like this. Despite there being a what and what with your manic and depressive episodes, because the consequences of the former have always been more….drastic, the latter hasn’t really been a thing touched on. 

Not like this.

“You completely shut down,” he continues, licking his lips, voice even but strained. “Shut out everything and everyone, including me, and I don’t know how to get through to you when you get like that.” It’s not until then you realize that the reason the sight of him before you is suddenly blurred is because of the tears forming and brewing in your eyes. Even with the distorted image, there’s no mistaking the frown on his face. “I don’t know how to help you, and it freaks the fuck out of me.” 

For whatever reason, it’s not until then that it hits you. Perhaps for the first time since he started speaking, you see it. Hear it, even. The uncertainty. The anxiety, almost. It’s….disarming, in some ways. Roman has always been the definition of confidence. Arrogance, really. Even the night you met when he looked like he’d just been kicked while already down, and he had in many ways. But he still held this….regality about him. It was always so attractive. Admirable. Seeing someone who was always so…..so sure of himself. 

Thus, him sitting in front of you and openly speaking in such a vulnerable way….it’s the last fucking thing you expected him to say.

But he’s not wrong.

As chaotic and erratic your manic episodes are/were, you’d always said that you’d take those over your depressive episodes any day. While manic, you feel any and all the things. While depressed, you feel nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

Anhedonia, as you’d learned through therapy. The inability to feel pleasure or joy. Or anything.

You’d lay in bed, sometimes days at a time. Unable to move. Unable to speak. Completely and totally quiet. If you weren’t crying, you were sleeping. And if you weren’t doing that, you were offering nothing more than a soft shake of the head and small shrug to any and all of Roman’s questions.

And there were always plenty. 

He bent over backwards, offered anything and everything he could, but nothing pierced the dense veil of depression.

The worst of which resulted in a 5150. 

“The fact that you can get so low, and I can’t pull you from it scares the fuck out of me.” The bombs continue to drop, as does the feeling in her stomach. He pauses again, swallowing deeply. “How am I supposed to help you if you have an episode while pregnant? And if I can’t help you, how am I supposed to help our kid if he or she needs it?”

The corner of your lips twitch, tears briefly piling before spilling past your jaw. “Roman, I—”

“And you know me. You know that I don’t like talking about this shit. Admitting shit like this.” It’s true. He doesn’t, and now knowing what you know, you can understand why his mood would always fluctuate so quickly around the subject. Like most things, it was easier for him to lash out, say mean shit, than it was to be honest.

You can sort of relate. 

Can understand. 

“But seeing the baby clothes today,” he continues, standing up and moving towards you. It’s only then that you sniffle, quickly wiping at your eyes that are soon fixed on him when he cups your face. His frown has deepened, his voice whispered. “The fact that you’ve been buying them…” He thumb swipes away another roll of fresh tears. “That you were trying to get rid of them—”

You shake your head, refusing to allow him to take on anymore guilt that he already holds. “I didn’t—I shouldn’t have purchased them in the first place.”

It was such an unintentional thing. Started out so small. Out at the store, casually walking through the aisles. You’d always felt something stir within whenever you had to walk past the kids section. Especially when passing racks of adorable baby clothes. Would sometimes allow yourself to look, to peruse, but the goal was never to purchase.

You weren’t being completely dishonest with him. Some of the many, various items of baby clothing were, in fact, being purchased in the midst of a manic episode. Where you truly believed that it was a necessary purchase given it being only a matter of time before you conceived. Had already envisioned and imagined how adorable your baby boy or girl would look in the three piece outfit. 

But other times…..perhaps most of the time, you weren’t manic, and you certainly weren’t depressed. You were in that sweet, safe spot in between. And somehow, that seemed to hurt the most. Holding the items, sometimes with tears in your eyes because while they ended up being scanned and bagged as part of your overall purpose, each quiet drive home was driven with a single thought.

It’s never going to happen.

By the time you’d get home, you’d have changed your mind. Reflected and thought on comments and conversations where Roman referenced your future children. It’s what led you to keep them. To keep buying them. On the hopes of a what if. But gathering clothes to donate to local shelters in conjunction with the most recent, hardest conversation regarding children had finally carried you to the realization and acceptance that seemed like the most likely to occur.

And it wasn’t a pregnancy.

Thus, you ignoring your tears and the throbbing in your chest as you bagged up all of the items you’d purchased and ordered, forcing yourself to stop believing and waiting on a dream that was never intended to be anything more than that in the first place.

A dream.

“But you did,” he counters, softly. “And that means something, Y/N.”

Again, all you can do is look at him, stare and continue to be stunned and floored by words you never could have anticipated hearing today. If ever.

But if your husband, one of the most emotionally stunted men you’ve ever met, is capable of pushing past discomforts and knocking down walls, then you can, at the very least, do and offer the same. 

You look down, covering your hands over his, gently dragging them down so you’re holding them in your lap. Brushing your own thumbs over his coarse knuckles. One of your fleeting thoughts being that he must have hit the bag today only for you to realize that of course he did.

It’s always been one of his favorite stress relievers. 

“Do you….do you remember the big fight we had?” For the first time since you entered the home, humor briefly entangles with intensity. Specificity for a thing that was the norm for far too long is most definitely a requirement. “The first one regarding pregnancy.” Where you said no. “You—you said something to me that night. Something that….” Your tongue darts over your dry lips, voice hoarse, his eyes focused intently on you. “At the time, I hated you for.”

One could argue this sentiment has been felt several times over in the span of two years, mostly in the early, turbulent stages. But none more than that night.

“Fine, if you don’t wanna fucking say it, then I will,” he’d snapped. Anger and frustration painting his face and the tips of his ears red. The room around you two in disarray. Shattered glass littered across and meshed within the Persian rug. Both from the lamp you’d thrown and the one he’d shattered with a single swipe of his arm. A chair flipped over in the corner, and the TV still running in the background. The only sense of normalcy in that moment. “You know why you wanna have a kid so fucking bad?” He’d stepped closer, your fingers tightening around the neck of the half drunk bottle of wine in hand. Seconds away from joining the other broken, irreparable things. Much how you felt about your marriage in that moment. “It’s not cause you actually want to be a mother.” In that moment, you knew. Just knew what he was about to say. And even that level of preparation in the face of his stoic expression and sneer didn’t spare you the cascade of emotions. “It’s cause you just wanna prove to yourself that you’re not her. That you’re not your own mother.”

Your eyes shut, the memory reigniting another set of emotions, an evident revisiting given the way he attempts to pull his hands from you. To comfort you, you’re sure.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“You were right,” you whisper, allowing yourself to voice for the first time a realization you’d had in therapy a few months prior. “I hated you because….because you were right.” His subtle movements and efforts to comfort you are temporarily halted in the midst of a truth you know he didn’t expect to hear.

“Y/N….”

“My biggest—” Shutting your eyes once more, you’re taken back to a different time and place. The soft cushion behind your head and under your body. Hands clasped over your stomach, eyes still shut, the soft, soothing voice of your therapist walking you through a mindfulness exercise grounding you in a moment you’ve never needed it more. Keeping you on two steady, metaphorical, and literal feet. “My biggest fear in life was—is—ending up like her.” 

“That’s why....” Another thick swallow, emotion stirring for another heavier round. The swipe of your tongue over your bottom lip met with a salty taste on the tip of your tongue. Tears. “That’s why I pushed back on getting help for so long. I felt like—like that made it real. That it made me her.”

If someone told you a couple years ago you’d ever be confessing this aloud to your husband who’s 16 years your senior and someone you met and married in under twenty four hours, well, you’d perhaps not not believe them. But it’d 100% be the actions that were contained within a manic episode. However, you’ve never been more sane and regulated than in this moment. A weight unloaded in the most unexpected of ways. 

“But I know now that just because we shared the same diagnosis doesn’t mean we’re the same person. She made her decision. She chose not to live anymore.” A beat. “And I chose to finally start living.” 

He takes a small breath as you manage a small smile that’s dimmed seconds later by the reminder of additional truth that you’d prefer to keep to yourself. It’s not an option though. It’s not an option because it serves no purpose other than to self-sabotage. There has never been a better moment than now to acknowledge even the most uncomfortable, heartbreaking of truths.

“I, uhh, I went to the doctor before we left for Italy. Just…” Once more, the burden of truth causes you to stammer, but you manage to power through. Slightly aided by the way you intermittently allow your gaze to focus on your still conjoined hands. A metaphorical representation of union and togetherness that’s saved you in so many ways. “Just wanted to know where I stand, fertility wise, if we were….”

 Breathe

Roman says something, or starts to, and while you hate to interrupt him once more, you know yourself well enough to recognize that if you don’t get this out now, there’s a good chance you’ll find a way to keep it to yourself.

As you’ve done since you found out. 

“My….ovarian reserve is significantly lower than it should be for someone my age. Like….a lot.” A forced, inauthentic chuckle accompanied by another wave of tears that stream down your reddened cheeks. “Like….’the chances of me conceiving naturally and without medical assistance is slim to none’ a lot.” 

And while your doctor, the sweetest woman with a gentle disposition, warm and maternal, approached the conversation with a cherished delicacy, it wasn’t difficult for you to read between the lines. To decipher what she didn’t want to say for fear of crushing what she knows to be your dreams of motherhood.

That IVF is your best bet if you ever wish to have and carry a child.

And even that’s not guaranteed.

Revisiting the conversation takes a heavier toll on you than expected. It’s when you lift your hand to wipe away at the tears that seem to be coming with increased frequency and flow is when Roman takes advantage. Moves his hands to your waist, attempting to pull you into him. Sympathy, empathy, and everything else floating between the two of you.

“Y/N—”

“I think it’s just a sign, ya know.” Shaking your head, eyes naturally closing, it’s hard to tell who you’re trying to convince. Him or yourself. God knows it’s nothing you haven’t repeated a dozen times over. Sometimes it feels as though it’s working. Other times, it feels like nothing more than pouring waning hope into a bottomless cup with a hole so far deep that you don’t even realize your efforts are nothing more than a waste of time and energy. 

“Y/N—”

“Motherhood clearly isn’t in the cards—”

“Y/N.” 

Roman already has a commanding voice. Deep and smooth. It’s almost impossible to not be lulled in. But the way he says your name, needing and demanding your attention, easily snaps your eyes open onto his. Your lips part softly when he lifts one hand to the back of your neck. Leans in closer to where his cologne mingles with your perfume. Just another form of connection. 

“Do you want this?”

For a moment, you’re taken back. Same place. Same people. Different environment. Destruction, broken, ruined items surrounding the shattered mess that was the both of you. Defeat never so prominent. He’d asked you the very same thing, just with a completely different meaning, exhaustion painted over his handsome face. The faint bruise under his eye similar to the one he had when you met, but that one was received via valiant efforts to retain. This one….this one was the one you’ll never be able to truly forgive yourself for. 

“Roman—“

“Do you want this, Y/N?” He repeats himself, the hand on your waist squeezing and pulling just enough to where you stand up. Your hands naturally rest on his stomach, hardened and sturdy under your shaking, sweating palms. 

There’s an initial attempt to protest that dies out in the face of acknowledgment.

Do you want this?

It’s the same question you asked yourself on the drive home from the appointment. Especially as you laid in bed that evening, scrolling and researching for hours on end about what options might exist. The top of most lists being IVF, and with that, as many horror stories as there were successes.

Countless attempts before successful implantation. 

Countless attempts that never bore any results.

Women who’d tried every treatment option known to medical science only to have nothing to show for it except empty pockets and a broken heart.

You know that first one would never be the case. Not with the tax bracket Roman is in. But that second one….

It’s dangerous. In a variety of ways. What would it do to you mentally? To try, get your hopes up, only for nothing to come of all your efforts? Just imagining the scenario is heartbreaking enough. But for it to be your reality…

And then there’s the other side of it. The one where, at the end of it all, you have a beautiful, healthy baby boy or girl. It makes your chest fill and bloom with warmth and joy.

All things you’d expressed and discussed in your most recent therapy session, an extra that you’d, wisely, requested after finding out the news. 

News that, now you think of it, also largely contributed to your ultimately deciding to discard of the baby clothes.

It was….too painful of a reminder.

However, the situation feels almost entirely reversed as you stand before your husband who’s finally and truthfully expressed his stance on this. Confirmed what you’d deep down wanted so badly to believe was the truth but also couldn’t verify in the face of countless objections and otherwise expressed sentiments. 

A what if morphed into an actual possibility. 

The process of trying to conceive is a journey and experience for most women, and many, as you’d learned through research, do require at least some form of assistance to actually achieve that conception. In that, you weren’t unique. The added layer of navigating that and your mental health struggles just put you in a slightly different category. A riskier one.

But a statement and unanswered question posed by your therapist returns to the forefront of your mind.

“This isn’t a matter of what’s the best option, sweetie.” You’d kept your focus on your lap, picking at your nails as she probed into your mental in a way that was both unnerving and appreciated. Necessary, especially. “It’s a matter of what decision, long-term, do you foresee negatively impacting you the most.” You can still feel the way you chest tightened moments before she laid it all out in no unclear terms. “Never trying and having to live with that ‘what if’ or trying and having to accept the possibility of it not working out the way you wanted it to. 

Unknown vs Disappointment.

You didn’t have an answer to give then.

You have one now.

“Yes.”

And maybe it’s your own subconscious desires playing a cruel, mean trick on you, but you could almost swear there’s a brief flash of relief in his expression. 

Like….like he’s happy.

“Then we’ll do it,” he announces, that thumb caressing the nape of your neck a soothing, gentle gesture. “We find out whatever specialist you need to see, whatever treatment you need, see what it specifically entails, if you’re mentally and physically up for it, and take it from there….alright?”

There’s something immensely comforting about the way he emphasizes and includes the tentative nature of it all. Highlights that consenting to trying does not equate consenting to doing. Learning the specifics, the risks, and everything else is truly where the hardest decision will need to be made. And as much as he has a say in it, too, at the end of the day, it’s your call to make. Your body that will have to undergo and sustain all the prickling and prodding. 

Your mental that might be tested in ways you’ve never experienced before.

It’s frightening, for sure. Daunting and terrifying. Yet all of that fright and fear is readily eased by the reminder that you don’t have to face it alone. 

Not even a little. 

It’s what makes you lean up, arms secured around his neck as he hikes you up onto his waist. You smile and laugh into his neck, sniffling and whispering, “I love you.” 

His quiet chuckle and the kiss to your temple accompanying a light squeeze of your ass and quiet but equally heartfelt, “I love you, too.” 

a/n: if you've read some of my other content, you know i'm a whore for fleshing things out. in reality, and as reflected by the dates in this one and the first part, this "conclusion" would take time. even longer than what's reflected in these two pieces. but for the sake of answering the biggest question most of ya'll have, i gave you this.

was very very tempted to reveal at the end that it was all a dream. reader was just dreaming roman's confession, and it ended with them essentially realizing there's no way they can make this work. her wanting kids and him not. implied separation/divorce being the outcome. but i didn't want ya'll to cuss me out lmao