The queen blinks, clearly expecting more resistance. A fight maybe. A list of grievances she’d have to absorb before I accepted.
“That’s it?” she asks.
“What else would there be?” I keep my voice even. “You apologized. I accepted. We both want the best for Louis. That’s enough common ground for me. I don’t hold grudges, Your Highness.”
She studies me for a long moment, knowing exactly what kind of woman her son has chosen.
“I like you, Addison,” she says finally.
“I know,” I say with a grin. “I will forgive, but I won’t forget.”
“You shouldn’t.” She smiles too, removing her armor. “You will be an incredible queen, Addison. I mean that.”
The words catch me off guard. Not because I need her approval, but because of what it means for Louis. For our future.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
The queen nods once, then glides to the empty chair beside herhusband and sits. Her posture is still perfect, but her shoulders aren’t quite as rigid as before. The king takes her hand, and she lets him.
I let out a long breath, and my eyes scan around the room. Right above the fireplace, I see a landscape painting that makes my breath hitch. I stare at it, memorizing the details. It’s a garden scene with lush summer grasses overlooking the cliffs. A pregnant woman is seated on a stone bench, her face turned toward the sun, one hand resting on the curve of her belly. The brushwork is unmistakable. The way light filters through the leaves and the texture in the flower petals. There’s a gradation of shadows across the grass.
It’s a Henri Beaumont painting. The missing one. I’d bet my career on it.
In the background, partially obscured by a rose trellis, a figure stands, watching. A man, his features indistinct but his posture attentive. Protective.
But the way the figure is rendered, the particular care given to his stance, the angle of his shoulders … it’s Henri.
The composition tugs at my memory, connecting this painting to the trail of hidden Isabellas in Henri’s landscapes.
Thisis the missing painting from the queen’s sitting room.
“You should rest,” the king says. “Both of you. We can discuss everything else later.”
After months of stolen moments and borrowed minutes, we have time.
Louis helps me to my feet and wraps his arm around my waist. My legs are unsteady, and my head is pounding from the whirlwind of emotions. Also, I’m not sure I can walk in these heels for another minute.
We’re almost to the door when the king speaks again.
“Louis. A moment, please.”
Louis tenses beside me, his arm tightening around my waist. “Father?”
“There are a few things I’d like to discuss privately.” The king’s voice is mild, but there’s weight beneath it. “It won’t take long.”
His mother excuses herself as well and walks past me, giving me a smile and a nod.
“I’ll wait outside,” I say, squeezing his hand.
“I’ll be right there,” he says, searching my face, then nods.
I stand on my tiptoes and whisper in his ear, “The painting above the fireplace.”
He studies me with questions in his eyes before pressing a kiss to my temple and releasing me.
I slip through the door, leaving Louis alone with his father.
Davis is leaning against the wall in the hallway. He straightens when he sees me.
