* * *
In the end, any worry about Santiago being accepted by my country was completely unnecessary. His billion-euro investment certainly paved the way—barely any mention of his existence before me was made. And, thanks to a few well-placed interviews, the narrative of Santiago’s life had a far more accurate bearing on the truth of his character than the tabloid junk I’d seen in the past.
His reputation as a courageous fighter who overcame adversity to make his mark in the world was written about in all the papers, so too was his philanthropic endeavours. Even I didn’t realise how much of his fortune he donates to child poverty and anti-hunger initiatives each year. By the time our wedding day rolls around, I know two things for sure: there is no one on earth who will make a better Queen’s Consort and the people of Marlsdoven love Santiago almost more than they do me.
I have no nerves. No anxiety. Only excitement. The chapel is packed with family and friends—Heydar and his brothers sit in the front row, on my side. Santiago’s parents are absent, and I didn’t force the issue. It doesn’t matter; the love surrounding us is palpable. Claudia serves as my Maid of Honour and is genuinely overjoyed for me. The train of my dress is almost half as long as the chapel’s aisle, far heavier than any tiara I’ve ever worn, but I don’t care. I feel weightless.
At the reception, we barely get to speak—well-wishers have come from all over the globe. I spy Heydar and Claudia dancing together and feel a spark of curiosity about the two of them—they would be very well suited!
As the night draws to a close, Santiago and I are alone, finally man and wife with the future before us—a future that I trust to be bright and long.
Seven years later
‘Try not to fuss, little one.’ I catch Santiago’s eye and smile, before turning my attention back to five-year-old Clara.
‘It’s heavy,’ she complains, lifting a hand to the delicate child’s tiara.
‘I know. I used to hate it too.’ I wink.
‘Then why did you wear it?’
‘Because it’s tradition,’ I say. ‘Tonight is a very special night and the people are excited to see you, their little Princesa.’
‘And I’m excited too,’ she says with a nod. ‘But do I have to wear the tiara?’
Santiago settles Malthe, our four-year-old son, on the ground beside him, then crouches to Clara’s height. ‘How about we make a deal?’ he suggests, and I smile, because Daddy always knows exactly what to say to win Clara over—just like her mama.
‘What deal?’ Clara asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
‘You wear the tiara at first, just while we enter the room and photos are taken. Then you can take it off and pretend you are no longer a princess.’
Clara considers that. ‘I like being a princess, just not wearing heavy things on my head.’
‘Ah.’ I nod wisely. ‘Then let me tell you a little secret it took me far too long to learn...’
Santiago stands, putting his arm around me, drawing me close.
‘What?’ Clara prompts. Malthe watches us with interest.
‘There is no one right way to be a princess,’ I say firmly. ‘Listen to your heart and all will be well, my darling.’
Clara considers that a moment, reminding me of her godfather Heydar. ‘My heart is saying it doesn’t like tiaras very much.’
I laugh softly.
‘But I will do what Daddy suggested,’ she says on a dramatic, self-sacrificing sigh. ‘Particularly if there’s ice-cream at the end of it.’
‘You drive a hard bargain,’ Santiago observes, but he grins, reaching down and tousling Malthe’s hair. ‘But I concede. Ice-cream it is.’
Malthe claps his hands together with enthusiasm for this idea.
‘Is the baby coming?’ Clara asks, slipping her small gloved hand into mine as we approach the doors.
‘Sofia is only two, way too young for a New Year’s Eve ball.’
Clara assumes an expression of someone far older and wiser than her years. ‘Yes, you’re right. Let’s leave the baby to sleep.’
I meet Santiago’s eyes once more and we smile, contentment wrapping around us as we contemplate the family we have made, the love we share and the life we lead.