Chapter 22
NATALIE
Splashes of cold water flew from my scrub brush as I scoured the interior of the giant oak wine cask.
The rough wooden staves vibrated under my rhythmic strokes.
I pressed the bristles deep into the seams of the barrel, forcing out the dried, dark sediment of the last harvest. A thick mixture of water and purple lees pooled at the bottom of the wood, staining my skin.
I breathed in the scent of aged oak, yeast, and sour fermenting fruit.
The smell grounded my racing thoughts. It anchored my mind to the present moment.
I scrubbed harder, cleaning the stubborn stains from the wood.
The friction burned against the heels of my palms. I welcomed the sharp sting.
It gave me something real, something physical to focus on, pulling my attention away from the relentless noise down at the seawall.
A sharp crack shattered my concentration.
It was the distinct sound of a steel chisel striking a massive granite boulder.
The harsh noise rang through the crisp autumn air and seeped through the thin glass of my cellar window.
I flinched. My hand jerked, and the scrub brush slipped from my grip, clattering against the bottom of the cask.
I gritted my teeth, retrieved the brush, and forced myself back to the task.
Another sharp crack sounded, followed by the dull thud of stone settling into wet mortar.
Henrik was out there.
He had been out there since dawn. For the past two weeks, my estranged husband had arrived at the cliffs before the sun rose.
He parked his truck at the end of the dirt lane, walked down to the crumbling seawall below my property, and started working.
He was working alongside Bram, the local foreman hired by the village to repair the storm damage.
Bram was a man of few words, a lifelong stonemason with skin like tanned leather and hands the size of dinner plates.
He had no patience for royalty, no reverence for titles.
Yet, he was out there right now, barking gruff instructions at a prince.
I heard Bram’s rough voice drift through the open window, telling Henrik to adjust the angle of the next stone.
Then, I heard Henrik’s reply. It was a short, breathy acknowledgment.
His tone was entirely different out here.
In the capital, Henrik’s voice was a weapon.
It was smooth, commanding, and polished.
It was designed to bounce off marble walls, dominate crowded chambers, and silence political opponents.
Out here, his voice was raw. It blended with the rustling of the oak trees and the scraping of metal against rock.
He was taking orders from a man who laid stone for a living.
The prince of the realm was hauling fieldstone in the cold morning mist.
The thought twisted a tight knot deep in my chest. I gripped the wooden handle of my brush and scrubbed the staves with renewed force.
I focused on the mechanical, rhythmic motion of cleaning the oak.
The task was simple, demanding physical effort and nothing else.
I remembered our three years in the palace.
I remembered the sprawling, immaculate estate.
The endless corridors of polished marble.
The towering ceilings painted with historical frescoes.
The grand dining room where we ate at opposite ends of a mahogany table that could seat thirty people.
The palace always smelled of floor wax, old paper, and sterile white lilies.
It was a museum, cold and unyielding. The palace was designed to project power; it was a monument that choked out any hope of a real life.
Why was he doing this? Why wouldn’t he just give up and go back to his real life?
I had left him because I realized I was nothing more than an administrative duty to him.
I was a box to check on his daily schedule.
When our marriage began to fracture, he treated our problems like political liabilities.
He outsourced his apologies to his assistants.
He delegated our anniversary gifts to a personal shopper.
I remembered the breaking point clearly.
After he had missed our anniversary dinner due to another emergency cabinet meeting, sending a page to my sitting room with a velvet box of diamonds I had not asked for, I realized the futility of it all.
I had cut a wine cork in half, placed it in the center of his pristine desk, and walked away from the palace for good.
I had left the grand estate behind, taking only my father’s old woolen sweater and a single suitcase.
The elaborate anniversary diamonds, the emerald necklaces, and the wealth of the crown remained locked in the palace vault, untouched.
I only kept the plain gold wedding band, returning it when I went back to deliver the divorce papers.
I had fled to this sanctuary. I bought this weathered cottage with its exposed wooden beams and its uneven wooden floor.
I filled it with the scent of beeswax polish, dried sage, and cedar smoke.
I learned to work with my hands. I learned to tend the vines and coax life from the cold coastal soil.
My thoughts were interrupted by a new sound.
It was the low, powerful hum of a massive engine.
The sound was too smooth, too refined for the rusted pickup trucks that usually traveled these dirt roads.
The crunch of gravel under wide, premium tires grew louder, until the vehicle stopped right outside my front window.
I set the scrub brush aside. I stood up from my cramped position inside the cask, my knees popping as I straightened my spine.
I walked to the deep cast-iron sink in the corner of the cellar.
I turned the brass faucet, letting the icy water rush over my hands.
I grabbed a bar of soap and scrubbed the dark grape stains and sediment from my skin.
The cold water stung my raw knuckles, but the physical sensation was a welcome distraction from the sudden spike of anxiety in my chest. I dried my hands on a rough linen towel, tossing it onto the wooden workbench.
A sleek, black luxury sedan sat idling in my driveway.
The car was polished to a flawless mirror shine, reflecting the gray autumn sky.
It looked like a spaceship that had accidentally landed in a field of wild grass.
The engine cut out, plunging the driveway into a sudden, tense silence.
A driver in a dark suit stepped out and opened the rear door.
A tall figure emerged from the back seat. It was a man I recognized instantly, though he was neither Henrik nor a low-level assistant sent to deliver another apology.
The man wore a long cashmere coat draped over a tailored charcoal suit. His polished leather shoes caught the meager sunlight. He stood tall, his posture rigid and commanding. He looked up at my small cottage with an expression of sheer disdain, his sharp features pinched in distaste.
It was Prince Frederik.
Frederik walked up the uneven stone path.
His hard-soled shoes clicked sharply against the flagstones, a sharp, authoritative sound that did not belong here.
He belonged in a world of vaulted ceilings, gilded mirrors, and whispered political alliances.
He belonged in a world where every word was a calculated move in a grand game.
He stopped at my front door. He raised a gloved hand and knocked.
The sound was sharp, three quick, aggressive raps.
The sound carried the weight of a command.
I stared at the thick oak door. I felt an overwhelming urge to slide the solid iron deadbolt into place, to retreat into my cellar, return to my casks, and pretend the outside world did not exist. I did not want the palace inside my home.
I did not want its cold, calculating energy infecting my sanctuary.
The knock came again. Louder. More insistent. The wooden frame rattled.
I took a deep, steadying breath. I smoothed my hands down the front of my mud-stained apron. I reached for the iron handle, pressed the latch, and pulled the door open.
The cold autumn air rushed inside, carrying with it a scent that instantly transported me back to the capital.
Frederik smelled of expensive, spicy cologne, a sharp mix of bergamot, black pepper, and leather.
The scent completely overpowered the warm, natural smells of cedar and beeswax in my home.
His ice-blue eyes, the exact same color as Henrik’s but devoid of any warmth, locked onto mine.
His gaze swept over me in one quick, judgmental motion.
He took in my messy braid, the streaks of dark grape juice on my cheeks, my stained linen apron, and my bare feet.
His expression settled into a familiar mask of polite condescension.
“Natalie,” he said. His voice was smooth and cultured, but the greeting sounded entirely like an accusation.
He did not wait for an invitation. He stepped forward, forcing me to step back to avoid a collision. He walked past me, bringing the biting chill of the outside world directly into my kitchen.
Frederik stopped in the center of the room.
He slowly unbuttoned his long cashmere coat, moving with deliberate, practiced grace.
He pulled off his soft leather gloves, tugging at each finger individually.
He looked around. His sharp eyes cataloged every detail of my life.
He examined the exposed wooden ceiling beams. He studied the mismatched wooden chairs gathered around my farmhouse table.
He stared at the glass jars of dried herbs and roots lining the open shelves.
He ran a bare finger along the edge of the wooden counter, pausing to check his skin for dust.