Royally Relinquished: A Modern Day Fairy Tale

by Hayley Faiman

  “Thank you, Henny,” I whisper.

  His green eyes watch me and they start to smolder.

  He’s it for me.

  This is the man I was meant to have.

  I knew my life would never be easy, yet I didn’t know the types of challenges that would face me. I’m ready for them, though.

  One look into his eyes, one look at the way he watches me, and I’m ready. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him right here with me. I’ll face it head-on.

  “I’M HEADED INTO MY OFFICE today. I’ll be back later this evening. If you want to go anywhere, just ring Hugh. I left his cell number on the kitchen counter,” Henrik whispers into my ear.

  I crack my eye open and look at the clock. Six in the morning; way too early for me to comprehend anything he’s telling me.

  “When will you be back?” I ask, my voice rough.

  “I’ve been neglecting my duties. I’ll probably stay fairly late tonight again,” he announces.

  “All right,” I murmur.

  Once he’s gone, I try to go back to sleep, but I can’t. Henrik has been back into the swing of his duties for a few days now. He leaves early in the morning and doesn’t come home until after midnight every night. Last night, Friday night, he stayed gone until three in the morning.

  He left me a cellphone of my very own this morning. Only a few numbers are programed in it, but it’s mine at least.

  I haven’t left the apartment in days. Not since I went shopping with Sarah earlier in the week for my starter wardrobe and my new sleek hair.

  I haven’t even had a chance to try out my new makeup. I don’t see a point in wasting it when I’m home alone all day long. The apartment is spotless, and the laundry, aside from dry cleaning, is all clean.

  The apartment phone rings and it surprises me. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should answer Henrik’s phone, but then I realize that technically it’s my phone as well. I’m his wife. My last name was even legally changed just the other day. The documents were delivered, and his people handled everything.

  “Hello,” I answer.

  “Oh, thank fuck you’re awake. Turn your television on to whatever gossipy news channel you guys have,” Madison shouts.

  I’m surprised to hear her voice, unsure of how she even got this number, but then I remember—it’s Madison. She probably demanded it before we even left the states.

  I reach over for the television’s remote control, and I turn it on. I don’t know what channel is the gossipy news channel here. It’s not like that’s something I watch, not even while I’ve been home and bored stiff. So I flip through them until I see one that looks about right.

  I know I’m on the right one when there’s a photograph of Henrik with a stunning woman on his arm who is not me. It was taken last night. Last night.

  “Tell me it’s all bullshit,” she whispers.

  The photo will forever be burned into my memory. Unfortunately, it isn’t just one picture, either.

  It’s three.

  Three photographs of my husband, dressed in a gorgeous tuxedo. His hair is unruly and messy, just the way I love it; there’s even light stubble on his face that is always present. And his green eyes shine brightly into the camera.

  The woman is absolutely gorgeous—the likes of which I’ve never seen before. She’s wearing a backless, floor length, champagne colored gown that is adorned with crystals from top to bottom. Her platinum blonde hair is pulled up and away from her face in a sleek up-do.

  In the first photo, his hand is resting at the small of her back, and her arm is wrapped up tight around his waist, the side of her body is pressed tightly to his.

  The second photo, he is bent down with his lips pressed against her temple while she is smiling at a group of people surrounding them.

  The third photo is what sends me over the edge. My husband’s hand is just above her tight little ass, and her hand is wrapped around his neck, as they are so obviously going in for a kiss.

  “A charity gala,” I mutter.

  “Talk to me,” Madison orders.

  “He came home after three in the morning last night, or this morning, whatever it is. He’s been working late all week; and when I say late, I mean past midnight. I’ve only been here a few days, I just assumed he was behind on work, since he took time off to come to Oregon, and took a few days to help me settle in. He hasn’t been working, has he?” My lip starts to quiver and I feel the tears well up in my eyes before they start to stream down my face. “I am so stupid,” I say softly.

  “No, you aren’t,” Madison assures.

  “I am. He promised me everything, then in a heartbeat, he turned to somebody else. He told me no matter what his grandfather said, that he could relinquish his title and he would be at my side. That he wanted us to work. He tried to move me into a separate place to be his mistress, did I tell you that? When I told him no, he fought for me. He said he didn’t care what happened, that all he wanted was me. He made me more promises—promise after promise. I should have known,” I sob.

  “Cait,” Madison coos.

  “I didn’t even know him when I married him. I was happy being alone in Oregon with just you and James. But then he came in, and offered me everything, and I believed every single freaking word of it. Now, here I am, the fool, the mistress. But the kicker is, I’m his wife,” I laugh, but it sounds psychotic.

  “He is the fool, not you. Never you. Cait, do you understand that he is the problem? You trusted him, and that is beautiful,” she whispers.

  She knows everything there is to know about me, every single thing, and she’s been at my side for all of it.

  “I am a fool. This is my life, huh? Being the prince’s whore. How lovely for me,” I say, my words dripping with sarcasm.

  “Do not ever call yourself that again, Cait. You are not the problem, him, he is the problem,” she says.

  “I need to go,” I whisper.

  “No, I can’t let you off of this phone before I know that you’re okay.”

  “I’m a big girl, Mads. I’ll be okay. Just, I don’t want to know anything else about paparazzi shit,” I mutter.

  “I wasn’t even going to tell you, I swear I wasn’t, but then I started thinking about how I would feel if I were in your shoes,” she murmurs.

  “I know. I appreciate it more than you know. I really do; but yeah, I don’t want to know anything else for a while,” I laugh, but it sounds strained.

  “I love you, Cait,” she whispers.

  “I love you so much, Mads. Give James a hug for me, and be nice to him.”

  “I’ll try to be nice,” she laughs softly.

  I sit unmoving, staring at the television. It’s on mute. The words aren’t important to me, not when I see the pictures. Those pictures, they say a thousand words, every single one of them.

  Then I see another photo of myself flash on the screen. It’s of me in Oregon. I look terrible. It was taken before he came to get me, in those weeks in between when I was somewhat of a mystery.

  I look around the apartment, or flat, as Henrik calls it, and I wonder what I’m still doing sitting here.

  Am I really going to sit around all day long and feel sorry for myself?

  Or, am I going to call him out on it?

  This isn’t some tiny thing. This is huge, and he went into public with her, wrapped around her tiny little body, while I sat at home alone.

  I’m his wife, and he’s done something wrong—very wrong. I can’t just let it slide.

  What happens when it’s not just some party? Am I really going to allow myself to be shoved to the side, ignored until he wants a piece of my body? No, no I am not.

  I might be a nobody from Oregon, but I’m Henrik’s wife, and there’s no way I can just let him embarrass me like this—in front of the world.

  I get up and shower. I do my hair and makeup, just like the people at the salon showed me how, and I make sure that I look fierce. If I’m going to be publicly humiliated, I�
��m going to look damn good during it. I search through my closet next, looking for the sexiest dress I have that isn’t eveningwear. I grin when I see it.

  I take the dark plum pencil skirt and slide it on before I shimmy on a peridot green, silk, spaghetti strap blouse. I then slide into a pair of nude high heels.

  I look at myself in the mirror and grin. Sure, I look nothing like the perfect, slim blonde he was seen with, but my outfit shows off all of my curves—curves that Henrik claims he loves.

  “Hello,” Hugh answers the phone sounding confused.

  “I need to go somewhere. I’ll be downstairs waiting,” I say before I hang up the phone.

  I don’t bother explaining anything, yet. I’ll tell Hugh when I get into the vehicle. I don’t want him to call Henrik ahead of time and warn him of my arrival. This is a sneak attack. I want his real response, not some practiced nonsense he’s going to try and feed me.

  Once I arrive downstairs, I’m not surprised to see the horde of reporters waiting outside the building. Hugh is at my side seconds after my arrival, and he gives me a look of confusion as he talks to the valet about bringing the car around.

  “What’s this about, then?”

  “We’re going to pay Henrik a visit at his offices—but if you warn him, I’m going to be pissed,” I say narrowing my eyes.

  His brows rise and he looks at me with concern. Luckily, he doesn’t question me, neither does he reach for his phone. I see a tabloid sitting on the front desk, and I walk over to it.

  There, on the cover, is Henrik, the mystery woman, and me, along with some headline that I can’t bring myself to read. I take it and I push it into Hugh’s chest as my way of explaining what’s going to happen.

  “Cait,” he murmurs.

  “No sympathy. I want answers and I’m going to get them.”

  “Yes, I do think it’s about time for those,” he nods.

  It’s only been days, days, and Hugh is right. It’s about time for answers because this—this tabloid should not be an issue.

  My husband wrapped around another woman at a gala should not be an issue. I’m pissed as hell, and heartbroken—completely and totally heartbroken.

  “Prepare for a barrage of questions,” Hugh says as the car pulls up to the curb.

  “The only thing I want are answers,” I murmur.

  “Let’s get some of those, then,” he grunts.

  With Hugh as my shield, we walk out to the car. Reporters scream at me, hurling question after question in my direction, but I ignore them. I don’t wish to hear them talk, nor do I wish to waste any more time getting to the bottom of my own questions. I have a one-track mind, and my focus is to get to Henrik and demand he tell me what is happening.

  We arrive at his building, our car ride completely silent. Hugh walks me inside and talks to the front desk clerk before he tells me which floor Henrik is on and wishes me luck. I smile, too nervous to even respond. I walk toward the elevator and press the button that leads me to his office.

  Apparently, some days he works from the actual palace, but today he’s working his job instead of taking care of duties for the crown so he’s in an office building just down the street from the palace itself.

  I am a ball of nerves, but I have to do this. Henrik has been playing with my heart, and I don’t appreciate it one single bit. Pushing aside the embarrassment and humiliation, he’s playing me, and it’s just plain cruel.

  The elevator doors open, and I step outside of the car. I walk into his reception area and smile at his little receptionist. She is very petite, young, and extremely adorable, which doesn’t do anything to ease my already extremely active imagination.

  Walking right past her, I vaguely notice that she’s talking, but I don’t have time for her. I march right into my husband’s office, noticing his name on the door before, throwing it open and then slamming it closed behind me. Henrik jumps up and his eyes look to me in disbelief.

  “Riona, precious, what are you doing here? Has something happened?” he asks, worry marring his features.

  I close my eyes and re-open them, trying to calm myself.

  I walk right up to the front of his desk and throw the tabloid down. His eyes flick down and then come back to me. I see regret and guilt swimming in them.

  The asshole.

  “Where did you get those?” he asks quietly.

  “Madison called me this morning to enlighten me on the gala photos from last night, and then I turned on the television,” I say calmly, even though inside I am full of anger, hurt and all-consuming rage.

  “Riona,” he whispers.

  “I want a divorce.” I announce.

  I watch as his face pales as he stares at me.

  I DON’T SAY ANYTHING. MY eyes landing on the tabloid she’s thrown on my desk.

  What is there to say? It’s not what it looks like?

  I want a divorce.

  My breath is stolen just by the words she’s said, by her demand.

  Those photographs are unfortunately exactly what they look like. I went to a gala on the arm of another woman. Nothing happened, the pictures look a little more intimate than reality, but I still went in public with a woman who was not my wife, all because of family pressures.

  “No,” I growl.

  Thinking about her leaving me, divorcing me, that makes my chest ache, and I will refuse her.

  “No?” she asks, arching a brow.

  “That’s right, no. This was a party that I was obligated to attend. Eugenie, of course, was my original date; but since I’ve cut ties with her, grandfather set me up with a Dutch Princess Nicoline. It wasn’t a date, nothing more than pleasantries were exchanged,” I explain.

  “And why wasn’t I your date?” she asks as tears swim in her eyes.

  “I caved, Riona. Grandfather pressured me. I was just going to show my face for a few hours. I was ambushed, and Nicoline was thrown at my side,” I murmur.

  “You’re nothing but a pussy,” she says before she covers her mouth, as though she’s surprised herself by saying the words. She probably has. My Riona doesn’t curse often.

  “Riona—,” I start.

  “No, please, just don’t. That right there,” she says pointing to the tabloid. “That makes me look like a fool. You’ve made me look like a fool to your entire country, and not once did you think about that. You say you’ve been here night after night working. In reality, I don’t know what you’ve been doing. You’ve lied to me, Henrik.” She sniffles and then a tear falls from her eye.

  I rush over to her and reach out for her, but she takes a step back.

  “I don’t want you to touch me right now. I don’t trust you and I don’t really like you,” she whispers. Every single word breaks my heart.

  I fucked up.

  I fucked up royally.

  “You don’t understand the pressures, precious,” I murmur, knowing that my excuses are pure shit.

  “It’s been a week, Henrik. One week, and you’re out with another woman. Innocently or not, it doesn’t change the fact that I simply cannot trust you, at all.”

  “I’ll make it up to you, I swear to it. I’ll tell grandfather today that it doesn’t matter. He can renounce my titles and the titles of my heirs. I’ll do it, just don’t leave me,” I plead, sounding exactly like the pussy she’s proclaimed me to be.

  Her eyes look up into mine and they look nothing other than completely haunted. I did that to her, me, nobody else. I’ve broken my sweet Caitriona.

  “Don’t come home,” she whispers.

  “Riona,” my voice cracks.

  I watch as she turns around and leaves. I stand completely still, frozen inside of my office as she walks away from me. I fought for her to be here. I brought her from her home, and then I fucked up. And all for what? A title?

  My office phone rings and I stomp over to it and yell my greeting, completely angry at whoever is interrupting my moment of shock.

  “She must have seen the news,” Philip mutte
rs on the other end.

  “She’s asked me not to come back to the flat. She wants a divorce,” I admit. If anybody will understand my plight, it will be Philip.

  “Meet me at my place. I’m sending Beatrice over to talk with Cait,” he offers.

  I agree and close down my office, not able to do another minute of work. My mind is spinning out of control; my thoughts are of nothing but loneliness and despair, regret and self-loathing.

  “Is everything all right, sir?” my secretary questions.

  I don’t even look in her direction, my mind too busy thinking of Riona.

  “It’s fine,” I murmur.

  “That woman, I tried to stop her. I’m sorry,” she whispers her apology. It makes me stop in my tracks.

  “That woman has complete access to this floor and my office. That is my wife,” I announce.

  “Your wife?” she gasps.

  “Caitriona Stuart, my wife.”

  The words tumble from my lips, sounding lovely. She is my wife, and I aim to keep her just that. I’m not losing her, not over my stupidity and my grandfather’s stubbornness—I refuse.

  I leave my office, offering no explanation of where I’m going. It doesn’t matter. It’s Saturday and nobody should even be here, yet here they are. All because of me and my family.

  Fuck it.

  I walk out of the building and toward my car. I catch my security detail out of the corner of my eye, and they watch me. They’ll be on my tail following me, and that’s fine. Philip’s building isn’t a far drive, and by the time I pull in front of it, my detail is parking behind me. One gets out to escort me to the front door, like a child.

  “I’ll be here for the remainder of the day. I’ll phone once I’m ready to depart,” I murmur.

  Robert nods his acknowledgement and leaves as soon as Jasper, Philip’s security, answers the door. I brush past him, murmuring a greeting as I go and make my way toward Philip’s home office.

  Unlike me, Philip only works from home. His entire staff is in and out of his personal residence all day long. I wonder if that will last once Beatrice has moved in. I can’t imagine she’d want so many people in and out of her home throughout the entire day, every day.