Chapter 12 #2
Mr. Davies paused in the act of organizing his fountain pens. He looked at me over the thick rim of his reading glasses. His eyes held a quiet intelligence. “That is a serious step. Are you certain?”
“I am certain.”
He opened a drawer. He produced a fresh yellow legal pad. He picked up a silver fountain pen. “We will need to establish the formal grounds for the petition. Dissolving a royal union requires breaking a formal decree. We must also address the division of the crown estate.”
“Irreconcilable differences,” I said. “I want nothing from the crown.”
“You are legally entitled to a substantial royal pension,” Mr. Davies stated. He leaned forward. “Your husband is a reigning prince. Parliament will expect a formal financial settlement to ensure your silence and compliance. It is highly unusual to waive all claims in a royal marriage.”
“I refuse to accept a single coin from his empire,” I said.
My voice remained flat and steady. “I want a clean break. I want my name removed from the royal ledgers. I want the palace to hold zero leverage over my future. Any money I take will act as a tether. He uses wealth and titles as mechanisms of control. I will deny him that power.”
Mr. Davies studied my face. He recognized the immovable, hardened nature of my request. “Very well. I will draft the petition to reflect a complete waiver of the royal pension. We must address the prenuptial decree. It serves as the legal foundation of your royal vows.”
“The decree stipulates a massive financial payout from the royal vaults upon dissolution,” I recalled. “I will sign a waiver negating that specific clause.”
“He will need to sign the papers to formally submit the dissolution to Parliament,” Mr. Davies advised.
He tapped his pen against the pad. “Given his position, the Crown’s legal council will complicate the matter.
They view a clean break with deep suspicion.
They will assume you are planning a public scandal. ”
“He will want it handled quietly,” I said. “He despises public scandal. He treats our marriage like a fragile political treaty to be managed in private. He will try to delegate this crisis to Silas.”
“His assistant,” Mr. Davies noted, writing the name down in neat, cursive letters.
“His fixer,” I corrected. “Silas manages the human problems Henrik refuses to touch. I will not allow the end of my marriage to become another item on Silas’s daily agenda. I need the papers drafted today.”
“I can have the preliminary petition drawn up by this afternoon,” Mr. Davies promised. “It will require your signature before a notary public.”
“I will return at three o’clock.”
I stood up and left the office. I stepped back into the cold village street.
The wind had picked up speed. It bit through the thick wool of my sweater.
I walked to the local diner two blocks down.
The bell above the glass door jingled. The smell of frying bacon and old cooking grease hit my senses.
The diner was half full of local fishermen and shop workers taking their midday meals.
I ordered a black coffee from a tired waitress in a stained apron.
I sat in a red vinyl booth near the back corner.
The worn seat squeaked loudly as I shifted my weight.
I stared out the rain-streaked window at the grey street.
A deep realization settled into my bones.
The truth of my situation became glaringly apparent.
If I mailed the divorce papers to his legal team, they would intercept the documents before they ever reached his desk.
They would bury the petition in a mountain of bureaucratic delays and formal reviews.
Henrik might never even see the physical pages.
He would receive a concise, sanitized briefing from Silas over his morning espresso.
He would authorize a strategic plan to manage my departure.
He would never have to confront the raw reality of my leaving.
He would never have to look me in the eye and acknowledge his failure.
I took a sip of the bitter coffee. The dark liquid burned my tongue and throat.
The heat spread down into my stomach. I traced the condensation on the outside of the thick ceramic mug with my index finger.
I watched a drop of water slide down the glazed surface.
I thought about Henrik sitting in his immaculate office, surrounded by glass and steel.
I thought about the sheer volume of space he occupied in the world, and how little room he had left for me.
At three o’clock exactly, I returned to Mr. Davies’s office.
The solicitor had the documents prepared in a thick blue paper folder.
He handed it to me across the desk. I read through the pages carefully.
The dense legal terminology reduced three years of marriage to a series of cold, factual statements.
The typed words held no emotion. They only held consequence.
They represented the death certificate of a partnership.
“Is everything in order?” Mr. Davies asked. He watched me with a concerned expression.
“Yes,” I said. I picked up the pen.
I signed my name on the designated lines at the bottom of the final page.
My signature looked strange, foreign on the crisp white paper.
The notary, a quiet woman with grey hair, stamped the pages with a heavy metal press.
The sound of the stamp hitting the wooden desk felt incredibly final.
It echoed in the small room like a closing door.
“I will file these with the regional court on Monday morning,” Mr. Davies said. He handed me the duplicate copies in a thick, sealed manila envelope. “You must ensure he signs his portion. The court requires a notarized signature from him to proceed without a hearing.”
“I will take care of it,” I said. I placed the envelope in my bag.
I left the solicitor’s office with the envelope clutched tightly in my right hand.
I walked the two miles back to my cottage at a brisk, unrelenting pace.
The sun began to dip toward the horizon line over the ocean.
The sky bruised into deep shades of purple and dark charcoal.
The temperature dropped rapidly, carrying the threat of frost. I reached my front door and unlocked it.
I walked straight to my bedroom. I pulled a small, rugged canvas duffel bag from the top shelf of the closet.
I packed a single change of clothes. I packed my toothbrush and a clean wool sweater.
I did not pack for a long stay. I packed for a swift, decisive strike.
I would not spend a night under his roof.
I would hand him the papers and leave. I surveyed the room one last time.
I had left the expensive silk dresses and the tailored coats behind when I fled the capital.
I only possessed practical, durable items now. I preferred it this way.
I grabbed my car keys from the brass hook by the door.
I walked out the front door and locked it behind me.
The wind howled off the ocean in a low, continuous roar.
I walked to my old sedan parked in the gravel driveway.
The metal door handle felt like solid ice against my bare skin.
I pulled the door open and slid into the driver’s seat.
I inserted the key into the ignition. The old engine sputtered twice before roaring to life.
The sharp smell of exhaust fumes filled the damp air, cutting through the scent of salt and pine.
I shifted the car into gear. I pressed the accelerator pedal.
The rubber tires crunched loudly over the loose gravel as I pulled out of the driveway.
I steered onto the winding coastal road.
The bright headlights cut through the gathering dark, illuminating the twisting path ahead.
I drove toward the main highway. I drove back toward the capital.