Velvet Chains
Emma’s first weeks at Silverfjaell were a dream—at least on the surface.
The estate shimmered with old-world charm, perched on the fjord’s edge like a storybook painting. Magnus made it feel like home, sneaking her out for sunrise walks and late-night swims, always with that boyish grin that made her forget the cameras and courtiers. And the ever-present security detail.
Veronica, radiant and razor-sharp, took Emma under her wing with the kind of grace that felt less like mentorship and more like rescue. She taught her which aristocrats to sidestep, how to endure a state dinner without tears, how to identify edible components in unidentifiable dishes, and how to wear a tiara without inviting a migraine.
Elias, two years Magnus’s senior and already a master of quiet diplomacy, had subtler methods. He kept Emma sane during ceremonial marathons—slipping her folded notes beneath menus or briefing folders. Usually doodles of slumped nobles or dry, royal commentary. “Count Branhille is asleep again. I believe he’s attempting to recreate Victoria Falls via ascot drool.”
But the former Queen Ingrid was another story.
She visited often from Eldvik Hall, which was less than 30 minutes away, sweeping into Silverfjaell like a storm in pearls. Her critiques were relentless—Emma’s posture, her diction, her wardrobe. “You slouch,” she observed one morning over breakfast, slicing into a poached pear with surgical precision. “It makes you look provincial.”
Emma offered a tight smile. “I am provincial. I grew up on the outskirts of Windenburg, which are neither a bustling metropolis nor a royal court.” Her spoon clinked against the teacup. Meine Güte, hört die nie auf mit dem Gezicke!? (Good grief, does she ever stop bitching?)
Ingrid didn’t laugh. And Emma realized—too late—that most royals were fluent in more than one language. It was entirely possible the former queen understood Burgish. Oops.
Still, Emma endured it all—for Magnus. She was on semester break from Britchester University, where she lectured on medical ethics and trauma response. The plan had been simple: spend a few months at Silverfjaell Hall, the prince’s ancestral home, and see if love could survive proximity to power.
But Silverfjaell wasn’t a retreat. It was a crucible.
Magnus whisked her away to diplomatic summits in Windenburg and joytrips to Brindleton Bay, where they danced barefoot on the beach and ate street food under the stars. He was her anchor. Her escape. Her reason.
But things that seem too good to be true usually are.
And slowly, the cracks began to show.
First came the fittings. Endless fittings. Tailors with measuring tapes and bolts of fabric on the daily, seamstresses muttering about court appropriate silhouettes and hem lengths. Emma’s official closet, the one with outfits she would wear when she was seen alongside the royals, swelled with gowns she hadn’t chosen, shoes she couldn’t walk in, and jewelry that felt like armor.
Then came the etiquette lessons. How to sit. How to stand. How to speak without sounding “too academic.” Emma, who had published peer-reviewed papers and treated trauma survivors, was now being taught how to curtsy.
She bore it all with grace. For Mags.
Until the day they returned from a summit in Tartosa and she found her regular closet empty. All the clothes she had packed from home for her stay here were gone. To the last thread.
Every item—her jeans, her boots, her favorite Britchester hoodie—gone.
She stormed into the east wing, heart pounding, and found Ingrid calmly sipping tea.
“My clothes,” Emma said, voice shaking. “Where are they?”
Ingrid didn’t look up. “Donated. They were unsuitable.”
Emma blinked. “Unsuitable?”
“You are to be a royal consort. Your wardrobe must reflect that.”
“They were mine.”
“They were pedestrian. You no longer are. Can’t be. Something had to give.”
Emma’s hands curled into fists. “You had no right.”
“I had every right,” Ingrid said coolly. “You live under this roof. You represent this family. You will be dressed accordingly.”
Emma turned on her heel, fury rising. She marched to the study, mostly to simmer down, only to find a letter waiting—formal, impersonal, signed by the Britchester dean.
Her guest lectures had been canceled. Effective immediately. Do not return after the semester break and thank you for your service. Final check in the mail, separately.
She called. No one answered. She emailed. No reply.
Then, in a quiet corner of the palace library, she overheard two aides whispering. “The Queen Emerita called in a favor. Said the future wife of a Gyllenborg doesn’t need a job.”
Emma felt the world tilt.
She confronted Ingrid that evening, voice trembling with rage. “You had no right to interfere with my career.”
Ingrid set down her teacup with quiet finality. “You are no longer a commoner, Emma. You are the consort of a royal prince. That means something. It demands something. Act accordingly.”
Emma’s voice cracked. “You don’t get to erase me.”
Ingrid’s gaze softened—just slightly. “I’m not trying to erase you. I’m trying to see if you can fit in.” She leaned back, her tone cool and measured. “You think this is hard? Unjust? Awful? It’s not. It’s standard. And believe you me, it’s not even close to the worst our family has endured.” A pause. “If this breaks you, it’s best to walk away now—before the crown does it for you.”
Ingrid continued, quieter now. “Over the past century, war, famine, and unwise matchmaking have thinned the Gyllenborg line to its bones. Sven is the last of his generation. We were allotted two sons. That’s all. I would have liked more, but it wasn’t in the stars. We waited too long. We thought we had time.”
She looked at Emma, something almost vulnerable flickering in her eyes. “You remind me of myself. Brilliant. Determined. Unyielding. But this life—it will test you in ways you cannot imagine. And if you break, it will not be gentle.”
Emma’s voice was low. “So, this was a test.”
“Yes,” Ingrid said. “Because if you leave now, Magnus won’t be too devastated. And if you stay—if you endure—then perhaps you are stronger than I thought.” A pause. “Though, frankly, I see little evidence of it.”
Emma stared at her.
Something inside her shifted—not shattered, not surrendered, but sharpened. She turned without a word, her steps clipped and furious as she crossed the marble corridor. The study door loomed ahead like a sanctuary—or a battlefield.
Magnus had just returned from a briefing, jacket slung over one arm, tie loosened. He looked up as she entered, startled by the storm in her eyes.
Emma grabbed his hand, pulled him into the study, and shut the door behind them.
Her voice trembled, but her resolve did not. “Tell her to stop. Get my clothes back. She donated everything I brought with me. Fix this.”
Magnus looked stricken. “I can’t.”
“You won’t.”
“I’m trying—”
“Try harder.”
He stepped forward, voice low but taut. “You think I haven’t tried? You think I stand by because I enjoy watching her strip you down to protocol?”
“Then do something! You are a prince; she is a retired queen.”
He looked away, jaw clenched. “But she’s not just my mother. She’s the Queen Emerita. She may not wear the crown anymore, but she still shapes the court. The staff listen to her. The council defers to her. And if I push too hard, I risk making you a symbol of rebellion instead of a future consort. I’m not a god, Emma. I’m a prince. And that means I don’t get to choose everything.”
Emma’s voice cracked. “You chose me.”
“I did. And I still do. But you knew what this life was. You knew it came with rules. We spoke about it.”
She stared at him. “We spoke about rules. But this isn’t rules, this is utter control. This is erasure.”
Magnus’s jaw tightened. “You’re acting like you didn’t sign up for this.”
“I signed up for you. Not for Ingrid’s puppet show.”
He flinched. “She’s not a puppet master. She’s a queen emerita. And whether you like it or not, she’s protecting something bigger than either of us.”
Emma’s eyes narrowed. “You mean your bloodline.”
Magnus hesitated. “Yes.”
She stepped back, stunned. “So that’s it. I’m just a variable in the royal equation.”
“No,” he said, too quickly. “But you’re not the only one who’s sacrificed. I gave up privacy. Freedom. Normalcy. I gave up the right to be just a man.”
Emma’s voice dropped, steady but cutting. “You were never just a man.”
He looked at her then, something bitter flickering behind his eyes. “And you were never just a doctor. You’re brilliant, yes—but you’re stubborn. You walk into every room like you’re the smartest person there, and maybe you are. But you don’t bend. Not even a little.”
Her voice was quiet, but firm. “I shouldn’t have to bend to survive.”
His tone sharpened. “That’s the difference between us. You think survival is optional. I was born surviving. I was taught—early—that only those who learn when to bend don’t break.”
Emma’s breath caught. “So I’m weak?”
“No,” he said, too fast. “But I don’t think you heard me when I told you what being with me really meant. I thought you had.”
She stared at him, eyes glassy. “Say that again.”
He didn’t.
She turned, walked to the door of the east wing, then paused. “You know what hurts most? The things you said tonight weren’t just hurtful. They were worse. You made me feel small. Like I was lucky to be chosen. Like I should be grateful.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t you? Sounded like you meant that. And I heard you. Loud and clear.”
She opened the door.
“Emma—”
She slammed it behind her.
Magnus stood in the hallway, heart pounding, fists clenched. He wanted to chase her. Apologize. Explain. But he didn’t know where to start.
He knocked once.
No answer.
He sat outside her door for an hour. Then two.
Eventually, a maid passed by and whispered, “She’s locked it.”
He nodded.
That night, they slept in separate rooms.
The Silence She Left Behind
Magnus returned from San Myshuno with trade briefs in his bag and exhaustion in his bones. His tie hung loose, his shirt wrinkled from hours of handshakes and half-truths. He stepped into the west wing, expecting Emma’s laugh, her scent, the soft hum of her music drifting from the study.
Silence.
He called her name. No answer.
The study was still. Her mug sat cold on the desk. The orchid he’d given her had wilted, petals curled like secrets.
Then he saw the note—folded, precise, waiting on his pillow like a verdict.
I loved you. I still do. But I won’t disappear for you. I won’t become someone else to fit your crown. I need to be me. And you need to decide if you want that version of me in your life. If you do, find me. But don’t come with apologies. Come with change.
He stood frozen, the words slicing through him with surgical clarity. He tore open the closet.
Her side—bare.
He called her phone. Once. Twice. Again. Left voicemails that sounded too formal, too desperate. Texted confessions that read like pleas. No answer.
He reached out to her brother Theo von Hohenstein in Windenburg. Nothing. Her sister – Queen Consort Helena von Ahrensberg – assured him Emma wasn’t with them. He believed her. Helena didn’t lie.
He hadn’t slept the night before. The flight from Nordhaven to Henfordshire had been quiet, tense. His security detail trimmed to two plainclothes men sworn to silence. He hadn’t told Elias. Or Veronica. Or his parents.
He just knew Emma was gone.
And he had to find her.
He drove straight to her Tudor Revival home near downtown Henford-on-Bagley. Less than 45 minutes from Britchester University. The ivy-covered gate. The crooked mailbox she refused to fix because “it had character.”
A To Let sign hung in the window.
The curtains were drawn. The mailbox empty.
He knocked. Peered through windows. Nothing. The house felt hollow. Like it had exhaled her and never breathed in again.
She hadn’t just left him. She’d left the life they’d started building. The books stacked on the windowsill. The half-finished painting in the hallway. The chipped coffee mug she refused to throw away.
Gone.
Not hiding. Not waiting.
Gone.
And for the first time in his life, Magnus Gyllenborg—prince, diplomat, second-born son of a fading dynasty—stood on a quiet street in Henfordshire with nothing but a note and a hollow in his chest.
He had no idea what to do.
Then, like a flicker in fog, he knew where she might be.
The Ring at Branleigh
Branleigh Manor, the Montfort-Yates estate sat nestled in the rolling hills outside Henford-on-Bagley, its stone façade softened by ivy and the scent of lavender. Emma’s mother, Baroness Clara, lived there with her second husband, Lord John Montfort-Yates—a close personal friend of King Maximilian himself. Magnus knew he had to tread lightly. One false move and he could spark discord between Henfordshire and Nordhaven.
He summoned his security and had them drive there as fast as legally and safely possible.
He left the security with the parked car at the gate and was let through without ceremony. The staff recognized him, but no one smiled.
Inside, he was shown to the drawing room, where Baroness Clara sat in a high-backed chair, a book in her lap and a glass of wine untouched beside her.
“Your Highness,” she said, not rising. “I wondered how long it would take. You struck me as a smart young man. You did not disappoint. At least not in that aspect.”
Magnus bowed slightly. “Baroness. I need to see Emma. Please. I know she’s here. She has to be.”
Clara didn’t blink. “Yes, she’s here. But you won’t be seeing her.”
Magnus stiffened. “I am a prince, Baroness. I outrank you. I demand to see your daughter at once.”
Clara’s smile was cold. “No, what you are is a brat, my dear Magnus. You are a prince of Nordhaven. This is Henfordshire. Unless you wish to take that up with my husband’s closest friend—the King himself—I suggest you remember where you are. And what you are, namely a guest in this house.”
Magnus flushed. “I apologize. That was out of line.”
“Yes,” she said. “It was.”
He tried again, softer. “Please. I love her. I just need to speak to her.”
Clara’s gaze didn’t waver. “If you love her so, then you should have protected her. You hurt my daughter, or let others hurt her, which to me is the same. Emma is my youngest, and I am—above all—still a mother, which comes before all social rankings.” She rose, a clear gesture that bore no room for argument and triggered the butler waiting nearby to open the door. “That being said, we are done here. I rather have a headache now. Goodbye, Your Highness. I wish you safe travels.”
Magnus left the drawing room, heart pounding, steps heavy. He was halfway to the car when he saw her.
She stood at the edge of the garden path, half-hidden behind a hedge of lavender and boxwood, her wool coat catching the last light of day. The wrought-iron gazebo loomed behind her, shadowed and still. Her hair was pulled back, her posture rigid, her eyes wide with panic.
“Emma!” he called, already moving.
She turned and ran.
He caught up to her near the gazebo, breathless, desperate. “Please. Don’t run.”
She stopped, but didn’t face him.
“I didn’t know,” he said, voice low and urgent. “About the clothes. About the job. I didn’t know she’d go that far. Please, I had nothing to do with any of that.”
Emma’s reply was flat, clipped. “You didn’t stop her.”
“I tried,” he said quickly. “I spoke to her. And to Father. And to Elias.”
She spun around, eyes blazing. “Maybe you should have done a little more than waste your breath! Silverfjaell is YOUR home. How could you let her throw out MY clothing? How could you allow her to get me fired?!”
He stepped closer, hands half-raised in pleading. “I love you. Please bear with me. This is the first time I’m with someone who’s… who is …”
Her voice cut through his hesitation like a blade. “Finish it. Say it.”
He swallowed. “Someone who’s… not from my world.”
Her eyes flared. “There it is.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, regret already thick in his voice.
“But you said it like that,” she snapped. “Like I’m some outsider who should be grateful to be let in.”
“I didn’t say grateful—”
“You didn’t have to,” she said, stepping back. “You said enough. More than enough.”
Her fury rose with every word. “My sister may be a queen, if only by marriage. I know the price she had to pay for that—she was willing to. But I am not. Your mother wants someone like Veronica—royal pedigree, polished, pliable, not to mention closer in age—for both sons. Not someone like me. A fringe aristocrat seven years your senior with a doctorate and a job. I am a doctor, Magnus. Do you know what it takes to become one?”
“I do,” he said quietly, but it landed like a whisper against a storm.
“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t have let her erase me. My lectures. My clothes. And all for some title I would probably get just for being with you, like a treat for a dog when it performs tricks. I am not with you for a title or prestige, already have a title, one I worked hard for, and that is to be called DOCTOR, yet she wants it erased. She’s trying to turn me into someone I’m not, and you stood there and watched.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said, voice cracking. “You know royal protocol is—”
“Oh, stop it!” Her voice rose, sharp and furious. “There is a time and place for everything, including royal protocol, but it should not eliminate my attire, my knowledge, my personality, my career, or me! That should have been clear, even to your mother! I understand she has her reasons, but so do I!”
He reached for her hand, eyes pleading. “I love you when you’re brilliant. When you challenge me. When you don’t fit.”
She pulled back like his touch burned. “Then why didn’t you fight for me?”
“I’m trying … in our circles, the word of your elders still holds a lot of weight …”
“Trying?” she scoffed. “Tried what? Whispering into your imaginary beard so mommy doesn’t get mad and verbally spank you? You think that does anything to fix her treating me like crap?!”
“She was trying to help you,” he said, voice rising. “Just as I was.”
“You should have tried harder.”
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the ring. Held it out.
“I can’t do this,” she said, voice trembling but firm. “Your mother was right. I am not built for this. Tell her she won. I give up. I surrender. Find yourself another princess or duchess or whatever you like. I am over this. No more.”
Magnus stared at the ring, stunned. “Emma…”
“I’m done,” she said, final. “With this conversation and with everything.” She pressed the ring into his hand, turned, and walked away.
He didn’t follow. He couldn’t. He was in shock.
She disappeared into the manor, the door swinging shut behind her with a finality that echoed through the hills.
Magnus stood there, the ring heavy in his palm, the silence heavier still.
He had come with apologies.
But she had asked for change.
And he had no idea how to begin.
Garden Party at Silverfjaell Hall, Nordhaven
The quartet played a delicate arrangement of Grieg, notes drifting like petals through the air. It was just past four—the sun still high, the shadows still soft. Crystal flutes of elderflower champagne sparkled in the light. The young women—hand-selected by Queen Ingrid—stood in curated clusters across the lawn, their cocktail-length sundresses in shades of pale blue and silver, like a living mosaic of Nordhaven’s royal colors.
Magnus felt like prey.
Magnus felt like prey.
He stood near the marble fountain, its water dyed faintly blue for the occasion. The roses were white, the hydrangeas silver-tinted. Even the napkins bore the crest of the crown.
He tugged at his collar.
It had been three weeks since Emma pressed the ring into his hand and walked away.
Three weeks since the door to the manor swung shut behind her with a finality that echoed through the hills.
Three weeks of silence.
She hadn’t called. Hadn’t written. Hadn’t returned.
And he hadn’t chased her.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Because he didn’t know how.
Then she appeared.
Queen Ingrid glided across the lawn in a tailored dove-gray gown with silver embroidery at the cuffs. Her presence parted the crowd like a blade through silk.
She beckoned him with a single gloved hand.
He followed.
They reached a stone bench beneath the silver birch trees—just out of earshot, but not out of sight. The girls watched from the distance, their eyes trained on him like he was a rare animal pacing in a glass enclosure.
Ingrid sat. Magnus remained standing.
Without ceremony, she handed him a small velvet box—Nordhaven blue, with the royal crest embossed in silver.
“Choose one,” she said. Her voice was soft, but the command beneath it was unmistakable. “Give her this. It’s not a ring. Just a gesture. A beginning.”
Magnus opened the box.
Inside: a necklace. Platinum chain. A single aquamarine pendant, cut in the shape of a teardrop. Cold. Perfect. Regal.
He stared at it.
Then looked up at her.
“You want me to give this to one of them?” His voice was quiet. Controlled.
Ingrid nodded. “It’s time, Magnus. You’ve mourned long enough. We must move forward.”
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t bow.
Didn’t blink.
He closed the box, handed it back to his mother, turned on his heel—
And walked.
Not toward the fountain. Not toward the girls.
Toward the manor.
The quartet faltered, then resumed.
A steward called after him. A guard moved to follow, then hesitated.
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t turn.
He descended the front steps of Silverfjaell Hall, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes like distant thunder.
And kept walking.
Past the gates.
Past the guards.
Past the life his mother had laid out like a banquet.
The Unraveling: A Prince in Pieces
He walked.
Not toward anything. Just away.
Away from the garden party. Away from the necklace. Away from the girls in pale blue and silver, curated like a royal mosaic.
It was 4:47 p.m.
Through the streets. Through the forests. Across the dunes to the beach.
The sun was beginning to set—just past 8:00 now—casting long shadows across the water. The waves were cold. He stepped into them anyway, shoes soaked, trousers heavy. He remembered Emma’s laugh, her bare feet, her hair wet from midnight swims this summer. Only some weeks ago—yet it felt like yesterday and also years ago.
He turned from the water and ran.
Through the city. Past the cafés they’d loved. Past the bookstore where she’d once kissed him between the shelves. Past the museum where she’d corrected the curator mid-tour, and Magnus had laughed so hard he nearly dropped his audio guide. Past the royal archives where she’d spent an afternoon translating old treaties, her fingers smudged with dust and ink. Past the palace gardens where she’d asked if the roses were genetically modified, and the head gardener had looked personally offended. Past the opera house where she’d spilled champagne on a duchess and apologized in three languages.
She was everywhere.
He stopped beneath a streetlamp, breath ragged, heart pounding. Reached into his coat pocket for his phone—and found something else.
A folded receipt.
From the bookshop.
Her handwriting on the back: ‘You’ll love this one. Page 147.’
He stared at it.
Then he started texting.
I hate everything.
They gave me a gift—some jewelry my mother picked out—to give to one of the ladies she keeps siccing on me. Like I’m a contestant on The Bachelor handing out roses.
She moved my books, Emma. The ones you recommended. “Too pedestrian,” she said.
I can’t breathe.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
No answer.
He stared at the screen, thumb hovering, then typed again.
I know you hate me. I probably deserve it. But I don’t know who I am without you.
I keep hearing your voice in my head. Not the soft one. The sharp one. The one that told me to grow up.
I haven’t.
I’m still the same coward who let you walk away.
Still nothing.
The sky darkened. The city lights flickered on. He wandered aimlessly, mind unraveling, chest tight. His coat was damp. His shoes were soaked. He felt like he was dissolving.
He sat on the steps of the Nordhaven Opera House, fingers trembling.
He thought he might be having a panic attack.
He reached into his coat pocket again—looking for his phone, for something, anything—and found a small silver flask. A party favor from the garden event. Engraved with the royal crest. Still sealed.
He stared at it.
Then opened it.
The liquor burned. He coughed. Took another sip.
Then started texting again.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve screamed. I should’ve thrown the necklace into the fountain and told my mother to go to hell.
I didn’t.
I just stood there like a good little prince and let her erase you.
I hate myself.
I hate this city.
I hate this life.
I hate that I still smell your shampoo on my pillow.
I hate that I still check your Instagram even though you haven’t posted in weeks.
I hate that I remember your coffee order and your lecture schedule and the way you used to hum when you were grading papers.
I hate that I still love you.
I can’t breathe.
He dropped the phone into his lap, chest heaving, eyes burning. His eyes landed on the clock of the belltower, 12:17 a.m., and his phone buzzed.
Emma: Magnus, calm down and breathe.
He stared at the screen.
Then another message.
Emma: You should not be texting me like a madman in the middle of the night. I’m sure your mother would faint if she knew and I am not your therapist.
And then:
Emma: But I am sorry. Believe me, I understand you better than you might think.
Magnus sat there, phone in hand, heart in pieces.
He typed:
I’m not okay. I am drowning, Em. And everyone is just watching me go under.
She didn’t reply.
But she didn’t block him either. He sat on the cold stone steps until the sun began to rise, casting pale light over the city’s spires and shuttered cafés. His phone was still in his hand when another message illuminated the screen.
Emma: I miss you too.
It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t love. But it was genuine. It was something.
He typed again. Slowly. Carefully. Then all at once.
Emma, I know I made mistakes. I watched the fire engulf both of us without doing what I should have done. I am hearing you now. I let them erase you. I let them rearrange my life and yours like furniture and I didn’t stop it. I didn’t fight for you the way I should have. I let you walk away and I didn’t scream. I let my mother treat me like a piece of jewelry to pin on some lady of her choosing like a game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey. I let everything happen and I hate myself for it.
He paused. His fingers trembled.
I miss your voice. I miss your silence. I miss your mind. I miss your mess. I miss your coffee mug and your lecture notes and the way you used to correct me when I misquoted Tolstoy. I miss the way you looked at me like I was a person, not a prince. I miss being yours.
He stared at the blinking cursor.
Then:
Please. Just let me come see you. If only for an hour. Or two. Or however long it takes. I won’t ask for anything more. I just want to talk. To hear your voice. To say the things I should’ve said when you were still standing in front of me.
And it’s your birthday tomorrow. I can’t think about anything else. I had so many plans with you for that day—I can’t pretend it’s just another. It’s your day. It will always be your day to me, for as long as I live.
The message sent.
The screen stayed silent.
He waited. A minute. Two. Three. Four. Five minutes.
Then, against all odds, the screen lit up.
Emma: Come.
Magnus exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a year.
He stood.
He ran.
Already dialing his advisor to arrange immediate departure for Henfordshire.
To be continued ...
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