Chapter 2
NATALIE
Silver ink spelled my name across thick cream cardstock.
I stared at the delicate cursive, tracing the letters with my eyes. The place card sat at the center of a floral arrangement consisting of white lilies and frosted glass. Table Fourteen. I was seated at Table Fourteen.
I looked up from my place card. The head table stretched across a raised dais at the far end of the room.
It was draped in crimson velvet, elevated above the rest of us like an altar.
Henrik sat at the dead center. He wore a charcoal suit cut to exacting measurements, a blue silk tie knotted at his throat.
He looked invincible. He was deep in conversation with the Minister of Finance, his brow furrowed in concentration. He did not look toward Table Fourteen.
To his immediate right sat Lady Beatrice.
She wore an emerald green dress that complemented the red velvet of the dais perfectly.
She had curated the seating arrangements.
Silas, the head of the palace staff, had informed me of that fact this morning, handing me the itinerary with a blank expression.
Beatrice had positioned herself as the right hand of the prince, placing me at the far edge of the room among minor diplomats and elderly countesses who viewed my presence as a distasteful joke.
“You look tense, my dear.”
I turned my head. Lady Harrington, an ancient woman dripping in pearls and sour judgment, took the seat beside me. She offered a thin, razor-sharp smile.
“I am quite well, Lady Harrington,” I replied, my voice smooth and devoid of emotion. I pulled out my chair and sat down, keeping my posture rigid. The wood of the chair was unforgiving against my spine.
“The glare from the chandeliers can be quite blinding,” the older woman continued, unfolding a linen napkin and placing it over her lap.
“I imagine it is quite different from the sunlight in those dirt fields of yours. You must find all of this terribly overwhelming. It is a shame Henrik requires your presence today. A man in his position needs a consort who understands the nuances of statecraft, rather than one who understands pruning.”
I did not flinch. I let her words wash over me, locking my expression into a mask of polite indifference. “The vines require patience and a firm hand to thrive. I find those skills translate quite well to this environment.”
Lady Harrington let out a dry, rattling laugh. “You are bold, I will give you that. But boldness does not secure a legacy. Bloodlines secure a legacy. Look at them.”
She gestured toward the dais with a skeletal finger. I followed her gaze.
The fracture in my chest throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that anchored me to the floor. I felt the physical distance between Table Fourteen and the head table as a vast, uncrossable chasm.
I remembered a time before the crown consumed him.
Three years ago, we had escaped a press tour in Rome, ducking into a tiny, cramped diner on the outskirts of the city.
We ate pasta from chipped bowls, our knees knocking together beneath a wobbly wooden table.
Henrik had looked at me then as if I was the center of his universe, his eyes bright and free of the crushing obligations of his bloodline.
He had held my hand, his thumb tracing the knuckles, promising that we would build a life together, not just a monarchy.
That man was gone. The prince had devoured him, replacing the warmth of his gaze with the cold, calculating stare of a ruler managing a crisis.
Henrik scanned the room. His eyes, cool and assessing, swept over the crowd, measuring the alliances and the threats.
His gaze paused when it reached my table.
For a fraction of a second, our eyes locked.
I saw the exhaustion in his posture, the tight set of his jaw.
He was a man carrying the fate of a nation, surrounded by vultures waiting for him to falter.
He saw me sitting on the periphery. He saw my isolation.
He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, acknowledging my compliance, and then returned his attention to the minister.
A shift in the air pulled me from my thoughts. The scent of expensive floral perfume heralded her arrival before I even saw her.
Lady Beatrice materialized beside Table Fourteen. She held a crystal flute of champagne, her emerald gown flowing around her ankles like water. She placed a hand on the back of my chair, a gesture that looked supportive to the onlookers but felt like a physical restraint to me.
“Natalie,” Beatrice purred, her voice dripping with condescension.
“I do hope the draft back here is not too terrible. I tried to place you closer to the dais, I really did. But Henrik insisted the trade delegates needed the prime real estate. You know how he gets when the treaties are on the line. He prioritizes the state above all else.”
I stared up at her. Her eyes were bright with triumph, mocking my silent endurance. She was playing a psychological game, twisting the knife while smiling for the cameras.
“The seat is fine, Beatrice,” I said, my tone flat. “I appreciate your concern for the seating charts. It must take a great deal of effort to arrange three hundred chairs.”
Beatrice offered a tight, patronizing smile.
“Someone has to manage the optics, sweetie. Henrik is burdened with the future of this country. He cannot be distracted by domestic complaints or fragile egos. He needs a partner who can manage the court, someone who understands the unwritten rules of our society. It is a burden, truly, but one I am happy to carry for him.”
“How selfless of you,” I replied, refusing to break eye contact. “I am sure he values your administrative assistance.”
A flash of genuine anger cracked her polished facade, disappearing as quickly as it arrived.
She leaned down, her lips brushing close to my ear.
“Do not mistake his tolerance for devotion, Natalie. He keeps you around because breaking a vow is bad for appearances. But when the doors close and the real decisions are made, it is my counsel he seeks. Enjoy your soup.”
She straightened up, gave a brilliant smile to Lady Harrington, and glided back toward the head table.
My stomach twisted into a cold, hard knot. The words were venomous, but they carried the undeniable weight of truth. I watched her resume her seat beside Henrik. He leaned toward her, offering a rare, genuine smile at something she said. The visual confirmation of my replacement was staggering.
Hours crawled by in a haze of polite torture.
I watched Henrik command the room. He delivered a speech on the importance of the charity, his voice ringing with absolute authority.
He spoke of duty, of sacrifice, of building a prosperous future for the citizens.
He was charismatic and commanding. The guests hung on his every word, captivated by the power he projected.
When the speech concluded, the room erupted in applause. I clapped my hands together, the sound hollow and meaningless to my own ears.
The luncheon transitioned into a mingling period.
Guests rose from their tables, forming small clusters of influence and ambition.
I remained in my seat for a long moment, watching the sea of expensive suits and designer gowns shift and merge.
I felt like a ghost haunting a banquet I was never meant to attend.
I stood up, the legs of my chair scraping against the marble floor. I needed to move. I needed to escape the suffocating perfume and the judging stares. I navigated through the crowd, keeping my gaze fixed on the imposing oak doors at the far end of the hall.
“Natalie.”
The voice cut through the noise of the room, stopping me in my tracks. I turned around.
Henrik stood a few feet away, flanked by the Minister of Defense and two minor dukes. He looked imposing, his sheer physical presence demanding attention and respect. He closed the distance between us, his expression unreadable.
“You are leaving,” he stated, a fact rather than a question.
“The formal portion of the event has concluded,” I replied, keeping my voice even. I refused to let him see the raw ache clawing at my throat. “I have fulfilled the visual requirements of my position. I am returning to the estate.”
Henrik frowned, a microscopic tightening of his brow. “The Chancellor is arriving in ten minutes. I need you to remain. We must present a unified front for the press photographs.”
“Beatrice is presenting a unified front,” I said, my tone flat and devoid of anger. “She is standing by your chair. She is curating the seating charts. The press will have plenty of material to work with.”
“Beatrice is managing the political optics,” Henrik countered, his voice dropping an octave, a warning rumble. “You are my wife. You have a role to play today.”
“My role was Table Fourteen,” I said, meeting his hard gaze without flinching.
“My role was to sit silently while your court whispered about my common blood. I played the part, Henrik. I endured the humiliation because you asked it of me. But I will not stand here and pretend this is a partnership. I am going home.”
The two dukes standing nearby shifted uncomfortably, pretending not to listen while absorbing every word.
Henrik noticed their discomfort. His jaw clenched, a muscle feathering beneath his skin.
He stepped closer, invading my personal space, lowering his voice until it was a harsh whisper meant only for my ears.
“You are acting like a child throwing a tantrum,” he reprimanded, the gravel in his tone sharp and unforgiving.
“This is not about your feelings, Natalie. This is about the stability of the crown. I am securing a vital treaty this afternoon. I cannot have my wife storming out of a state event because she did not like her seat.”