Chapter 21 #2
“I’m not,” I repeated. I took a slow breath, steadying myself.
I needed to be clear. I needed to strip away all the royal evasion, all the diplomatic double-speak.
I owed her the unvarnished truth. “For three years, I treated you as an extension of my duty. I expected you to sacrifice your happiness for the sake of the monarchy, just as I had sacrificed mine. I placed the crown above you. I placed statecraft above our marriage. I sent emissaries to apologize for my absences. I bought you jewels instead of giving you my time. I left you alone in a palace filled with people who looked down on you. When you asked for my attention, I gave you my itinerary. I failed to understand that intimacy cannot be assigned to an assistant.”
She looked away, staring at the scarred wooden table. A muscle ticked in her jaw. The silence in the kitchen stretched, filled only by the sound of the rain beating against the glass panes of the window. The smell of the ocean was strong, carrying the sharp scent of cold salt and rotting kelp.
“I failed you,” I continued, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands.
“I failed to protect you. I failed to love you the way you deserved to be loved. I understand that now. I see what you have built here. I see how you have healed in this place. I see the peace in your face when you are not looking at me. I have no right to drag you back into a life that nearly destroyed you.”
The kettle began to whistle, a shrill, piercing sound that cut through the tension in the room.
She jumped slightly, turning off the burner.
She poured the boiling water into a teapot.
She kept her back to me, her shoulders rigid.
The steam rose in the air, carrying the earthy scent of black tea.
I watched the movement of her hands. I was intruding on her peace.
“I will sign the divorce papers,” I said.
The words hung in the air, absolute and final. She stopped pouring. She set the kettle down on the stove with a sharp clatter. She turned to face me, her eyes searching my face for deceit. She was searching for the political angle. There was none. I was offering her total surrender.
“You’ll sign them?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“Yes,” I said. “Uncontested. I will give you everything you ask for. You will have your freedom. You will retain this cottage, the surrounding land, and an allowance sufficient to ensure you never have to worry about money again. There will be no debate, no negotiations, no royal solicitors arguing over terms. I will instruct my counsel to draft the final decree exactly to your specifications. You will be free of me, and free of my responsibilities to the crown.”
She stared at me, processing the magnitude of my offer.
She knew the power I held. She knew I could drag the divorce out for years, tie her up in royal courts, and use the full weight of the monarchy to make her life miserable.
I was yielding all of my power. I was surrendering completely.
The shock on her face was painful to witness.
It was proof of how little trust remained between us.
She had not expected me to open the gates and lay down my sword.
“Why?” she asked. The word was sharp, suspicious.
“Because it is the only way I can prove that I love you,” I said. “By giving you what you actually want, instead of what I want.”
She swallowed hard. She looked down at her hands, her fingers tracing the edge of the blanket.
She was looking for the trap. She was looking for the hidden agenda, the diplomatic maneuver designed to force her compliance.
There was none. I was bare before her, stripped of all my titles, offering her my own defeat.
The kitchen was very quiet now. The whistling of the kettle had ceased, leaving only the steady drum of the rain against the roof.
The smell of wet wool from my coat filled the small space.
“There is one condition,” I said.
Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. “A condition.”
“A request,” I corrected quickly. “A personal request. Nothing more.”
She crossed her arms again, defensive, closing herself off. “What is it?”
“I want to finish the seawall,” I said. “I want to stay here, in the village, until the work is done. I will not stay in this cottage. I will find a room at the inn in town. I will not bother you. I will not seek you out. I will report to Bram every morning at dawn. I will haul stone, mix mortar, and work until dusk. When the wall is complete, when your property is safe from the winter tides, I will pack my bags, sign the papers, and return to the capital. You will never see me again.”
She stared at me in stunned silence. She looked at my ruined hands, at my mud-splattered clothes, at the exhaustion etched into my face.
She was trying to reconcile the prince she had married with the man standing in her kitchen, offering to break his back moving granite for her protection.
It was a ludicrous proposition for a royal, a complete abdication of my station.
I was offering to become a common laborer.
“You want to stay and work as a common laborer,” she said slowly.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to do this,” I said. “I need to perform one useful, tangible act for you. I cannot fix the past. I cannot erase the neglect. But I can build a wall to keep the sea from destroying your sanctuary. I can offer you the labor of my hands. It is all I have left to give.”
The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.
The rain lashed against the kitchen window, a frantic drumming that underscored the tension in the room.
I waited. I offered no further arguments.
I laid my pride on the floor, waiting for her to step on it or walk around it.
My lungs burned with the effort of holding my breath.
I felt the persistent throb in my hands, the terrifying vulnerability of standing before her without the armor of my royal title.
I was just Henrik. I was a man begging for the right to perform hard labor.
She uncrossed her arms. She walked to the table and sank into one of the mismatched chairs.
She stared at the grain of the wood, tracing a deep scratch with her thumbnail.
I watched the movement, my chest tight. Every second felt like an eternity.
I was asking for a stay of execution. I was asking for a few more weeks in her orbit, even if I was relegated to the furthest edge.
She was exhausted. She was tired of fighting me.
“You will stay at the inn,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion.
“Yes,” I said.
“You will not come to the cottage unless I invite you.”
“Correct.”
“You will work for Bram, and you will follow his orders, no matter how much you dislike them.”
“I will.”
She looked up at me, her eyes hard, unyielding. They were the eyes of a woman who had survived a war and was dictating the terms of surrender. “You will sign the papers when the wall is finished.”
“The moment the final stone is set,” I said.
She stared at me for a long time. She was looking for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of deception.
I held her gaze, offering her nothing but the absolute truth.
I was defeated. I was a man who had lost everything that mattered, clinging to the chance to build a wall of stone before being banished forever.
The silence was absolute, broken only by the crackle of the wood in the small stove and the relentless pounding of the rain.
“Fine,” she said.
The word was sharp, a final judgment that severed the last thread of hope I had harbored in the darkest corner of my mind.
“Fine,” she repeated, her voice firmer this time. “We have a truce. You can stay and build the wall.”