Chapter 25
NATALIE
My heels clicked against the polished marble of the entry hall.
The sound snapped sharp in the cavernous space.
Elden Hall loomed around us, a monument to cold authority.
Gray stone pillars stretched toward a vaulted ceiling lost in shadows.
The air smelled of sharp chemical floor wax, stale brass polish, and old dust. There was no warmth here.
The space felt like a gallery stripped of its art.
The jaundiced light from the recessed bulbs cast long, unnatural shadows across the marble floors.
I pulled my coat tighter around my shoulders.
The contrast to the cottage hit me with physical force.
My sanctuary smelled of woodsmoke, wet earth, and rain.
It was a place meant for living. This palace was a machine designed for ruling.
I focused on my breathing. The stale air of the palace tasted bitter on my tongue.
I missed the smell of cedar that clung to Henrik’s skin when we were at home.
I missed the sound of the wind rattling the old window frames.
Here, the silence was oppressive. It was the kind of silence that demanded obedience.
Every footstep felt like a trespass. Every breath felt too loud.
The grand portraits on the walls seemed to watch my progress with cold eyes, their painted expressions frozen in centuries of aristocratic disapproval.
They did not know the dirt under my fingernails or the salt of the sea on my skin. They only knew pedigree and protocol.
Henrik walked beside me. His stride was measured and deliberate.
I watched the rigid line of his shoulders.
I tracked the minute tightening of his jaw.
He wore a dark charcoal suit that acted as armor.
He was back in his domain, yet he remained tethered to my side.
He did not rush ahead. He did not pull out his phone to check messages.
His hand rested at the small of my back.
It was a solid anchor against the sterile environment.
I felt the heat of his palm through the fabric of my coat.
It was a physical reminder that we were in this together, a unified front against the expectations of the crown.
He paused for a moment and adjusted his cuffs.
It was a small, physical beat that betrayed his underlying tension.
He was preparing for battle. He was preparing to face the ghosts of his past. I understood that this place required a certain version of him.
I understood that the crown demanded a ruthless efficiency.
Yet, standing here now, I saw the effort it took for him to maintain that facade.
The man who had spent the last month chopping wood and planting roots in my garden was forcing himself back into the mold of a prince.
I wanted to touch his cheek, to trace the line of his jaw and remind him of the warmth we had left behind, but the palace walls were watching.
We moved down the long corridor leading to the state offices.
Portraits of past rulers lined the walls.
Their painted eyes stared down at us with silent judgment.
The frames were gilded and ornate, catching the meager light.
I focused on the sound of our synchronized footsteps.
I focused on the pressure of Henrik’s hand.
In the past, he would have walked three paces ahead.
He would have been barking orders into a headset or dictating memos to a trailing assistant.
He would have treated my presence as a required administrative detail.
Now, he kept his pace locked to mine. He treated me as his equal.
He treated me as his partner. It was a silent promise made real with every step we took together.
The double doors to the Prime Minister’s suite stood open.
Two guards stood at attention on either side.
They wore crisp blue uniforms and expressionless faces.
They parted as we approached. Henrik did not acknowledge them.
He guided me into the reception area. The room was decorated in shades of slate and frost. The furniture featured sharp angles and unforgiving cushions.
It looked like a room designed to make visitors uncomfortable.
Prime Minister Sinclair waited in the center of the room.
He was a tall man with thinning gray hair and a permanent scowl.
He wore a navy suit that looked expensive and uncomfortable.
He clasped his hands behind his back as we entered.
His eyes darted to me for a fraction of a second before locking onto Henrik.
“Your Highness,” Sinclair said. His voice was smooth and practiced. “We were beginning to wonder if you planned to return to your duties. The state cannot remain in limbo indefinitely.”
Henrik stopped. He did not drop his hand from my back.
Instead, he kept it firmly in place, presenting a united front.
He looked at Sinclair with a calm, steady gaze.
“I have never abandoned my duty to this country, Sinclair. But the structure of my presence must change if the crown is to remain stable. Let us sit down and discuss the transition of my duties.”
Sinclair gestured toward the inner office.
We walked in and sat down in the leather chairs facing the large oak desk.
The room smelled of old paper and bitter coffee.
Sinclair sat behind the desk, adjusting his cuffs.
“You cannot simply withdraw from your daily responsibilities, Your Highness. The ministers require daily consultations, and the public expects the prince to be fully present. These traditions are not merely ceremonial; they are the foundation of our stability.”
“Stability requires a modern approach,” Henrik said, his voice even, carrying a quiet authority.
“I am prepared to lead the state council and manage key affairs. However, the crown will no longer consume every hour of my life. My duty to my country must be balanced with my commitment to my wife. We will reside here, but our private quarters will remain ours alone. More importantly, we must present a unified crown. That requires Natalie’s position to be formalized.
Parliament must draft the Proclamation of the Title.
She is to be recognized as Princess Natalie, with all the rights and respect of the royal family. ”
Sinclair raised an eyebrow, his professional composure tightening. “Your Highness, Parliament is composed of traditionalists. They will view this as an attempt to bypass established protocol. It will spark a constitutional debate that could stall our legislative agenda.”
I leaned forward, placing my hand flat on the cool wood of the desk.
I did not raise my voice, keeping my tone measured.
“It is a matter of practical governance, Prime Minister. The public expects a modern monarchy. A title bridges the gap between the old guard and the people. If you want their support for the upcoming reforms, show them the crown represents everyone, not just the aristocracy. A unified family creates stability, not a constitutional crisis.”
Sinclair stared at me, his gaze lingering on my face as if searching for a weakness. He cleared his throat, shifting his attention back to Henrik. “Even so, the legal process is complex. It requires the consent of multiple factions within Parliament. It cannot be rushed.”
Henrik took my hand, his fingers weaving through mine.
“Then we will address them together, Sinclair. I will personally brief the party leaders. But this is the path forward. We either step into the modern era unified, or we do not step into it at all. The alternative is a transition of power that neither of us wants to navigate right now.”
Sinclair sat in silence for several long seconds. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. He knew he had no leverage. The power dynamic had shifted. Henrik was no longer a captive of his duty; he was a man who had chosen his path.
“Very well,” Sinclair said, his voice tight. “I will speak with the party leaders today. We will begin drafting the Proclamation. But we must have your commitment to attend the state opening next week.”
“You will have it once the Proclamation is drafted,” Henrik said. He reached for the transition documents on the desk. “Now, let us sign the decrees to formalize these arrangements.”
For the next hour, we worked through the documents.
Henrik read each page with a sharp, analytical eye.
I sat beside him, reviewing the clauses regarding the household budget and our private security limits.
I watched Henrik’s hand as he signed the final decree.
The gold fountain pen glided across the paper.
On the base of his thumb, the small blister from our weeks at the cottage was visible.
It was a physical mark of manual labor, a proof of his transformation.
He had spent days clearing the overgrown garden and repairing the wooden fence.
That blister was a badge of honor. It was the mark of a man who was willing to get his hands dirty to build a real life.
The contrast between that physical mark and the expensive gold pen was striking.
He was a prince, but he was also the man who had held me in the rain.
Henrik capped the pen and pushed the documents across the desk. “I expect the first draft of the Proclamation on my desk by tomorrow morning.”
Sinclair stood up and bowed slightly. “It will be on your desk, Your Highness. Princess Natalie will have her title.”
The sound of my new name hung in the air. It felt strange, yet it carried a sense of justice. It was not about the status or the jewelry. It was about the fact that Henrik had stood up for me. He had refused to let them treat me as an administrative footnote.