“I look even crazier in motion,” I said. “It’s like I shoved a really big beach ball up my dress. I can’t believe the press hasn’t accused me of faking it.”

Nick laughed. “You are so hard on yourself,” he said. “You look amazing, both in that dress and also in this…robe?”

“It’s a caftan,” I told him. “And men are required to say that to their uncomfortably pregnant partners.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not sincere,” he said. “You are a very sexy pregnant lady.”

“Thank you,” I said. “If I weren’t so physically uncomfortable and exhausted, I’d put the moves on you right now.”

“If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d let you,” he said. “I’ll settle for a rain check. Also, what is my face doing right there?”

He pointed at the TV; the news was now showing footage of Daphne and Freddie leaving the church after their religious ceremony, over a very benign story about famous well-wishers who’d popped onto Twitter with their congratulations. As Daphne and Freddie stepped out into the sunshine, he had pulled her into a swoony kiss, to the delight of the crowd that had gathered outside; behind them, Nick appeared to be wincing.

“I was trying not to sneeze!” he insisted now. “That’s going to be the shot on the cover of People next week, you watch. Freddie and Daphne looking romantic, and me, lurking behind them like a skeptical creep.”

“Frame it and give it to Freddie. It’s the wedding gift he’ll love the most,” I said. “Way more than the Dutch oven we got him.”

“That’s such a good pun, though,” Nick said.

I slowly—so slowly—maneuvered myself into an upright position. On the TV, Penelope Ten-Names was standing in front of Nieuwe Kerk, interviewing the mayor. The press that traveled to Amsterdam to cover this happy ending—the proper fairy tale Nick and I had failed to deliver—still had stories to file, even though the VIP guests had already escaped. Freddie and Daphne were en route to a villa in the Maldives with ten days to do, as Lady Elizabeth had so sensitively put it, nothing but each other.

My stomach was gurgling—that samosa was not sitting well with me—and a weekend in Amsterdam, on full display, had worn me out way more than I thought. I lay back on my pillow and groaned.

“What can I do for you?” Nick fretted.

“Nothing. I’m just anxious and need to sleep,” I told him. “I would love to put off finishing the conversation Richard started, but it’s the only thing I can think about.”

“Me too,” he admitted. “This whole thing is rather a mindfuck.”

“Are you tempted?” I asked.

“Aren’t you?” Nick chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Picture it: a cottage in the UK somewhere, raising up the kids in peace, walking them to the village school. Having crumbling headstones in a churchyard in fifty years where our children could always find us and scatter rose petals on our graves and recite poetry and cry. We could even get jobs.” He sounded wistful in the way that only a person who’d never had a proper office job would sound.