Chapter 6 #2
The silence of the room was absolute, but my mind roared with a chaotic noise.
I thought of Natalie. I pictured her standing in the dirt, her hands stained with soil, her eyes filled with a fierce, burning anger.
She viewed my ambition as a betrayal. She looked at my duties and saw only neglect.
She refused to understand that every trade agreement I signed, every protocol rehearsal I endured, was an act of devotion.
I was building an empire to keep her safe, to ensure no one could ever question her right to stand beside me.
Why could she not see the grand design? Why did she insist on dragging me down into the mud to argue about tea and anniversaries when the fate of a nation hung in the balance?
She possessed a fundamental inability to grasp the vast scope of my reality.
She was a woman of the earth, grounded in the immediate, the tangible.
I was a man of the state, forced to live in the abstract, calculating futures that would not arrive for decades.
I walked to my desk, my boots loud against the floorboards.
I sank into the leather chair, letting my head fall back against the headrest. The exhaustion was absolute, a physical collapse that left me entirely drained.
I needed rest. I needed to prepare for the European tour.
I did not have the energy to fight a domestic war tonight.
The door to my study opened.
I did not open my eyes. Only one person in the palace dared to enter my private space without a formal announcement.
The scent of jasmine perfume cut through the smell of leather and polish, filling the room with a cold, floral sharpness. The door clicked shut, the sound precise and final. I heard the soft, measured click of her heels against the floorboards as she approached the desk.
“You look like a man who has fought a war and lost,” Beatrice observed, her voice quiet, carrying a tone of intimate understanding.
I opened my eyes, bringing my head forward. Beatrice stood on the opposite side of the desk, her crimson dress a slash of color in the dim room. She had removed her formal jewelry, appearing relaxed, entirely at home in the center of my power.
“I am merely tired,” I said, my voice rough, lacking its usual command. “The Chancellor is a fool who requires constant supervision.”
Beatrice walked around the edge of the mahogany desk, entering my personal space.
She did not ask for permission. She moved with an inherent right, a supreme confidence born of royal blood and shared history.
She stopped beside my chair, looking down at me with an expression of profound, calculated sympathy.
“It is more than the Chancellor,” she murmured, reaching out.
Her cool, manicured fingers brushed against the fabric of my sleeve. She took hold of my right wrist, gently pulling my arm forward. She began to unfasten the stiff gold cufflink of my uniform.
I did not pull away. The sheer physical exhaustion rendered me immobile.
I allowed the touch, accepting the fleeting comfort of a shared burden.
Her hands were precise, efficient, stripping away the restrictive armor of the state.
She moved to my left wrist, repeating the action, her jasmine perfume wrapping around me, suffocating but familiar.
“The rumors are spreading, Henrik,” Beatrice said, her focus remaining on the gold cufflink. “The staff talks. They say your wife was seen walking the corridors barefoot, weeping like a distressed servant. They say she poured out a ceremonial tea and abandoned her post.”
“She was upset,” I defended, the words automatic, though they lacked conviction. “It was our anniversary. I missed the appointment.”
“You missed an appointment to secure a vital trade alliance,” Beatrice corrected, snapping the second cufflink free and setting it on the desk.
She placed her hands on my shoulders, her touch firm, grounding.
“You prioritized the future of the nation over a cup of tea. That is the definition of a sovereign. A true consort would celebrate your dedication, not punish you for it.”
I closed my eyes again, the pressure in my skull intensifying.
She was right. The logic was undeniable.
A royal marriage required sacrifice, a constant subjugation of personal desire to the needs of the state.
Beatrice understood this fundamental truth.
She lived it. Natalie fought it at every turn, viewing the crown solely as a rival for my affection.
“She is fragile, Henrik,” Beatrice whispered, leaning closer, her breath warm against my ear.
“She possesses a good heart, but she is a commoner. She was raised in the dirt, surrounded by plants that do not judge and do not plot treason. She cannot survive the altitude of the throne. She is breaking under the pressure.”
“She is stubborn,” I argued, my voice a low, gravelly rumble.
“She is a liability,” Beatrice countered, her tone hardening into absolute certainty.
She stepped back, restoring a fraction of professional distance, forcing me to look at her.
“The European tour is a political minefield. The press will be vicious. The foreign ministers will look for any weakness to exploit. If your wife cannot survive a missed tea appointment in her own home, she will completely collapse on a foreign stage. You will spend the entire tour managing her emotional crises instead of managing the treaties.”
I stared at her, the harsh reality of her words sinking deep into my chest. The European tour required absolute perfection.
I needed a partner who could deflect insults with a smile, a woman who could manage the brutal social politics of the international court without requiring constant protection. I needed Beatrice.
“You are right,” I admitted, the confession tasting bitter, a final surrender of my romantic ideals to the cold machinery of the state. “Her presence on the tour poses a significant risk to the diplomatic objectives. I cannot afford a public breakdown in Paris or Berlin.”
“Then you must protect her,” Beatrice said, a slow, triumphant smile curving her lips.
“Leave her here. Let her tend her vines and find peace in the dirt. I will accompany you as your official representative. We will manage the optics together. We will secure the treaties, and you will return to her victorious.”
I looked at the gold cufflinks resting on the mahogany wood.
It was a brutal decision, a choice that would undoubtedly cause immense pain.
But it was the only logical course of action.
I had to sever the infected limb to save the body of the state.
I had to lock my wife away in a gilded cage to protect her from the wolves, even if she hated me for it.
“We leave in two days,” I commanded, my voice returning to its absolute, authoritative register. “Ensure Silas has the itineraries updated to reflect your status as primary consort. Natalie will remain at the estate.