Chapter 4
NATALIE
Cold mud sucked at the soles of my rubber boots.
I drove the blade of my spade into the saturated earth, putting my entire body weight onto the wooden handle.
The ground resisted, dense with the invasive roots that had choked this section of the vineyard for years.
I twisted the handle, severing the network with a wet, satisfying tear.
Rain fell in thick, persistent sheets, soaking through the canvas of my jacket and plastering my hair to my forehead.
I wiped the water from my eyes with the back of a soil-stained glove.
I had been out here for three hours since leaving the charity luncheon.
My muscles burned with a fierce, punishing ache, but I refused to stop.
The physical labor was the only thing keeping the fracture in my chest from expanding and consuming me entirely.
“You are going to snap the handle if you keep leveraging it like that.”
Faye stood a few feet away, her own spade resting against her shoulder. The rain did not seem to bother her. She looked entirely at home in the storm, a force of nature in her own right. The gray canvas of her apron was coated in a thick layer of sludge, matching the dark circles under her eyes.
“The roots are deeper than I expected,” I said, my breath pluming in the cold air. I drove the blade down again, hitting a buried rock with a sharp, jarring clang that vibrated up my arms and rattled my teeth.
“The rot always goes deeper than you think,” Faye noted, her voice carrying over the sound of the rain. “You cannot just scrape the surface, Natalie. You have to dig until you find the source, and then you have to rip it out by the roots. Even if it leaves a crater.”
I knew she was not just talking about the weeds.
I paused, leaning against the rough wooden handle of my spade.
The grand facade of the palace loomed in the distance, a massive gray monolith against the bruised sky.
It looked like a fortress, designed to keep threats out, but lately, it felt like a prison designed to keep me locked in.
Henrik was inside those stone walls. He was surrounded by his court, his ministers, and his duchess.
He was building his empire, completely insulated from the storm raging outside his windows.
He had called me a child throwing a tantrum. He had commanded me to stay, viewing my humiliation as a necessary sacrifice for his political optics. He believed he was managing a crisis, applying his brilliant, analytical mind to a problem that required a human heart.
I thought about Beatrice sitting at his right hand, the vibrant emerald of her dress a stark contrast to the muted, restrictive silver gown his styling team had forced upon me.
She had leaned in, whispering in his ear, a public declaration of her superior rank and her intimate understanding of his world.
And Henrik had allowed it. He had accepted her counsel while banishing me to the periphery.
He called it a tactical necessity, a calculated maneuver to protect the crown from the vicious gossip of the inner circle.
He did not realize his protection was a blade, and he was burying it in my back.
I gripped the spade tighter, feeling the rough grain of the wood through my wet gloves. I was done sacrificing my dignity to appease a court that viewed me as a disease. I was done shrinking myself to fit into a space curated by a woman who wanted my husband.
“You are miles away,” Faye said, stepping closer. She plunged her own spade into the earth beside mine, turning over a massive clod of dirt. “You are still sitting at Table Fourteen.”
“I am trying to forget Table Fourteen,” I admitted, my voice tight.
“I am trying to forget the way Lady Harrington looked at me, like I was a stray dog they were forced to feed. I am trying to forget the way Henrik looked at Beatrice. He looked at her like an equal. He looked at me like an obligation he was forced to endure for the cameras.”
“You cannot forget it,” Faye said, her tone blunt and unforgiving. “If you forget it, you will accept it again tomorrow. You have to hold onto that anger, Natalie. You have to let it burn. It is the only thing that will keep you from freezing to death in that palace.”
She was right. The cold marble of the state rooms had been slowly draining the warmth from my blood for three years.
I had tried to adapt, tried to learn the intricate rules of a society built on exclusion and pedigree.
I had silenced my own needs, believing my silent endurance was a proof of my love for Henrik.
I had been wrong. My silence was a quiet, desperate surrender.
A flash of movement near the edge of the fields caught my attention, breaking my train of thought.
I squinted through the driving rain. A figure was climbing down the steep, treacherous incline that led from the manicured lawns to the working vineyards.
It was a man dressed in a pristine black suit, holding a massive black umbrella that shielded him from the worst of the storm.
As he drew closer, I recognized the rigid posture and the precise, measured steps.
It was Silas.
Faye let out a low whistle, shaking her head. “Well, that is a sight. A palace ghoul in the wild. I give those expensive Italian leather shoes about three minutes before they are ruined. What do you suppose a creature of the court wants in the mud?”
I did not smile. My stomach tightened into a cold, hard knot.
I knew exactly what he wanted. Henrik had sent his proxy.
He could not spare the time to walk down the hill himself, so he had dispatched an assistant to manage the fallout of our argument.
It was the ultimate insult, a final confirmation of my status as an administrative burden.
Silas approached carefully, his eyes scanning the treacherous mud with clear distaste.
The rain battered his umbrella, but he maintained his flawless composure, a walking embodiment of the rigid protocols I despised.
He stopped a few feet away from us, stepping onto a small patch of flattened grass to avoid sinking entirely into the sludge.
He held a small, square velvet box in his free hand, gripping it tightly against his chest.
“My Lady,” Silas said, offering a crisp, formal bow that looked entirely ridiculous in the middle of a storm. He could not call me Your Highness, because I was not officially a princess. The royal titles were confusing at the best of times, but I didn’t care about titles.
“You are a long way from the dry corridors of the east wing, Silas,” I replied, keeping my hands firmly gripped on the handle of my spade. I made no move to approach him. I refused to bridge the gap he was unwilling to cross. “I imagine your shoes will not survive the trip back up the hill.”
Silas glanced down at his feet, ignoring the thick brown mud splattered across his polished leather. “A necessary casualty, My Lady. His Royal Highness requested I deliver a message to you immediately. He insisted it could not wait for your return to the residential wing.”
“He sent you into a storm to deliver a message?” Faye asked, her tone openly mocking. She leaned on her spade, crossing her arms over her chest. “Is the secure telephone line broken? Or did the Prince simply misplace his boots?”
Silas ignored her completely, his intense training rendering him immune to the taunts of the working class.
He kept his gaze fixed solely on me, his expression a blank slate.
“His Royal Highness expresses his deepest regrets for the friction that occurred at the luncheon today. He wishes to convey that he values your partnership, and he hopes this gesture will demonstrate his commitment to your shared future.”
He extended his hand, presenting the velvet box.
I stared at the small object. The velvet was a deep, royal blue, the unmistakable packaging of the family vaults. He had bypassed the boutiques entirely to withdraw a calculated artifact from the state archives.
I drove my spade into the dirt, letting it stand on its own, and took a slow step toward him. I did not take the box from his outstretched hand. Instead, I reached out and flicked the golden clasp open with my muddy thumb.
The lid sprang back, revealing the Edwardian diamond bracelet.
The stones were massive, cut with an ancient, brutal precision.
They caught the weak, gray light of the storm, throwing off cold, fractured reflections that stung my eyes.
It was a staggering display of immense wealth, a piece of state history designed to dazzle subjects and intimidate rival nations.
It was the type of jewelry worn at coronations and state funerals, a symbol of the crushing weight of the crown.
The gesture was entirely transactional.
It was a brilliant, icy shackle designed to buy my silence and restore the pristine optics of his reign.
He believed he could calculate the exact market value of my pain and issue a payment to resolve the debt.
He had outsourced his remorse to a subordinate, reducing our marriage to a diplomatic crisis that required a payout from the treasury.
I thought back to the day he proposed. We had been standing in this exact field, the sun warm on our faces.
He had knelt in the dirt, ignoring the ruin of his bespoke suit, and presented me with a simple, unadorned gold band.
He had promised me a life built on mutual respect, a partnership that would weather any storm.
That man would never have sent an assistant with a piece of state property. That man was gone, devoured by the prince who now ruled in his place.
“The Edwardian collection,” I noted, my voice unnervingly flat, carrying over the relentless drumming of the rain.
I looked at the diamonds, feeling absolutely nothing but a vast, terrifying emptiness.
“A substantial withdrawal. I suppose the Chancellor must have been very upset by my absence at the photo call.”
Silas maintained his neutral expression, though his grip on the umbrella handle tightened a fraction. He was astute enough to recognize the danger in my tone. “His Royal Highness felt this specific piece conveyed the appropriate level of respect for your position, My Lady.”
“My position,” I repeated, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
“My position is Table Fourteen, Silas. My position is standing in the shadows of an alcove while Lady Beatrice curates his social calendar and dictates his diplomatic strategy. This bracelet does not change my position. It simply distracts the press from it.”
“My Lady, I was instructed to ensure you received the gift.” Silas took a half-step forward, offering the box again, a subtle, practiced pressure meant to force my acceptance and end the awkward standoff.
“I am not going to take it, Silas,” I said, meeting his eyes with a cold, unyielding stare. “You can close the box.”
Silas froze. It was a rare, microscopic break in his rigid programming.
He was not equipped to handle a direct rejection of a royal directive.
In his world, the Prince issued a command, and the subjects complied.
“My Lady, I must insist. The Prince was very clear in his instructions. He expects to see you wearing this piece at the private dinner tonight. He intends to issue a press release featuring the bracelet to combat the rumors generated by your absence.”
“He intends to use me as a prop,” I fired back, the anger bubbling over. “He intends to parade me in front of the cameras wrapped in diamonds to prove that our marriage is secure. He does not care that the foundation is crumbling, so long as the facade remains intact.”
“And I am very clear in mine,” I countered, my voice hardening into steel.
The cold rain soaked through to my skin, but a white-hot anger burned bright and fierce in my chest, fueling my resolve.
“Tell my husband that I do not want his family jewels. Tell him that an apology cannot be delegated to an assistant. If he wants to fix the fracture he caused today, he cannot buy his way out of it with a withdrawal from the vault.”
Silas lowered the box slowly, the lid snapping shut with a sharp click that cut through the sound of the rain like a gunshot. “I do not believe His Royal Highness will find that response acceptable, My Lady.”
“I am sure he will find it highly inefficient,” I agreed, stepping back toward my spade.
“But that is the reality of a marriage, Silas. It requires presence. It requires emotional labor. Tell him that if he wants my forgiveness, he will have to walk down this hill and ask for it himself. Tell him he will have to ruin his own shoes in my mud.”
Silas stared at me for a long moment. He recognized the absolute finality in my tone. He bowed again, a rigid, mechanical gesture that offered no true respect. “I will convey your exact words to His Royal Highness.”
“Make sure you do,” Faye chimed in, picking up her spade and driving it into the earth with a vicious thrust. “And watch your step on the incline. The mud is slick, and you do not have the proper footing for this terrain.”
Silas turned without another word and began the treacherous, humiliating climb back toward the manicured grounds of the palace.
He slipped twice, his pristine suit catching the brown sludge, but he never dropped his umbrella.
I watched him go, a black silhouette retreating against the gray stone of the empire that had sent him.
I grabbed the handle of my spade, wrapping my gloved hands tightly around the wet wood.
The adrenaline surged through my veins, hot and demanding action.
I drove the blade back into the earth with a powerful thrust, channeling the fury into the soil, severing the hidden roots with ruthless precision.
My phone buzzed in the inner pocket of my jacket.
I stopped digging, the vibration startling me. I pulled the wet zipper down and extracted the device. The screen illuminated the gloom, displaying a single, terse text message from Henrik.
Your defiance is unreasonable. This behavior serves no purpose. We will discuss your duties tonight.
I stared at the glowing letters, the rain blurring the screen.
He did not understand. He genuinely believed my pain was a calculated act of rebellion, a strategic maneuver meant to embarrass him in front of his staff.
He was completely blind to the devastation he had caused, viewing my rejection of the bracelet as an insubordinate act rather than a desperate plea for connection.
I pressed my thumb against the power button. The screen went black. I dropped the phone into the bucket of muddy water sitting beside the trellis. I gripped the spade with both hands and drove it deep into the ground, shattering a buried stone with a sharp, brutal crack.