Chapter 2 #2
“I am not storming out,” I corrected, my voice unnervingly calm. The anger had burned itself out, leaving only a vast, cold emptiness in its wake. “I am walking away. There is a profound difference.”
I looked at his face, tracing the sharp angle of his cheekbones, the intense focus in his eyes.
He was a brilliant strategist, a man who could calculate the outcomes of a global crisis in seconds.
Yet he was entirely blind to the destruction of his own marriage.
He believed a command could fix a broken vow.
“I will see you at the palace tonight,” Henrik said, a final decree ending the conversation. He turned his back on me, returning his attention to the Minister of Defense, dismissing me from his presence like a subordinate who had overstepped her bounds.
I watched him walk away. The fracture in my chest expanded, a deep, silent tearing of tissue and bone. I turned and walked toward the imposing oak doors, my steps measured and deliberate.
I reached the grand staircase and began the long descent toward the exit.
My mind shifted to the vineyard. I thought of the damp earth, the rough bark of the vines, the honest, physical labor that yielded tangible results.
Out there, cause and effect made sense. You tended the soil, you pruned the rot, and the plant grew.
In here, you sacrificed your soul, you swallowed your pride, and you were handed a smaller chair in a darker corner.
“To the main estate, Your Highness?” he asked, his eyes focused straight ahead.
“No, Thomas,” I said, sliding into the leather seat. “Take me to the southern fields. I need to check the soil moisture before the rain comes.”
Thomas nodded once, closing the door with a solid thud. The car pulled away from the curb, leaving the Grand Luncheon Hall behind. I stared out the tinted window, watching the manicured lawns and stone statues blur past.
I was done playing the silent consort. I was done waiting in the shadows while Henrik built an empire with another woman by his side. If he wanted to rule an ice kingdom, he could do it alone. I belonged in the dirt, and it was time I started digging my way out.
When the car finally rolled to a stop near the edge of the vineyards, I did not wait for Thomas to open the door.
I pushed it open myself, stepping out onto the uneven ground.
The smell of wet earth and crushed leaves filled the air.
It was a chaotic, organic scent, entirely devoid of the sterile perfection of the palace.
I walked down the steep incline, my thin shoes sinking into the mud. I did not care about ruining the expensive leather. The physical sensation of the damp soil seeping through the soles grounded me. It reminded me that the world was tangible, messy, and real.
Faye was already in the fields, a thick canvas apron tied around her waist. She was a local woman, fierce and unyielding, with hands rougher than tree bark and a complete disregard for royal titles.
She looked up as I approached, leaning against a wooden trellis.
Her eyes narrowed as she took in my formal attire and mud-stained shoes.
“You look like a hostage who just escaped a ransom drop,” Faye observed, her voice carrying a thick regional accent that offered no apologies.
“I feel like one,” I admitted, stopping beside her. I looked out over the sprawling rows of vines, the gnarled wood stretching toward the horizon. “The luncheon was exactly as expected.”
“Table Fourteen?” she asked, handing me a pair of pruning shears.
“Table Fourteen,” I confirmed, taking the cold metal tool in my hands. The weight of it felt right. It was a tool designed for cutting away dead wood, for forcing growth through drastic subtraction.
“The Duchess sat at the head table, I presume.” Faye picked up her own shears, turning her attention back to a tangled section of vine.
“She curated the seating arrangements,” I said, stepping up to the next trellis. I grabbed a thick branch, inspecting the brittle wood for signs of rot. “She positioned herself as his right hand. Henrik allowed it. He called it a tactical necessity.”
“Tactical necessity,” Faye snorted, a harsh, dismissive sound. She snapped a dead branch with a sharp crack. “That is the phrase of a man who is too cowardly to fight for his own house. He lets the wolves curate the dinner table, and then wonders why his wife is getting eaten.”
“He believes he is protecting the crown,” I said, squeezing the handles of the shears, severing a dry shoot. “He believes the treaties and the alliances are more important than a bruised ego.”
“It is not about an ego, Natalie,” Faye said, stopping her work and turning to face me.
Her eyes were dark and serious, stripping away the polite fictions I used to survive.
“It is about respect. He is letting them humiliate you in public. He is telling the entire country that you are expendable. If you accept Table Fourteen today, they will put you in the hallway tomorrow.”
I stared at the severed shoot in my hand, the rough edge of the cut pale against the dark bark.
She was right. Every time I stepped back, every time I accepted the shadows, I authorized my own erasure.
I had spent three years trying to bend, trying to adapt to the rigid structure of the monarchy, believing my sacrifice proved my love.
But love did not require a woman to shrink until she disappeared.
“I am not going to accept the hallway,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying a resonance I had not heard in years.
“Then you have to stop acting like a guest in your own marriage,” Faye challenged, turning back to the vines. “You have to force his hand. You have to make him choose between the pristine optics of his court and the messy reality of his wife.”
I plunged my hands into the soil at the base of the trellis, digging through the top layer to check the moisture. The earth was cold, biting into my skin, waking up the nerve endings that had gone numb in the luncheon hall.
I looked back toward the palace, a towering silhouette of gray stone against the bruised sky. Henrik was in there, navigating the political currents, believing his foundation was secure. He did not know that the ground beneath him was already crumbling.
I would not throw a tantrum. I would not scream or beg for his attention. I would simply stop participating in my own destruction. I would set a boundary made of iron and dirt, and I would watch him hit it.
I turned back to the vines, my hands coated in dark soil. I began to prune, the sharp snap of the shears echoing across the quiet field. I worked with a brutal efficiency, cutting away the dead wood, preparing the roots for a harsh winter.