THIRTY TWO
Crowds line the streets as we arrive at the church. It's spires reach high into the sky, the sun beaming down on us.
My father offers me his arm as I step out of the car.
The crowd roars as they see me.
My dress is the most stunning piece of clothing I've seen. Hundreds of designers had reached out begging me to let them dress me. I'd selected Alexander McQueen. The beading, the silk, the way it moved.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. This is it. The moment I've dreamed of since I was a little girl.
As we begin our walk towards the church entrance, I take the time to wave to the crowd. My royal wave perfected by my tutors.
The closer we get to the massive oak doors, the louder my heart pounds. I can feel the weight of the tiara nestled in my carefully styled hair, a constant reminder of what today means. Not just for me, but for the entire country.
My father gives my arm a gentle squeeze. "You ready, sweetheart?" he whispers.
I nod, unable to find my voice. The doors swing open, revealing the pews of people who had travelled to be here.
The church is awash in a sea of colours - the rich reds and golds of the nobility's attire, the crisp black and white of the clergy, and the soft pastels of the spring flowers adorning every surface. The scent of lilies and roses wafts through the air, mingling with the familiar aroma of polished wood and ancient stone.
As we begin our slow procession down the aisle, I feel hundreds of eyes upon me. The weight of expectation is palpable. I keep my chin high, my steps measured, just as I've practiced countless times. The soft rustle of my dress against the red carpet is barely audible over the swelling notes of the organ.
I catch glimpses of familiar faces as we pass - my cousins, trying to maintain their royal composure; my childhood friends, their eyes glistening with unshed tears; and members of parliament, their stern faces. I smile at Rosalie and Alice, offering them a small wave as I pass them.
To the public the decision to hand the crown to Edward is out of love and compassion. Behind closed doors our relationship with Edward's father is nothing.
But when I reach him with my father I curtsey deeply. As I rise from my curtsey, I meet Edward's eyes. They're warm and reassuring, a stark contrast to the cold, calculating gaze of his father standing just behind him. For a moment, I allow myself to forget the political machinations that brought us here, focusing instead on the man I've grown to care for over these past months.
My father places my hand in Edward's, and I feel a slight tremor in his touch. Is he as nervous as I am?
I again slowly dip before him into a curtsey. Just as we'd rehearsed.
As I rise, Edward's lips curl into a subtle smile, one that doesn't quite reach his eyes. We turn to face the Archbishop, his ornate robes glinting in the light streaming through the stained-glass windows. He hates that I had to do that.
But my god he is handsome. The perfect picture of a fairytale prince. His royal suit is impeccable, adorned with gleaming medals and a sash of deep blue. His chestnut hair is neatly combed, and his strong jawline is set with determination. I can't help but feel a flutter in my stomach, despite the circumstances that brought us here.
The Archbishop begins the ceremony, his voice resonating through the cavernous space. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today..."
As he speaks, I feel Edward's hand tighten around mine.
"You look incredible," he mouths to me, "absolutely divine."
I smile back at him, feeling a warmth spread through my chest. Despite the political nature of our union, these small moments of genuine affection give me hope.
The Archbishop's words wash over us as he speaks of duty, honour, and the sacred bond of marriage. I find my mind wandering, remembering the first time I met Edward at Disneyland. He had been so charming, so different from what I'd expected.
As we exchange vows, I search Edward's eyes for any sign of the connection we'd shared that night. There's a flicker of something—warmth, perhaps even tenderness—but it's quickly masked by the practiced neutrality of a royal.
"I do," I say, my voice steady and clear.
"I do," Edward repeats, his tone matching mine in its sincerity.
The Archbishop pronounces us husband and wife, and a thunderous applause erupts from the congregation. Edward leans in for our first kiss as a married couple, his lips soft but restrained against mine. It's a kiss for the cameras, for the people. We planned to have our own, personalised ceremony tomorrow with our friends and loved ones, where we could make vows that weren't backed by tradition. Vows that we'd honour.
I was officially the girl who pretended to be a princess becoming one in reality.
As we turn to face our guests, I catch a glimpse of Edward's father, King George, his face an inscrutable mask. I know the pressure he's put on Edward, on both of us, to make this union work. Not just for us, but for the stability of the monarchy.
We begin our procession down the aisle, now as husband and wife, Prince and Princess. The cheers from outside the church grow louder as we approach the doors. Edward's hand is firm on my hand, guiding me, supporting me.
"Here we go," he grins at me, "this is the best part of a royal wedding."
As we step out into the bright sunlight, the roar of the crowd is deafening. Thousands of people line the streets, waving flags and cheering. The air is thick with excitement and confetti rains down upon us like multicoloured snow.
Edward's smile widens, and for a moment, I see a glimpse of the carefree young man I first met. He waves to the crowd with practiced ease, and I follow suit, my royal wave now feeling more natural than ever.
We descend the church steps, where an ornate horse-drawn carriage awaits us. Edward helps me in, careful not to step on my dress, before climbing in beside me. As we settle onto the plush velvet seats, he leans in close.
"Ready for your first carriage ride as a princess?" he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.
"No elephants?" I smirk.
"Oh that will be happening later," he whispers into my ear.
I can't help but laugh, the tension of the day momentarily broken by his playful comment. As the carriage begins to move, I'm struck by the surreal nature of it all. The crowds, the pageantry, the weight of the tiara on my head – it's overwhelming.
We wave to the throngs of people lining the streets, their cheers echoing off the buildings. I catch sight of myself in the polished surface of the carriage – my carefully applied makeup still perfect, my hair still immaculate despite the light breeze. I look every inch the princess I've become.
"You're doing wonderfully," Edward murmurs, his hand covering mine where it rests on the seat between us. "They already adore you."
I nod, touched by his encouragement. "Thank you," I whisper back. "For everything."
As we round a corner, I spot a group of children waving excitedly, their faces beaming with joy. I offer them a wave directly, blow them a kiss.
Their faces light up, and I feel a warmth spread through my chest. This is why I agreed to this, I remind myself. For moments like these, where I can make a difference, even in small ways.
The carriage continues its journey through the city, past historic landmarks and modern buildings alike. I catch glimpses of our faces on large screens, our every move broadcasted to millions around the world. It's both exhilarating and terrifying.
Edward leans in close again, his lips barely moving as he speaks. "Remember, we have about ten more minutes before we reach the palace. Keep smiling, keep waving. You're doing brilliantly."
I nod almost imperceptibly, grateful for his guidance. Despite months of preparation, the reality of this moment is still overwhelming.
As we approach the palace gates, I see the sea of people stretching as far as the eye can see. The noise deafening.
"Did they do this for your mother and father's wedding?" I ask.
"Not quite. We have Carlisle and Esme beat too," he smirks.
I can't help but smile at Edward's competitive spirit, even on our wedding day. As we pass through the palace gates, the crowd's roar intensifies. The manicured gardens are a blur of colour as we make our way up the long driveway.
The carriage comes to a stop at the palace steps, where a group of footmen in crisp livery await us. Edward descends first, then turns to offer me his hand. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for this next moment in the spotlight.
As I step down from the carriage, my dress cascading around me like a waterfall of silk and lace, I hear gasps from the onlookers. Edward's hand is steady in mine, a comforting anchor in this sea of new experiences.
We ascend the steps, where King George and Queen Elizabeth await us.
"You look stunning, Isabella," Elizabeth gushes, "my new daughter."
I curtsy deeply to the King and Queen, as protocol demands. As I rise, I see a flicker of something in King George's eyes – approval, perhaps, or maybe just satisfaction that his plan has come to fruition.
"Welcome to the family, my dear," he says, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of royal tradition.
We turn to face the crowds once more, the entire royal family now assembled on the palace steps. The cheers are deafening, a wall of sound that washes over us. Cameras flash incessantly, capturing this historic moment from every angle.
Edward leans in close, his lips barely moving. "One more wave, then we can head inside. You're doing wonderfully."
I smile and wave, my arm beginning to ache from the repeated motion.
"Once we're inside I'm putting my head under that dress," Edward whispers in my ear, head turned to avoid lip readers, "for years you can look forward to me whispering filthy things in your ears while no one has a clue. They'll play this moment in documentaries and you'll watch it and remember how badly I want to rip that off you."
I feel a rush of heat to my cheeks at Edward's whispered words, struggling to maintain my composure. His unexpected flirtation catches me off guard, but I manage to keep my royal smile in place as we make our final waves to the adoring crowd.
As we turn to enter the palace, I catch a glimpse of Edward's mischievous grin. It's a side of him I've rarely seen in public, and it sends a thrill through me. He might be their crown prince, but he's my man.
The heavy doors close behind us, muffling the roar of the crowd. In the relative quiet of the palace foyer, I let out a breath I didn't realise I'd been holding. Edward's hand is still firmly clasped in mine, his thumb tracing small circles on my skin.
"You were magnificent out there," he murmurs, his eyes scanning my dress, "I'm the luckiest man alive."
Once his parents are distracted I lean up and whisper in his ear.
"For years you can look forward to discreet hand jobs under banquet tables, you absolute tease," I whisper, "revenge is a dish best served horny."
Edward's eyes widen in surprise, a flush creeping up his neck. He clears his throat, clearly caught off guard by my bold response. His grip on my hand tightens slightly as he leans in, his lips barely brushing my ear.
"Oh you want a war?" he whispers, his voice husky.
I smirk, enjoying this playful side of Edward. "Bring it on, Your Highness," I whisper back, my voice low and teasing.
Our moment is interrupted as King George approaches, his face a mask of regal composure. "It's time for the official photographs," he announces, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Edward and I straighten up, slipping back into our roles as the perfect royal couple. As we follow the King to the state room where the photographer is set up, I feel Edward's hand on the small of my back, his touch both possessive and reassuring.
The next hour is a whirlwind of posed shots - Edward and I alone, with our families, with various dignitaries. Throughout it all, I feel Edward's eyes on me, a silent promise of things to come.