Chapter 7
NATALIE
The metal blades bit through the cork of our wedding year vintage with a dull, wet snap.
I gripped the wooden handles of my pruning shears, feeling the rough grain dig into my palms. The steel was caked with damp earth from the southern fields, the dirt flaking off onto the pristine surface of Henrik’s mahogany desk.
I stared down at the severed cork. The top half remained embedded in the neck of the dark glass bottle, while the bottom half rested on a stack of vital economic treaties, bleeding a dark, crimson stain across the precise black ink of the state.
The air in the study was perfectly still, thick with the smell of old paper and the lingering, suffocating scent of jasmine perfume.
My breath came in shallow, uneven gasps.
The physical pain in my chest, a fracture I had carried and managed for three years, finally shattered entirely.
There was no more tension. There was no more waiting for the inevitable collapse.
The structure had fallen, leaving me standing in the ruins of my own marriage.
I traced the edge of the steel blade with my thumb, feeling the sharp, unforgiving edge.
The bottle of wine had been a gift from my father on the day of our wedding.
We had stored it in the deep cellars of the palace, agreeing to open it only when we had achieved a true victory, a moment of profound, shared triumph.
There would be no triumph.
I let my hands drop to my sides, the shears slipping from my grip and clattering against the wood of the desk with a sharp, final noise.
The silence of the room rushed back in, demanding obedience. I refused to obey. I closed my eyes, the memory of the last hour playing on a brutal, relentless loop in my mind.
I remembered the absolute stillness of the greenhouse.
I remembered the steam rising from the mismatched porcelain teacups, the clock ticking past three in the afternoon, the realization that he was not coming.
When the page boy had delivered the message about the protocol rehearsal, I had poured the Earl Grey into the dirt of a potted fern.
I had taken off my shoes, leaving them near the door, and walked out into the gardens.
The walk from the western edge of the estate to the primary palace corridors had been a physical transition from life to death.
The warm, humid air of the greenhouse gave way to the biting chill of the stone courtyards.
My bare feet slapped against the granite paving stones, carrying me past manicured hedges and lifeless fountains.
When I breached the entrance of the residential wing, the temperature plummeted.
The marble floors felt like blocks of ice against my soles.
I moved through the empty, cavernous hallways like a ghost. Portraits of long-dead monarchs stared down at me from the walls, their painted faces locked in expressions of permanent disapproval.
They knew I did not belong. They had always known.
I reached the corridor leading to Henrik’s private study. The massive oak door was slightly ajar, casting a thin, sharp blade of yellow light across the Persian rug.
I stopped walking. The scent of jasmine hit me first, a cloying, artificial sweetness that masked the smell of approaching rain.
I crept closer, my bare feet silent against the thick wool.
I did not intend to spy. I intended to demand an explanation, to force him to look at the woman he had abandoned on our anniversary.
But as I reached the sliver of light, the words caught in my throat, choked by the scene playing out in the shadows of the room.
Henrik sat in the large leather chair behind his desk. He looked utterly drained, his head resting against the high back, his eyes closed. His ceremonial military uniform, a stark white canvas adorned with gold, looked restrictive and punishing.
Lady Beatrice stood beside him.
She wore a vibrant crimson dress, a deliberate, aggressive splash of color in the dim room.
She had crossed the invisible boundary of his desk, invading his personal space with an absolute, terrifying confidence.
She reached out, her pale, manicured hands gripping his right wrist. She leaned in close, her hair brushing against his shoulder, and began to unfasten the stiff gold cufflink of his uniform.
Henrik did not pull away. He did not issue a command or demand professional distance. He surrendered to her touch, accepting the intimate gesture with a slow, exhausted sigh.
I froze, the air leaving my lungs in a silent, agonizing rush.
“The rumors are spreading, Henrik,” Beatrice had said, her voice a low, soothing purr that vibrated with malicious intent.
“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,” Henrik replied. His defense was weak, entirely devoid of the ferocious loyalty he applied to his political treaties. “It was our anniversary. I missed the appointment.”
“You missed an appointment to secure a vital trade alliance,” Beatrice corrected, snapping the cufflink free and setting it on the desk.
She moved to his other wrist, her touch firm and possessive.
“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, rather than punish you for it.”
He did not defend me. He closed his eyes tighter, absorbing her poisonous counsel as if it were a necessary medicine.
“She is fragile, Henrik,” Beatrice continued, stepping back slightly, fixing him with a stare of intense calculation.
“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,” Henrik argued, a weak, token resistance.
“She is a liability,” Beatrice stated, the word dropping into the silence of the room like an executioner’s blade.
“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 pressed my hand against the cold stone of the wall, desperate for physical support. I waited for the explosion. I waited for my husband to rise from his chair, to banish her from the room, to defend the honor of the woman he had chosen.
“You are right.”
The words were spoken in Henrik’s commanding, authoritative register. The sound of his agreement was the most devastating violence I had ever experienced.
“Her presence on the tour poses a significant risk to the diplomatic objectives,” he continued, stripping away our vows and replacing them with a cold, political calculus. “I cannot afford a public breakdown in Paris or Berlin.”
“Then you must protect her,” Beatrice said, her smile audible in her voice.
“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.”
“We leave in two days,” Henrik commanded, accepting the arrangement. “Ensure Silas has the itineraries updated to reflect your status as primary consort. Natalie will remain at the estate.”
I did not scream. I did not storm into the room and demand a reckoning. The anger had burned out, replaced by a vast, freezing clarity. He had outsourced his marriage. He had diagnosed my heartbreak as a political liability and prescribed isolation as the cure.
I backed away from the door, the Persian rug muffling my retreat.
I walked back down the corridor, retrieved my pruning shears from the hook near the conservatory entrance, walked down to the cellars, and claimed the bottle of wine.
I returned to the study ten minutes later.
The room was empty. They had moved on to manage the next crisis.
I stood in the present, staring at the ruined cork bleeding into the treaties.
I reached out and wiped the dirt from the blade of my shears onto the pristine white surface of the top document. The dark soil smeared across the crisp typed letters, a permanent, undeniable stain on his perfect records.
I turned my back on the desk and walked toward the door. I left the study behind, leaving the shadows and the scent of jasmine to him.
I moved through the palace corridors with a rapid, purposeful stride. The fear and the hesitation were gone. I passed a group of young footmen carrying silver trays of champagne toward the grand reception hall.
“My Lady,” they chimed in unison, offering stiff, formal bows as I walked past them.
I did not acknowledge them. I did not care about the protocol, the optics, or the rumors they would undoubtedly spread about the mud on my dress and the dirt on my hands. I was completely untethered from their reality.
I reached our vast, cavernous bedroom in the residential wing.
The space felt like a museum exhibit, curated by a team of interior designers who believed luxury equated to comfort.
I ignored the massive mahogany wardrobe filled with designer gowns and restrictive corsetry.
I walked straight to a small cedar chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out a simple canvas duffel bag.