Chapter 9 #2
My father used to tell me that the best wine came from vines that struggled.
Pampered vines, he said, grew lazy. They produced large, watery grapes with no character because they never had to fight for nutrients.
But a vine that had to force its roots through solid rock, that had to withstand the salt storms, produced small, intense berries with a complex, unforgettable flavor.
I had forgotten that lesson. I had allowed myself to be transplanted into the fertile, suffocating soil of the palace, and I had grown weak. I had allowed them to prune away my independence, leaving me fragile and dependent on their approval.
A sudden, sharp buzzing sound shattered the quiet of the cottage.
I turned, scanning the terraced rows, before realizing the sound was coming from inside. I walked back to the house, my feet cold from the dew, and entered the dim living room. The buzzing was coming from the canvas duffel bag sitting on the braided rug near the door.
My mobile phone.
I walked over to the bag, my bare feet silent against the cold floor. I crouched down and unzipped the main compartment, pulling the phone out. The screen was illuminated, casting a harsh, artificial glare in the dim room.
Incoming Call: Palace Reception.
I stared at the screen, my pulse accelerating.
He was calling. Henrik was utilizing the administrative machinery of the state to reach me, ordering the operator to connect the call rather than calling my private line directly.
He was delegating the task of finding his wife to a faceless receptionist.
I did not answer. I watched the screen until the call timed out and the display went dark.
Five seconds later, it lit up again.
Incoming Call: Henrik - Private.
He was calling himself now. The phone vibrated in my palm, a relentless, demanding rhythm.
He would demand an explanation. He would use his commanding, authoritative tone to order my return.
He would frame my departure as a crisis to be managed, a breach of protocol that required immediate correction.
He would offer a logical, strategic justification for his actions, completely ignoring the devastating emotional reality of his betrayal.
The phone stopped vibrating. The screen showed two missed calls.
Then, a text message notification appeared.
Natalie. Return to the palace immediately. The roads are unsafe. Silas is dispatching a security detail to retrieve you.
Retrieve me. As if I were a misplaced piece of state property.
As if I were an error that needed to be corrected before the European tour commenced.
There was no inquiry about my safety, no expression of regret, no attempt to understand my pain.
There was only a command, a royal decree issued from a distance.
His first instinct, when faced with the fracture of our marriage, was to dispatch a security detail. He handled the situation like a military general managing a breach of security, relying on force and protocol rather than direct, honest communication. He did not seek to heal; he sought to control.
I felt a sudden, fierce surge of anger, hot and unyielding. It burned away the lingering traces of grief and anxiety, leaving behind a pure, focused determination.
I walked toward the front door, the phone clutched tightly in my hand. I threw the deadbolt back and pulled the massive oak door open.
The freezing coastal wind slammed into me, whipping my hair across my face and biting through the thick wool of my father’s sweater. I stepped out onto the stone porch, the cold slate freezing against the soles of my bare feet.
The phone vibrated again in my hand. Another call from the private line.
I lifted my arm, drawing it back over my shoulder, and threw the device with all the physical strength I possessed.
The small, rectangular piece of metal and glass sailed through the turbulent air, a tiny, insignificant object against the vast, gray backdrop of the storm. It crested the edge of the cliff and plummeted downward, disappearing entirely into the churning, raging waves of the northern sea below.
The digital tether was severed. The connection was permanently broken.
I turned away from the ocean and walked back toward the front door of the cottage. I paused at the entrance, looking toward the overgrown, chaotic rows of my father’s neglected cliffside vineyard.
I walked over to the small, rusted metal shed attached to the side of the house. I pulled the latch open and stepped into the damp, earth-scented darkness. I bypassed the large shovels and the large tillers.
I reached up and took a large, rusted pair of pruning shears down from a wooden peg on the wall.
They were larger than the pair I had left on his desk. The grips were worn smooth from years of my father’s labor. I gripped the handles, testing the tension of the spring. They were stiff, requiring significant physical force to operate.
They were perfect.
I walked out of the shed, the large shears held tightly in my right hand.
I did not look back at the ocean. I did not look back toward the road leading to the capital.
I walked directly into the overgrown rows of the neglected vineyard, the cold wind whipping around me, ready to begin the brutal, necessary, and grueling labor of cutting away the rot.