Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty Nine

Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty Nine
Alexander

One year.

It had been exactly one year since I married Leonardo Vittorio—the most infuriating, inappropriate, and undeniably beautiful man ever to smuggle espresso into a royal banquet.

And yes, the espresso-smuggling incident had happened. Twice.

Somehow, we had survived our first year of marriage without a national scandal, an international war, or a divorce. Which, considering our history, was genuinely impressive.

We had also survived:

\-Three official state tours.

\-One “accidental” shirtless magazine cover of Leo that nearly gave my cabinet a collective stroke.

\-An entire etiquette council resigning after Leo called one of them “Lord Crumpet.”

\-And through all of that… I had never loved him more.

Not just for the chaos—though I had come to accept that it was part of the package—but for everything else he brought into my life. The warmth. The laughter. The way he kissed me in the hallways even when no one was watching. The way he held my hand under the table during long council meetings just to keep me grounded. The way he whispered “My king” in bed like it was both a prayer and a dare.

I still woke up some mornings forgetting I was allowed to have this.

That I got to live this life—beside someone who saw every part of me, all of me—and stayed.

One morning, I woke up to Leo half-naked in the royal kitchen, making pancakes shaped like suspiciously accurate genitalia for our breakfast meeting with the Minister of Education about a new approach in the subject of sexual ed. in our schools.

He was very proud of the presentation.

The Minister… less so.

We were a work in progress.

But we had done more than build a marriage—we had built a mission.

Together, we launched a mental health initiative for LGBTQ+ youth across the continent. We restructured two outdated diplomatic programs and created the Royal Emergency Grant for at-risk families. And we partnered with both our mothers to fund a network of artistic and academic scholarships for children across Sweden and Italy.

Leo’s mother and my own had quickly become what the press dubbed the “Terrifying Matriarchal Alliance.” I sat on the board. Leo ran the social media. Sometimes forgetting he wasn’t supposed to respond to the counsel with memes.

Every project we took on became our favorite. Every victory, ours to share.

And I could say this with no hesitation—despite every saintly nickname he had assigned me in the past—my Leonardo was the most compassionate and dedicated man I had ever known.

“Who’s Mother Theresa now, babe?” I joked once.

He responded by throwing a pillow at my head, but that didn’t change the truth.

Like when he suggested we celebrate our six-month anniversary by visiting the children’s hospital in Stockholm.

The same hospital where, many months before, I had stood with him, trembling as I joined his music with a song I could barely get through—my father’s voice still echoing in my ears, full of judgment and bitterness.

But this time… this time was different.

I had stood taller; I had sung louder, not because I was fearless, but because he was there.

Before I began, I had turned to him.

“Don’t laugh,” I whispered.

“I would never,” Leo replied—grinning already.

“You’re already laughing.”

“Okay, but only internally. Respectfully. Quietly.”

I rolled my eyes. “This is serious.”

“I know, baby,” he said, eyes softening. “Go show them what a real king sounds like.”

And I did.

Afterward, I stepped down, cheeks flushed, heart pounding in a very different way than it had that time before.

The children clapped their hands, surrounding us and asking for more. And we gave it to them. We sang, we laughed, we played together, and passed out many of our gifts in a day that felt unforgettable—better than the best celebration we could’ve planned.

I was gathering our things—almost ready to go—when I realized I had lost sight of him.

Leo had knelt beside a little boy in a hospital gown, holding his hand as the child asked something in Swedish. Leo responded with careful words and a thick, adorable accent, and the boy giggled. Then Leo smiled and reached up to fix the child’s paper crown, gently placing it back on his head with exaggerated ceremony.

“Your Majesty,” Leo said to him with a bow, “your crown was slipping.”

The boy giggled again, covering his face.

I stood frozen.

Watching Leo hold a child with so much tenderness—like the moment mattered more than the cameras, the guards, or the palace itself—something in my chest cracked open.

He looked up and caught me staring.

“Stop that,” he mouthed.

I smiled.

“I’m marrying you again when we get home,” I whispered across the room.

He blinked. “Wait, really?”

The nurse nearby chuckled.

Leo grinned and shrugged at her. “He says that a lot.”

“And I mean it every time,” I said, finally walking toward them.

He reached for my hand as I got close, looking at me with a smile that was pure Leo.

And in that quiet moment, all I could think was: This is what I was meant for.

Not the throne.
Not the crown.
This.
Us.

We had come so far from who we used to be. From secrets and shadows to sunlight and shared futures. And with that love came healing—slow, quiet, almost invisible sometimes. But real.

Healing with my family, especially with my mother, who had finally been able to be there for me in ways I never imagined. We had rebuilt something gentle, something true.

New relationships had formed. Stronger friendships. Unshakable bonds with the people who meant the world to me—people who had stayed, fought, and grown beside us.

Karl smiled more those days. We never spoke about the past, but sometimes now he lingered a little longer just to place a hand on my shoulder and ask me about my day, our projects, and whether I was happy or not.

It meant more to me than words could say.

King Edvard, on the other hand, remained largely absent from public life. He attended only the events that required his presence by law, retreating soon after to the remote country estate that had once belonged to his ancestors. It was quiet there—disconnected from the capital, and from us.

Where he belonged.

And as for me?

I still hesitated sometimes before looking at my reflection in a mirror. I won’t say my trauma was gone—because it wasn’t. Some memories could never be erased.

But I could say this: the demons of my childhood were quieter now. Still there, still real—but kept at bay, buried deep beneath the weight of Leo’s unconditional and relentless love. A love so pure it didn’t erase my past—it simply stood guard at the door of it.

I had never felt more at home in my own skin.

Not because I was a king.

But because every night, when I came back from whatever duty had pulled me away, there was a man in our bed who opened his arms and said, “There you are, baby. Took you long enough.”

And I went to him. Every time.

Because no matter what they called me—Your Highness, Your Majesty, Your Excellency—I would always be his Charming.