Chapter 3

Charlotte stopped a few feet from the desk. The study was so still that she could hear the rush of her own blood and the soft sound of the flames gnawing at the birch logs.

She looked at Alex's hands. They were long-fingered and lean, but strong, with clean nails trimmed short. The quill rested steady above the page.

Then a memory seized her. Those same hands, three winters ago, on their wedding. They had stood before the priest, and he had taken her hand as the vows required. The moment the blessing ended, he let go and walked away without a word.

That night, she found him here in this study, bent over his ledgers. He did not look up. She stood in the doorway, then left. And every night after that, she slept alone.

"Prince Alex," Charlotte said, her voice steadier than she'd expected.

Alex finally put down his pen and looked up. His eyes were a pale, almost see-through amber in the candlelight, cold and clear. He looked at her. "Why are you here so late? Do you need something, Charlotte?"

Charlotte took the letter out, her fingers tense and pale. She stepped forward and gently placed the envelope on the polished desk in front of him.

"I have a request, Prince Alex," she said, lowering her eyes, refusing to meet his gaze. "Please, read this."

Alex held her gaze for a moment, calmer and deeper than usual, before looking at the letter. He didn't ask anything.

Instead, he picked up the envelope casually, broke the seal without rushing, and pulled out the neatly folded sheet inside. Then he unfolded it with care.

It was as if time itself had frozen in the study, following the slow sweep of his eyes across the page. The charcoal glowed quietly in the hearth; the candle flame wavered now and then, casting shifting shadows on the walls.

Charlotte held her breath, her gaze fixed on the trembling pearl sewn at the hem of her gown, her ears straining for any sound from behind the desk.

But there was nothing. No questions, no surprise, not even the slightest ripple of emotion. Only the faintest rustle of paper as he opened it.

Then another sound reached her ears. It was soft and slow, but it carried a strange, chilling edge. A long, deliberate rip.

Charlotte looked up, startled.

Alex kept his gaze lowered, still fixed on the paper in his hands. His face was blank and unreadable. His slender fingers pinched the corner of the page and slowly, steadily tore it apart.

The fine, sturdy parchment let out a clear, lingering tear under his touch. In the unnaturally quiet study, the noise seemed to echo, as if something delicate was being ripped apart from the inside. The sound made Charlotte's heart clench.

He didn't pause. He kept tearing along the split, his movements unhurried and measured, carrying a strange, almost elegant air. It was as if he wasn't shredding the divorce letter Charlotte had handed him but performing some kind of solemn ceremony.

With soft rips, pieces of paper drifted down, scattering across the shiny desk. Some twirled lazily before landing on the edge of his shirt.

He tore with slow, careful precision until the page covered in her delicate handwriting turned into nothing more than a pile of meaningless scraps.

Charlotte stood frozen in place, her hands and feet ice cold.

She had imagined all sorts of reactions from Alex. Maybe he would refuse outright. Maybe he would brush her off and tell her to calm down. Maybe he would go through the motions for the sake of royal appearances.

But never, not once, had she expected this. A strange chill crept up her spine.