Page 56 of Defying the Crown
"Do you have any concept of what you've done?" Father's voice rises, sharp as broken glass. "Generations of careful diplomacy, royal dignity—and you destroy it for what? A flight of fancy with some American nobody?"
Daniel isn't a nobody. The thought flares briefly then dies, unspoken.
"This disgrace reflects on all of Denmark." Father paces toward me, each word calculated to wound. "You've proven every criticism true—you are weak, selfish, and entirely unfit for the crown you'll inherit."
I stand motionless. My father's condemnation washes over me in waves. I should defend myself. Defend Daniel. Explain that for once I found someone who saw me—the real me. Instead, I remain silent, a perfect royal statue carved from ice, while inside, everything crumbles.
"You will remain within your chambers until this scandal subsides," Father declares, each word a nail in my coffin. His eyes, so like mine yet devoid of warmth, fix on me with the cold precision of a sniper. "No public appearances. No interviews. No contact with anyone outside this household."
I stare at the intricate pattern of the carpet beneath my feet. The ornate swirls blur as I force myself to breathe evenly.
"You've embarrassed the monarchy enough," he continues. "Your staff will bring meals. Erik will filter all communications. You are to speak to no one outside these walls—especially not to that American."
Daniel's name remains unspoken, as if Father can't bear to acknowledge his existence. The thought of being cut off from even attempting to reach Daniel makes my chest constrict painfully.
"Father, this is—" Ella begins, her voice rising in protest.
"Necessary," he cuts her off sharply. "The damage control has already begun. The official statement is that the Crown Prince has returned to attend to pressing royal duties. You will be seen by no one while we determine how to proceed."
I finally find my voice, though it emerges hollow and small. "For how long?"
"For as long as it takes." His mouth sets in a grim line. "Perhaps this time of reflection will remind you of your responsibilities to this crown, this country, and this family."
The word "family" twists in my gut like a knife. What family? A father who sees only my failures, a mother long dead, and a sister who alone stands between me and complete isolation.
"Is that understood?" Father demands.
I raise my eyes to meet his. "Yes, Your Majesty."
The formality pleases him. He gives a curt nod and turns away, my punishment delivered, my sentence pronounced. I am to become a ghost in my own home, haunting rooms that suddenly feel more like prison cells than the chambers I've known since childhood.
Ella squeezes my arm, her touch an anchor in this storm. "I'll visit you," she whispers fiercely as we exit.
I nod mechanically, but my mind remains fixed on a Brooklyn apartment thousands of miles away, where the only person who made me feel truly alive now believes I am nothing but a liar.
I wake each morning to sunlight filtering through curtains I don't bother to open, pale fingers of dawn intruding despite my wishes for continued darkness. My chambers—once my sanctuary—have transformed into my prison, gilded and suffocating in equal measure. Every ornate fixture, every priceless painting, every velvet cushion mocks me with its perfection while I crumble, a fraud of a prince housed in splendour I haven't earned. The ceiling's elaborate mouldings seem to press down on me each day, centuries of royal expectations weighing on my chest before I've even risen. I trace the sunbeam's path across my silk sheets and wonder how something so free can visit something so trapped.
The palace staff moves around me like I'm made of glass, delicate crystal that might shatter at the slightest touch or careless word. They leave trays outside my door rather than risk interaction, porcelain rattling as they hastily depart—their footsteps always quicker going away than coming. Sometimes I hear them whispering, their voices dropping to nothing when I approach, conversations smothered mid-sentence with painful obviousness. The sudden silence burns worse than whatever words they might have spoken. Even the servants judge me now, these people who have known me since childhood, who once smiled warmly and snuck me extra pastries. Their eyes slide away from mine, focusing on some fascinating spot on the wall behind my shoulder, and I wonder what rumours about the fragile Crown Prince have reached their ears. What version of Harald do they see when they peek through keyholes or pass my chambers with downcast eyes? Not their future king, surely. Something less. Something broken.
"Your breakfast, Your Highness," Erik says, placing a tray on my desk. Steam rises from the porridge, carrying the scent of cinnamon and apples. My favorite.
I turn away. "Thank you."
Erik lingers, searching my face with quiet concern. His green eyes—steady, loyal—scan the hollows beneath my cheekbones that have grown more pronounced this past week.
"You haven't eaten properly in days," he says, voice pitched low enough that the guards outside won't hear this moment of impropriety, of someone speaking to the Crown Prince as if he were merely human. There's a gentle reproach there, wrapped in genuine worry that makes my chest tighten with guilt.
"I'm not hungry." The words barely carry across the room, a whisper so fragile it might disintegrate in the space between us. My stomach betrays me with a hollow ache that I've grown accustomed to ignoring these past several days. It's easier to feel empty than to face what awaits me beyond the prison of my chambers.
After he leaves, I lift the silver cover and stare at the perfectly arranged meal. My stomach churns with emptiness, but I can't bring myself to eat. The food grows cold, untouched, like yesterday's meal and the day before.
I wander the restricted sections of the palace during off-hours when fewer eyes might catch me. The grand ballroom, usually alive with light and sound, stands empty and cavernous. My footsteps echo across the polished floor where dignitaries and royalty once danced. Now there's only me, moving like a ghost through memories.
The library offers some escape. I run my fingers along leather-bound spines, pulling books at random. The words swim before my eyes, meaningless. I've read the same page sixteen times. The ancient texts that once transported me to different worlds now fail to pull me from my own suffocating reality. Father's collection of historical biographies—kings and conquerors who never seemed to doubt themselves as I do—mock me from their shelves. I sink deeper into the wingback chair by the window, where afternoon light streams through centuries-old glass, illuminating dust motes that seem more purposeful in their drifting than I feel in my existence. Even here, surrounded by the accumulated wisdom of generations, I cannot find answers to questions that plague me. The silence, usually comforting, presses against my temples like an unwanted crown.
Sometimes I find myself in the portrait gallery, staring up at generations of faces with my same blood. Stern kings and solemn queens look down from gilded frames, their eyes following me with silent reproach. Did any of them ever feel this hollow? This trapped?
At night, I lie awake remembering Daniel's eyes when the truth hit him. The hurt. The betrayal. I've replayed the moment a thousand times, imagining different words, different outcomes. The memory haunts me like a persistent ghost, refusing to grant me peace. His gaze—once warm and trusting—had turned cold with disbelief, each blink of his eyes like another door closing between us. If only I'd found the courage to tell him who I really was before he discovered it himself. If only I'd trusted him with Crown Prince Harald instead of the fabricated wealthy Dane he thought he knew. Now I stare at the ornate ceiling, counting the elaborate mouldings as if they were sheep, while my mind tortures me with alternative scenarios where honesty had prevailed and perhaps, just perhaps, he had stayed.
