Chapter 14 #2
“The European tour is irrelevant,” I interrupted.
“The crown is irrelevant. You demand stability. You demand a unified front. You demand a replacement.” I pointed a finger at the crisp white divorce papers.
“My wife just returned her ring. She walked out that door. She left because I prioritized this room over our home. She left because I prioritized the state over her presence.”
I rounded the corner of the table. I walked toward Sinclair.
The Prime Minister retreated another step.
He bumped into Minister Alcott. The men scrambled to maintain their balance.
“You want a solution,” I said. I stopped three feet from Sinclair.
“Draft a proposal. Draft a formal document to strip me of my royal title. Present it to Parliament. Tell them I refuse the terms of this position. Tell them I will not replace my wife with a suitable companion. Tell them I will not project an illusion of stability to satisfy your itinerary.”
Sinclair’s face lost all color. He looked like a corpse in a tailored suit. “Your Highness, you cannot mean that. Abdication... the constitutional crisis... the economic fallout...”
“I mean every word,” I promised. “If you cannot accept my wife, you cannot have me. I will walk away from the alliances I secured. I will burn the treaties to the ground. I will return to the harbor. I will work with my hands until they bleed. I will do it before I let you dictate the terms of my marriage.”
The silence in the room stretched. The advisors stood frozen in sheer panic.
They realized I was serious. They realized their political instincts had failed them.
They had pushed too far. They had treated my personal devastation as an administrative task.
They had awakened the man I used to be. The man who had walked away from their court once before.
The man who valued the raw reality of Oakhaven, not their hollow political compromises.
A movement in the periphery broke the standoff.
Beatrice stepped forward from the shadows near the tall windows.
The jaundiced lighting caught the crimson fabric of her tailored dress.
She moved with practiced grace. She possessed an air of total calculation.
She treated every interaction as a transaction.
She viewed Natalie as an obstacle. Now, the obstacle was gone.
Beatrice approached the table. Her heels struck the stone floor with rhythmic precision.
Click. Click. Click. The sound mimicked a metronome.
She stopped a few paces from me. The scent of her expensive perfume invaded the space.
It smelled of synthetic roses and chemicals.
It lacked the raw, earthy reality of rain and woodsmoke.
It smelled manufactured. It smelled false.
“Henrik,” Beatrice said. Her voice carried a tone of sisterly concern. The concern was a weapon. She wielded politeness like a blade. She looked at the divorce papers on the table. She looked at the gold band. A faint, triumphant smile touched the corners of her mouth.
“This is a difficult moment,” Beatrice continued.
She stepped closer. She invaded my personal space.
She attempted to project warmth. It felt like the warmth of a reptile basking on a rock.
“Natalie was always quite overwhelmed by the demands of this life. It was a quaint romance. It was cute for a starter apartment. This is a palace. This requires a different caliber of endurance. She simply lacked the fortitude for the position.”
I stared at her. I observed the calculated tilt of her chin.
I saw the naked ambition burning in her irises.
She saw a vacant position. She saw an opportunity for ascension.
She believed she could step into the space Natalie left behind.
She believed a crown required nothing but good posture and strategic alliances.
“I can provide the stability the Prime Minister requires,” Beatrice offered.
She reached out. She attempted to place a hand on my forearm.
“I understand the protocol. I understand the duty. We can present a unified front for the European tour. We can secure your standing. A strategic alliance now will resolve the crisis. I am prepared to step in. I am prepared to secure the future.”
Her fingers brushed the fabric of my rolled-up sleeve.
I recoiled. The physical revulsion hit me with the force of a physical blow.
I stepped back. I severed the contact. The scent of her synthetic roses nauseated me.
I looked at her manicured nails. I looked at her immaculate hair.
I looked at the cold, calculating ambition in her eyes.
She was the embodiment of everything that had driven Natalie away.
She was the personification of the cold architecture of power.
“Do not touch me,” I commanded.
Beatrice froze. Her hand hovered in the air. The triumphant smile vanished from her lips. Genuine confusion replaced it. She did not understand the rejection. She had calculated the outcomes. She had offered the optimal solution. She could not comprehend the failure of her strategy.
“You view this as an opportunity,” I said. My voice dropped lower. The gravelly edge sharpened. “You view my wife’s departure as a vacancy. You think you can replace her. You think you can stand beside me and project an illusion.”
“Henrik, I am offering a strategic solution,” Beatrice argued. Her voice tightened. The polite veneer cracked. “The crown requires a companion. The public requires...”
“The public requires nothing from you,” I cut her off. I turned my body to face her fully. I focused the entirety of my rage on her immaculate presence. “You overstep your boundaries. You insult my wife in my presence. You attempt to leverage my personal ruin for your own ambition.”
Beatrice took a step back. The heel of her shoe scraped against the marble. “I am only trying to help you maintain order. I am only trying to fulfill my duty to the crown.”
“Your duty to the crown is terminated,” I stated.
The words hung in the air. The finality of the statement sent a shockwave through the room. Sinclair gasped. Alcott covered his mouth. Silas remained impassive, his eyes fixed on a distant point. Beatrice blinked. Her face paled. “You cannot be serious. My family...”
“I strip you of your court duties,” I continued. I did not raise my voice. The cold precision of my words required no volume. “I remove you as my co-representative. You will no longer attend council meetings. You will no longer represent the estate in any official capacity. You are fired.”
Beatrice’s jaw dropped. The calculated poise shattered.
She looked around the room. She sought support from the advisors.
She looked at Sinclair. Sinclair averted his eyes.
She looked at Alcott. Alcott studied his shoes.
The men who had championed her seconds ago now abandoned her.
They understood the shift in power. They recognized the absolute authority in my voice.
“You are making a mistake,” Beatrice said.
Her voice trembled. The synthetic composure dissolved into genuine panic.
“You are letting emotion dictate policy. You are destabilizing the entire...”
“I banish you from the palace grounds,” I finished.
I took a step toward her. I invaded her space.
I forced her to retreat. “You will pack your belongings. You will leave the estate before sunset. If you attempt to contact the press, if you attempt to spin this narrative, I will personally dismantle your family’s remaining influence. Do you understand me?”
Beatrice stared at me. Her pale skin turned stark white. Her breath came in short, rapid gasps. She looked at the man she thought she could manipulate. She saw only cold, unyielding stone. She realized her ambition had cost her everything.
She turned on her heel. She fled. Her heels clicked frantically against the marble floor. The sound grew distant as she sprinted down the corridor. The massive oak doors slammed shut behind her.