Page 95 of Crowned

The table erupts in laughter, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the world has melted away. There’s no palace, no court, no kingdom pressing down on our shoulders – just us, together, in this little bubble of joy.

I glance at Rhea, who’s now using her roll to “battle” the chicken leg on her plate. Lyra is whispering to the moon again, her food forgotten, while Artemis leans over to poke at Bhodi’s plate, earning an exaggerated gasp of protest from him.

This is what we fought for.

The triplets’ voices rise again, demanding our attention as they debate who’s going to “win dinner,” a concept Rhea has apparently just invented. I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face as I watch them, their laughter and energy filling every corner of the room.

“Papi Reef?”

“Yes, little flower?” I whisper, brushing a curl from her forehead.

“Are we going to be happy forever?”

My throat tightens at the question, and I lean down to kiss her forehead. “Yes, Lyra. Forever and ever.”

Malia catches my eye across the table, and her smile softens into something more intimate. It’s a look I’ve come to know well – a mix of gratitude, love, and quiet strength.

I raise my glass to her, a silent toast, and she does the same.

The palace is quiet, save for the sound of splashing water and the occasional shriek of laughter coming from the bath. I sit on a small stool beside the tub, my sleeves rolled up to my elbows, while three pairs of bright, mischievous eyes stare back at me.

Rhea, as usual, is leading the charge, her hands cupping water as she pretends to launch an “attack” at her sisters. Lyra lets out a quiet giggle, trying to dodge the splash, while Artemis retaliates by sending a wave of bubbles back toward Rhea with a triumphant yell.

“Careful,” I warn, my voice calm but firm. “If you get me soaked again, you’ll be drying off with a cold breeze instead of a towel.”

They ignore me, of course.

“Mama says you don’t mean that,” Rhea declares boldly, her little nose wrinkling in defiance.

She’s right, but I won’t admit it. “Your mama says a lot of things,” I reply, dipping my hands into the water to rinse the soap from Lyra’s curls.

Lyra sits patiently, her wide, thoughtful eyes watching me as I carefully run my fingers through her hair. She’s the easiest of the three at bath time, always calm and curious. She leans forward slightly, her voice soft. “Papa Cove, why do bubbles pop?”

“Because they’re fragile,” I answer, smiling as I rinse her hair one last time. “But that’s what makes them special. You have to enjoy them while they last.”

Lyra tilts her head, considering this, before nodding solemnly. “Like flowers.”

“Exactly like flowers,” I say, my heart swelling at her quiet wisdom.

Rhea, meanwhile, has climbed halfway out of the tub, a crown of bubbles perched precariously on her curls. “I’m the Queen of Aerwyna!” she declares, striking a dramatic pose that sends Artemis into a fit of giggles.

“You’re going to be the Queen of Falling if you’re not careful,” I mutter, scooping her back into the tub before she can slip. She pouts at me but allows it, her small hands splashing defiantly as I reach for a towel.

Artemis, the wildest of the three, has taken it upon herself to dunk her entire head under the water. She comes up sputtering and laughing, her curls plastered to her face, water dripping down her nose. “Did you see that, Papa Cove? I was a fish!”

“You were definitely something,” I reply, chuckling as I grab another towel.

By the time I’ve managed to get all three of them out of the tub and wrapped in towels, I’m soaked from the waist down, and the bathroom looks like it’s been hit by a small tsunami. Bubbles cling to the walls, puddles cover the floor, and Rhea has somehow managed to get soap in her eyebrows.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I tell them, earning three identical giggles in response.

Getting them dressed is another ordeal entirely. Rhea insists on wearing her “battle dress” to bed, which is really just a tunic she’s declared as armour. Lyra wants to know why the moon isn’t out yet and keeps wandering to the window to check, and Artemis refuses to wear anything at all until I promise to tell her a bedtime story.

Eventually, I wrangle them into their nightgowns and carry them, one by one, to the nursery. The room is warm and cozy, the soft glow of lanterns casting gentle shadows on the walls. Mobiles of stars and moons hang above their beds, spinning slowly in the faint breeze.

I tuck Lyra in first, smoothing the blanket over her small frame. She clutches a stuffed animal to her chest – a wolf that Reef got for her – and smiles sleepily at me. “Goodnight, Papa Cove,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible.

“Goodnight, my little flower,” I reply, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

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