Page 62 of Defying the Crown
"You have my permission to hunt me down and kick my ass," Ella says, and I hear Caleb chuckle.
"I'm holding you to that," Jayda warns, but there's a hint of warmth in her voice now. "And you better have room on that fancy royal jet for us too, because there's no way in hell we're letting him go alone."
"Jay..." I call out from my room, emotion thick in my throat.
"Don't even try to argue with me, Daniel. We're coming with you, and that's final."
For the first time in five weeks, I feel my lips curve into something resembling a smile. "Okay."
I stand in front of the massive oak doors leading to the King's office, straightening my tie one last time. The royal guard nods, opening the door without announcement. King Magnus sits behind his desk, his silver hair combed back perfectly, not a strand out of place—unlike the chaos he's about to unleash.
"Your Majesty," I bow slightly. "You summoned me?"
He doesn't look up from the papers in front of him, making me wait as he has countless times before. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks, each sound like a hammer in my chest.
"Erik." He finally acknowledges me, his voice cold as a Danish winter. "I've come to a decision regarding my son."
My stomach drops. I keep my expression neutral, years of practice serving me well. "Yes, Your Majesty?"
"I intend to disinherit Harald." He states it plainly, as though discussing the weather rather than destroying his son's life. "I've consulted with my advisors. Prince Oskar—Harald's cousin—will be named heir to the throne instead."
The room spins slightly. I grip my hands behind my back to steady myself.
"I see, Sir."
"Do you? Because Harald certainly doesn't." Magnus stands, walking to the window overlooking the palace gardens. "He's proven himself utterly incapable. Weak. Emotional. And now this... disgusting display with that American boy."
The bile rises in my throat as he spits the word "disgusting." I taste copper as I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. It's a physical pain that momentarily distracts from the emotional one tearing through my chest. Years of diplomatic training haven't prepared me for standing here, listening to a father speak about his own son with such contempt. My loyalty to Harald screams inside me, demanding I defend him, but my position demands silence.
"His... proclivities," Magnus continues, the word dripping with contempt, "have no place in this monarchy. Denmark needs strength, tradition. Not a king who weeps and falls apart over some homosexual affair.”
My stomach twists into a nauseating knot as the King's words hang in the air between us, each syllable laced with poison. I feel my fingernails digging crescents into my palms, the small pain a desperate anchor to keep me from showing the rage building inside me. The royal office suddenly feels airless, the ornate Danish furniture and centuries of tradition pressing down like a physical weight on my shoulders. The portrait of Harald's grandfather stares down from behind Magnus's desk, his stern expression seeming to echo the current king's sentiments across generations.
"Homosexual affair," he says, as if speaking of some disease rather than his own son's identity. The casual cruelty makes my throat constrict. I've witnessed Magnus's coldness for years, but this naked hatred towards Harald – towards people like us – slices deeper than I can bear. My loyalty to the Crown Prince burns even fiercer in response, a protective flame that threatens to consume my professional composure. I swallow hard, tasting blood again, and shift my weight slightly, the leather of my shoes creaking against the polished floor – a small reminder that I must remain steady, remain useful to Harald, no matter how much I long to defend him.
Every word is a dagger. I nod mechanically, forcing my face into what I hope appears as sympathetic agreement.
"You've always been loyal to the Crown, Erik. You understand what I'm saying, don't you?" The King's voice drops to a conspiratorial rumble, like distant thunder promising a storm. His eyes—Harald's eyes but without their warmth—fix on mine, demanding agreement, demanding complicity.
I feel sweat gathering at my collar, my throat constricting with the effort of maintaining this charade. Of course I understand. He wants me to be his spy, his informant, his tool to further bend Harald to his will and utterly destroy him. The irony burns—my loyalty being wielded as a weapon against the very person to whom I am truly devoted.
"Yes, Your Majesty," I manage, the words like chalk in my mouth. I nod again, the movement stiff and unnatural, as though my body itself rebels against this betrayal. But is it betrayal to agree while intending to protect Harald? The moral calculus makes my head ache, another pressure building behind my temples to join the mounting tension in my chest.
Inside, I'm screaming. I want to tell him that Harald shows more strength in his vulnerability than Magnus has shown in his entire reign. That Harald's compassion makes him more qualified to rule than this cold, heartless man could ever comprehend.
Magnus seems satisfied with my betrayal. "Good. The announcement will come after Harald's...recovery." He pauses on the word with deliberate condescension, as if Harald's struggle is nothing more than an inconvenient delay in his political machinations. "I'm told he's gaining strength. Perfect timing to strip him of his birthright, don’t you think?"
My stomach twists violently at his words, bile rising in my throat. The clinical detachment with which he speaks of destroying his own son's future makes my hands tremble slightly where they rest at my sides. Behind my carefully constructed expression, I'm mapping out contingency plans, desperately searching for any legal precedent, any political ally, any strategy that might protect Harald from this coldly orchestrated downfall.
I bow again, rage boiling beneath my careful exterior. "As you wish, Your Majesty."
The King dismisses me with a casual wave of his hand, turning his attention back to the papers on his desk as if he hasn't just revealed plans to destroy his son's life. I bow stiffly and exit, pulling the heavy oak door closed behind me with careful control, though every muscle in my body screams to slam it.
The corridor stretches before me, portraits of past monarchs watching as I walk with measured steps despite the hurricane inside me. Only when I reach the empty stairwell do I allow myself to stop, gripping the marble banister until my knuckles turn white.
"Breathe, Erik," I whisper to myself. My lungs expand painfully against my ribs as I force air in and out.
I can't let this happen. Not to Harald. Not after everything he's endured.
