Chapter 10
NATALIE
Rain lashed against my back in freezing sheets.
I drove the rusted blades of the pruning shears into the thick branch of a dead vine.
The wood resisted. I clamped both hands over the grips and forced them closed.
A sharp crack split the air, louder than the wind off the northern sea, and the deadwood fell into the mud at my boots.
My knees ached from kneeling in the frozen dirt.
Mud coated my denim jeans, thick and clinging.
It smeared across my knuckles and dried under my fingernails.
My woolen sweater clung to my skin, soaked through, holding the brutal chill of the coastal storm against my chest. Water ran down my neck and pooled in the hollow of my collarbone.
I ignored the shivering. I ignored the stinging in my eyes.
I welcomed the physical punishment. It felt necessary.
Hours must have passed since I started. The gray sky offered no hint of the time.
The sun remained hidden behind bruised, churning clouds.
The storm battered the small coastal vineyard without mercy.
My cottage sat twenty yards away, a small structure of weathered gray shingles and stone.
No lights burned inside. It looked as cold and abandoned as I felt.
I had purchased the property three years ago under a shell corporation.
I needed a sanctuary. I needed a place where the air did not feel filtered through a dozen layers of security protocols and public relations handlers.
The cottage was a secret. It was the only thing in my life that belonged to me.
A strange sound broke through the noise of the wind and rain.
The crunch of gravel under massive tires.
I paused. The shears hung open in my hands.
The track leading to the cottage was washed out, a treacherous path of deep ruts and slick clay.
No one drove down here in a storm. Delivery drivers refused to use the road after October.
The locals knew better than to risk their axles in the coastal mud.
I stood up straight. My back popped in protest, the vertebrae grinding together.
Headlights cut through the gray gloom, blinding in their intensity.
The twin beams of light illuminated the falling rain, turning the droplets into streaks of silver fire.
A massive black vehicle crawled down the muddy track, its engine a low, powerful rumble against the storm.
It looked alien against the backdrop of the rugged coast. It belonged on paved city streets, in motorcades flanked by police escorts, driving over smoothed asphalt. It did not belong in the mud.
The vehicle stopped a few yards from the edge of the vineyard. The headlights shut off, leaving the world gray again. The silence that followed the engine cutting out felt immense. The storm rushed in to fill the void. The driver-side door opened.
Henrik stepped out into the mud.
He wore a dark charcoal suit, a crisp white shirt, and a long cashmere overcoat.
The rain hit him in seconds, plastering the expensive wool to his shoulders.
The tailoring was ruined in a matter of seconds.
He stood motionless for a long second. His eyes scanned the desolate landscape, the dilapidated cottage, the dead vines, and finally settled on me.
I did not move. I stood waist-deep in dead vines, holding rusted shears, covered in filth.
He looked like a king displaced from his throne.
I looked like a laborer toiling in the dirt.
The distance between us was only thirty yards, but it felt like a chasm that could swallow the world.
We occupied different realities. He lived in a world of polished surfaces and controlled outcomes.
I was standing in the dirt, dealing with the raw, messy reality of a dying season.
He shut the car door. The thud sounded dull in the rain. He did not signal his security detail. He did not wait for an aide with an umbrella. He started walking toward me.
His polished leather shoes sank into the mud with his first step.
The muck swallowed the pristine leather up to his ankles.
He did not look down. His gaze remained locked on my face.
His jaw was set, tight and rigid. The storm battered him, soaking his dark hair, plastering it to his forehead.
Water streamed down his cheeks, tracing the sharp angles of his cheekbones.
He pushed through the overgrown rows. The dead branches snagged on his coat, pulling at the fine fabric.
He ignored them. He walked with the desperate, forceful stride of a man accustomed to commanding his environment.
He expected the world to yield to his presence.
The mud refused to yield. It slowed him.
He slipped, his arms shooting out to catch his balance, his hands plunging into the wet soil.
He pulled himself up. Mud stained his hands and the cuffs of his white shirt.
He wiped his hands on his coat in a sharp, frustrated gesture and kept coming.
The pristine image was broken. The mud streaked across the dark wool of his coat.
He looked wild, frantic, stripped of his usual impenetrable composure.
He stopped three feet away. We stood in the freezing rain, separated by a row of mangled vines. The wind howled through the skeletal branches between us.
Water dripped from his chin. His chest heaved with exertion.
His bright blue eyes searched my face, wide and frantic.
The composed, untouchable royal facade was cracking under the assault of the storm.
He looked at the mud on my face, the dirt under my fingernails, the rusted tools in my hands.
He could not comprehend it. He could not understand why I would choose this brutal labor over the comfort of his estate.
“Natalie,” he said. His voice was a harsh rasp, audible over the wind.
I said nothing. I stared at the mud on his face, the ruin of his suit. He smelled of rain and wet wool, out of place in this wild environment. His presence felt intrusive. He had crossed a boundary he had no right to cross.
“Do you have any idea,” he began, his voice rising, taking on that authoritative, gravelly command.
“Do you have any idea what kind of risk you took by disappearing? You ignored my calls. You shut off your phone. My security detail had to track your car through the storm just to make sure you were not driven off the road.”
He spoke of risk. He spoke of his security detail. He managed my departure as a security crisis. He did not ask if I was hurt. He did not ask why I left. He treated my absence as a breach in protocol.
“I left the severed wine cork on your desk,” I said. My voice sounded flat, raw from the cold. “That is a resignation, Henrik. It is a departure.”
He flinched. He reached a muddy hand toward the row of vines separating us, then let it drop. “You are my wife. You do not resign from a marriage. You do not flee to the coast in the middle of a storm without a word to anyone. It is unreasonable. It is unsafe.”
“Unsafe,” I repeated. The word tasted bitter. It coated the back of my throat like ash.
“Yes. You are out here alone. The roads are dangerous. The temperature is freezing. You have no security, no staff, and no cell service. I had to track you through a local toll camera. You need to gather your things. We are leaving.”
He issued the command with absolute certainty. He expected me to drop the shears, walk to the car, and let him drive me back to the concrete and glass mausoleum we called a home. He expected me to fall back into line. He expected the crisis to be resolved by his presence alone.
I looked down at the pruning shears in my hands. The metal was cold, unyielding. I looked back up at him. “I am not going anywhere.”
“You are shivering,” he said, stepping closer. The dead vines crunched under his boots. “You are covered in mud. You are freezing. This is madness, Natalie. I understand you are upset. We will discuss it in the car. But right now, you need to get inside, get warm, and let me take you home.”
“This is my home,” I said. I gestured to the small, dark cottage.
His eyes darted to the weathered structure, dismissing it in an instant. “That is a shack. It is unsuited for you.”
“It suits me perfectly.”
He ran a hand through his soaking hair, smearing mud across his temple.
The frustration radiated from him. He was losing control of the situation, and he hated losing control.
He thrived on order. He demanded predictability.
My presence in the mud defied every rule he lived by.
“I am not doing this out here in the dirt. I am freezing. You are freezing. Get your things.”
“No.”
The single syllable hung in the air, sharp as glass. It cut through the sound of the rain. It stopped him cold.
Henrik stared at me. His jaw clamped shut. A muscle feathered in his cheek. He reached out and grabbed my forearm. His grip was absolute, strong and unyielding. The cold metal of his wedding band pressed against my wet sweater. The contact sent a shock of heat through my frozen skin.
“Let go of me,” I said. My voice dropped low, carrying a dangerous edge.
He did not release his grip. “You are acting like a child throwing a tantrum. I will not allow you to endanger yourself to prove a point. I am taking you back.”
I yanked my arm back. I threw my entire body weight into the motion. His boots slipped in the mud, and his grip broke. I stepped back, putting another row of vines between us. The physical distance felt necessary. I needed space to breathe.
“Do not put your hands on me,” I said, my chest heaving. “Do not come onto my property and issue commands.”
“Your property,” he mocked, though his voice shook. “Natalie, be rational. Please. I am trying to resolve this.”