SIX

BPOV

The tension in the air is thick, and we're both sitting there, staring at each other, trying to make sense of everything. The reality of who Edward really is still feels overwhelming, but I'm not ready to let that ruin whatever it is we've started.

I sit there, fiddling with the handle of my tea cup, and then, almost without thinking, the words slip out of my mouth.

"So, since you're such an expert… any tips for my Belle performance?"

Edward's eyes widen, and then, to my surprise, he lets out a laugh—a real, genuine laugh. The sound is warm and unexpected, and it slices through the tension like a knife.

He leans back in his chair, clearly amused, the corners of his mouth quirking up. "Oh, absolutely. I've been studying princesses my whole life. I have a few notes."

I roll my eyes, but I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. "Oh, really? Please, enlighten me, Your Highness."

He smirks, pretending to think about it. "First off, you've got to work on the twirl. That gown deserves a proper spin."

I bite my lip, stifling a laugh. "Ah, so that's the trick? A flawless twirl?"

The tension that had been weighing us down moments ago lifts completely, and for a second, it feels like it did before—just the two of us, laughing and teasing, no royal titles hanging between us. I can see it in his eyes too, that relief, that sense of ease returning.

I roll my eyes but can't stop smiling. Somehow, despite everything, Edward's managed to make me feel like this is all still real—like I'm just Bella, and he's just Edward, and we're figuring this out together.

The last of the tension dissolves, and as Edward grins at me, I feel a surge of lightheartedness bubble up inside me. Before I can second-guess myself, I push back my chair, jumping to my feet with a dramatic flourish.

"So is it like this?" I ask, giggling as I do a full, exaggerated twirl in my oversized Disneyland shirt. The fabric flutters around me, and I spin in place with as much flair as I can muster.

Edward watches, his eyes widening in mock approval as he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Now that is how you twirl. I think you've finally nailed it."

I stop, laughing as I dramatically place a hand on my chest and flutter my eyelashes. "Thank you, kind sir, for your expert advice."

He chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. "I'm always happy to help a fellow royal improve their skills."

I flop back into my chair, still giggling, my hair a little messier from the spin. The tension from earlier feels like a distant memory now, and all I can think about is how easy it feels to be around him—despite everything, despite the whole prince thing.

I'm not sure how Edward managed it, but somehow, here we are, walking through the Louvre after hours. The entire gallery is empty—just us—and it feels like I've stepped into another world. A world where, apparently, princes can shut down one of the most famous museums on the planet for a private tour.

The stillness of the space is almost surreal, the usual hum of tourists and crowds replaced by a soft silence. The massive artworks loom above us, the soft glow of lights casting delicate shadows on the floors. I glance up at the towering pieces of history, feeling small but completely mesmerised.

"Are you sure we're allowed to be here?" I ask, my voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly would break the spell.

Edward, walking beside me with his usual calm confidence, smiles and takes my hand. His touch is gentle, grounding me in the moment. "I'm sure. I wanted to have the place all to ourselves tonight. I had my assistant make the right calls."

I can't help but laugh a little, still stunned by the enormity of it all. "You shut down the Louvre? Just for us?"

He shrugs as if it's no big deal, his smile widening. "I didn't want to share you with anyone else tonight."

My heart skips at his words, and I squeeze his hand, glancing around in awe. The soft glow of the gallery lights highlights each brushstroke of the masterpieces around us, the history seeping through every inch of the walls.

"This is… unreal," I whisper.

I look up at him, my heart swelling with gratitude and something deeper. I've never felt this way before—like I'm being swept up in some incredible, impossible dream, and yet somehow, it feels real with him.

As we continue walking through the gallery, I let myself lean into the moment. The Louvre, the art, Edward—everything about tonight feels like a fairytale. And maybe, just maybe, I'm starting to believe that I'm allowed to be a part of it.

We stop in front of a painting that I've passed before in books and on postcards, but seeing it here, in the stillness of the Louvre, makes it feel entirely new. The soft, golden light plays across the canvas, and I can't help but admire the delicate brushstrokes, the way every detail feels alive.

Edward steps closer to the painting, his eyes tracing the artwork with a sense of familiarity, like he's seen it a thousand times but never tires of it. He turns to me, and there's a spark of something almost playful in his eyes.

"This one's special," he says softly, nodding toward the piece. "It's 'The Coronation of Napoleon' by Jacques-Louis David."

I blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. "Oh? You know your art."

Edward chuckles, glancing back at the painting. "One of the perks of my royal education. I've spent a lot of time studying pieces like this."

He moves a little closer to the painting, his fingers gently brushing the air in front of it, as if touching the story itself. "David was commissioned to capture the moment when Napoleon crowned himself emperor. There's so much symbolism here—Napoleon holding the crown, defying tradition, taking his fate into his own hands. But if you look closely, you'll see that David made some changes. He painted Napoleon's mother in the audience, even though she wasn't actually there. It was his way of showing that family—legacy—is always present, even when it's not."

There's a softness in his voice as he speaks, something tender. I watch him, captivated by the way he brings the painting to life, his knowledge so natural, woven into him. His eyes meet mine, and I realise this isn't just a lecture—it's him sharing a piece of his world with me, a world that, up until now, has felt so distant.

"That's incredible," I say, my voice a little quieter.

Edward smiles, his hand returning to mine. "There's always more to see if you know where to look."

His grin widens, but there's something else in his expression now, something more vulnerable. He squeezes my hand gently, and I feel that familiar flutter in my chest.

"You know," I say, biting my lip slightly, "I forgot who you are already. Even though no other man could pull this off. I look at you and see the guy I'm incredibly into."

His gaze softens, and he steps closer, his thumb brushing the back of my hand.

My breath catches, and for a second, the world feels like it slows down. The museum, the paintings, the weight of everything beyond these walls—it all fades, leaving just the two of us. He's standing so close, his eyes locked on mine, and in that moment, nothing else matters.

Edward's eyes soften, and he takes a step closer, closing the distance between us. His free hand comes up to gently cup my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across my skin. The touch sends a shiver down my spine.

"And when I look at you," he says, his voice low and intimate, "I see a woman who's captivated me completely. The one who makes me forget about titles and duties and just... be myself."

My heart races as I lean into his touch, my eyes never leaving his. The air between us feels charged, electric. I'm acutely aware of every point of contact between us—his hand in mine, his palm against my cheek, the closeness of our bodies.

"Edward," I whisper, my voice barely audible even in the silence of the empty museum.

He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want to. I don't want to.

Our lips meet, and the world around us disappears completely. The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if we're both still unsure of this new reality we've stepped into. But then Edward pulls me closer, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, and the kiss deepens.

I melt into him, my free hand gripping the front of his shirt. The taste of him, the feel of his lips against mine, it's intoxicating. All the tension that's been building between us, all the uncertainty and fear, it all falls away in this moment.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathless. Edward rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, a smile playing on his lips. I can feel the rapid beat of his heart matching my own.

"Come on. I'm not done romancing the shit out of you," he whispers.

"If you're trying to get into my pants your mission is accomplished. I'll pull them down right now," I tease.

Edward chuckles softly, his breath warm against my skin. "As tempting as that offer is," he murmurs, his eyes twinkling with mischief, "I think we might scandalise the Mona Lisa. She's been through enough already."

I laugh, feeling lightheaded and giddy. "Fair point. We wouldn't want to traumatise centuries-old artwork."

He takes my hand again, interlacing our fingers. "Come on, there's more I want to show you."

As we round a corner, I gasp. Before us stands the Winged Victory of Samothrace, her stone drapery frozen mid-flutter. Beside her a small table lit by candlelight, covered in loose rose petals and a harpist sitting near by playing lightly.

Everything about this moment feels surreal, like it's something out of a dream or a movie—too perfect to be real.

"Did you plan all this?" I ask, glancing up at Edward as we walk toward the table.

He smiles, that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. "Maybe."

We sit down, and the quiet of the museum wraps around us, the flicker of the candles creating a sense of warmth and intimacy. The food is simple but elegant—delicate courses that melt on the tongue, paired with wine that feels like it's been chosen just for this moment.

But more than the food, it's the way Edward looks at me—like I'm the only person in the world. As the meal progresses, we talk, laugh, and share pieces of ourselves, and for a while, it's easy to forget about everything beyond these walls. The Louvre is ours tonight, and for the first time, it feels like the rest of the world can wait.

As I sip my wine, savouring its rich, velvety notes, Edward's gaze drifts to the magnificent statue looming over us. The Winged Victory of Samothrace stands proud and powerful, her wings spread wide, her stone drapery seeming to flutter in an invisible wind.

"You know," Edward begins, his voice taking on that soft, passionate tone he gets when he's about to share something he truly cares about, "this statue has quite a story behind it."

I lean in, captivated by the warmth in his eyes as he speaks. The candlelight dances across his features, casting soft shadows that make him look almost ethereal.

"The Winged Victory was discovered in 1863 on the Aegean island of Samothrace," he continues, gesturing towards the statue with his wine glass. "It was found in pieces, scattered across the island. But even in fragments, its beauty was undeniable. It took years of painstaking work to reassemble it into what we see today."

I look up at the statue, trying to imagine it in pieces, scattered across a distant island. "That's incredible. How did they know how to put it back together?"

Edward smiles, clearly pleased by my interest. "It was a bit like solving an enormous puzzle. They studied each fragment, analysing the marble, the style, the way the pieces fit together. But even now, it's not complete. The head and arms were never found."

I tilt my head, considering the statue anew. "And yet, it's still so powerful, even without those parts."

"Exactly," Edward nods, his eyes lighting up. "That's part of what makes it so remarkable. It's incomplete, but it doesn't diminish its impact. Kind of like me."

Edward's words hang in the air for a moment, and I feel my breath catch in my throat. There's a vulnerability in his expression that I've rarely seen before, a willingness to be open and honest that sends a gentle warmth through me.

I reach across the table, covering his hand with mine. "You're not incomplete, Edward. You're... extraordinary."

His lips curve into a soft smile, and he turns his palm up to lace our fingers together. "You make me feel that way," he murmurs, his gaze holding mine.

We sit in comfortable silence for a beat, the music of the harp and the flickering of the candles creating an almost otherworldly atmosphere around us. I find myself getting lost in the depths of Edward's eyes, in the way they seem to see straight into my soul.

Slowly, he lifts our joined hands to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to the back of my knuckles. "You know, when I was a boy, My uncle used to bring me to the Louvre and we would stare at this statue. Something about her strength and grace just captivated both of us."

I smile, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "I can understand the appeal. There's something almost mythic about her, isn't there? Like she's a messenger from another world."

Edward nods, his thumb tracing idle patterns on the back of my hand. "That's exactly it. She's a symbol of victory, of the triumph of the human spirit. Even without her head and arms. She makes me thing about the kind of king I hope to be. I hope to lead with a powerful woman at my side."

He doesn't mean me, I remind myself.

Edward suddenly stands up and offers his hand to me, his expression soft and full of something unspoken. "Dance with me?"

I blink, surprised but smiling as I take his hand. "Here? Now?"

"Why not?" he says, pulling me gently to my feet.

Edward pulls me close, he begins to hum along with the tune of the harp, his voice low and soothing. We sway gently, the candlelight flickering around us, and I feel myself relax into his arms, the world fading away.

His hand is warm against my back, his other hand holding mine as we move together, slow and unhurried. I rest my head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing, and I can't help but smile. This moment feels like something out of a storybook, too perfect to be real, but somehow, with Edward, it is.

After a while, he pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes soft and full of warmth. "May I kiss you again?" he asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

My heart skips at the question, and I meet his gaze, feeling that familiar flutter in my chest. "You better," I whisper, leaning in.

He closes the distance between us, his lips brushing mine gently, sweetly, as we stand there swaying in the soft candlelight. The kiss is soft, tender, but full of something deeper—something that feels like it's been building between us from the very beginning.

And in this moment, nothing else matters but him.