The palace had hosted negotiations that decided borders.
It had hosted dinners where men smiled while planning each other's collapse.
It had hosted press conferences so tense the air felt sharpened.
None of it compared to the sound of children being released into a safe space.
The family had barely been inside ten minutes before the private wing stopped feeling like an extension of the monarchy and started feeling like what Chris had secretly wanted all along: a house that was alive and loud in the way that meant nobody was afraid of the future for five entire minutes.
They'd chosen one of the modern lounges for it - big sectional sofas, a low table pushed against the wall, floor-to-ceiling windows facing the inner garden, and a soft play mat that looked suspiciously like it had been purchased with state funds and then aggressively justified as 'security-approved cushioning.'
There were toys everywhere.
