Epilogue
NATALIE
Six Months Later
Ipressed my thumbs into the dark soil. I packed the damp earth around the base of the young olive tree. The terracotta pot was cool against my palms. I sat back on my heels and wiped my hands on my coarse linen apron. The solarium in the east wing of Elden Hall was quiet.
A year ago, this room had been a sterile void.
It had smelled of chemical brass polish and stale air.
Now, it was alive. The thick velvet curtains were gone.
The tall glass windows let the late afternoon sun pour across the marble floor.
I had brought the coastal vineyard to the capital. I had forced roots into the stone.
I heard the distinct, measured sound of footsteps ringing down the grand corridor.
I did not need to look up to know who it was. The rhythm of his stride was burned into my memory. I stood up and brushed the remaining dirt from my hands. I walked to the arched doorway of the solarium and leaned against the stone frame.
Henrik walked down the hall. He wore a sharp, tailored navy suit. His shoulders were wide and unyielding. Prime Minister Sinclair was rushing to keep pace beside him, holding a leather folder open and speaking in a rapid, urgent cadence.
“Your Highness, the regional infrastructure budget still requires your signature,” Sinclair said. He adjusted his glasses and flipped a page. “We could cover the preliminary figures in another hour. The ministers are waiting.”
Henrik stopped. He did not look at the folder. He turned to Sinclair. His face was calm, resolute, and entirely immovable.
“The budget will wait until Monday morning, Prime Minister,” Henrik said. His voice rang off the high ceilings. He did not offer an excuse. He did not justify his exit. “Have the finance minister prepare a summary for my review. I am leaving.”
“But the infrastructure timeline...”
“The timeline will adjust,” Henrik interrupted. “It is five o’clock on Friday. We are finished for the day. Have a good weekend.”
Sinclair closed his notebook. He offered a respectful nod, accepting the absolute boundary Henrik had drawn. “Of course, Your Highness. Have a good weekend.”
Sinclair turned and walked back toward the state rooms. Henrik continued down the hall toward me.
The tension in his jaw relaxed the moment his ice-blue eyes met mine.
He closed the distance between us. He did not care about the dirt on my apron.
He did not care that I was standing in a royal corridor wearing faded denim and work boots.
He reached out and pulled me against his chest.
He kissed me. His mouth was warm and familiar. He tasted of black coffee and mint.
“You are exactly on time,” I said. I rested my hands against the lapels of his suit jacket.
“I made a promise,” Henrik said. He brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers traced the line of my jaw. “I intend to keep it. Every single day. I am done with the crown for the week.”
“Sinclair looked like he might cry.”
“He will survive,” Henrik said. He looked down at my hands. He saw the dark earth under my fingernails. He smiled. “Are you ready to go home?”
“I am,” I said.
We left the palace through the private rear exit.
We did not take a security detail. We did not bring any staff.
Henrik drove the car himself. We traveled the winding coastal road as the sun began to dip toward the horizon.
The rigid, suffocating atmosphere of the capital bled out of the car with every mile we drove north.
I rolled down the passenger window. The sharp scent of the ocean filled the cabin.
It smelled of salt spray, cold water, and wild freedom.
I closed my eyes and let the wind whip through my hair.
I felt Henrik reach across the center console.
His large, warm hand found mine. He interlaced our fingers and rested our joined hands on his thigh.
I felt the calluses on his palms. They were the scars of the seawall he had built with his own hands.
They were the permanent proof of his devotion.
We arrived at the cottage just as twilight settled over the cliffs.
The stone walls stood strong against the wind.
The repaired terraces held firm against the crashing waves below.
The rows of dormant grapevines stretched out in perfect lines, waiting for the spring thaw.
This was our true sanctuary. This was the place where we were just a man and a woman, stripped of titles and expectations.
Henrik carried our bags inside. The air in the kitchen was cold and still.
He did not wait for me to ask. He immediately walked to the cast-iron stove.
He gathered kindling and stacked logs of dry, aged cedar.
I stood in the doorway and watched him work.
I watched the flex of his back muscles beneath his shirt.
I watched the precise, deliberate way he built the foundation of the fire.
He struck a match. The flame flared bright in the dim room. He touched it to the dry moss and kindling. The fire snapped and popped. The flames caught the cedar logs, casting a warm, flickering light across the rustic kitchen. The smell of rich woodsmoke replaced the cold air.
He stayed crouched by the stove for a long time, watching the flames to ensure they were stable.
He was tending the fire. It was a simple act of manual labor, yet it represented everything he had learned.
He knew now that love was not grand, sweeping declarations or expensive gifts.
Love was the daily, relentless effort of showing up.
Love was keeping the cold out. Love was doing the work.
I walked across the wooden floor. I knelt on the braided rug beside him.
He turned his head. The firelight caught the sharp angles of his face. His ice-blue eyes were soft and focused entirely on me. He reached out and took my hand. His thumb brushed over the simple silver band on my left ring finger.
“It is good to be home,” he said. His voice was low and rough in the quiet room.
“It is,” I agreed.
I looked down at our joined hands. My heart was beating a frantic, wild rhythm against my ribs. I had been waiting for this exact moment all day. I had been waiting for the quiet of the cottage, for the warmth of the fire, for the absolute certainty of his undivided attention.
I took a slow, deep breath. I looked up and met his gaze.
“Henrik,” I said. My voice trembled. I could not hide the sudden rush of emotion swelling in my chest.
He shifted closer. His brow furrowed in immediate concern. He brought his free hand up to cup my cheek. “Natalie. What is it? What is wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” I said. The first tear spilled over my lower lash line. It tracked hot and fast down my cheek. “Everything is perfect.”
He wiped the tear away with his thumb. His eyes searched my face, tracking every micro-expression, trying to understand the shift in my mood. “Then why are you crying?”
I let out a wet, breathless laugh. I moved my free hand and pressed it flat against my lower stomach. I held it there, grounding myself in the reality of the secret I had been carrying for the last three days.
Henrik looked down at my hand. He looked at where it rested against my body. He stared at it for a long, fractured second. I watched his mind process the gesture. I watched the exact moment the realization slammed into him.
His breath hitched in his chest. His eyes went wide. He looked back up at my face.
“Natalie,” he breathed. His voice cracked. It was a raw, broken sound.
“Yes,” I said. More tears spilled down my cheeks. I was crying freely now, the salt mixing with the dirt on my skin. “Yes, Henrik. We are going to have a baby.”
He let out a sound that was half a laugh and half a sob.
He dropped his head forward and rested his forehead against mine.
I felt the wet heat of his tears against my skin.
His broad shoulders shook. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into his chest, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
He held me so tight I could feel the frantic, hammering beat of his heart against my ribs.
“A baby,” he breathed against my skin. His voice was thick with emotion. “Natalie. A baby.”
“A family,” I corrected gently. I ran my hands through his thick hair, holding him against me. “Our family.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me. His face was wet with tears. His ice-blue eyes were shining with a profound, shattering joy. He looked at me as if I had just handed him the entire world. In a way, I had.
He moved his hands down to rest over mine, pressing against my stomach. He closed his eyes.
I knew what he was thinking. I knew he was thinking about the crown, the statecraft, and the endless line of succession.
But none of that mattered right now. He was not looking at a future monarch.
He was not looking at an heir to a throne.
He was looking at his child. He was looking at the life we had built from the ruins of our marriage, a life forged in the mud and the cold, a life that was finally, truly ours.
He opened his eyes and leaned in to kiss me. It was a kiss of absolute, undeniable devotion.
“I will protect this,” he said. He rested his forehead against mine again, his thumbs stroking the skin of my stomach. “I will protect you. I will protect our child. I will tend this fire for the rest of my life.”
“I know,” I said. I smiled through my tears, feeling the heat of the fire on my back and the solid, unyielding strength of my husband in my arms. “I know you will.”