I Ditched the Crown Prince After His Betrayal

I looped the navy wool scarf around Oliver’s neck, smoothing the edges against his collar.

"You don't have to come today." My fifteen-year-old son kept his gaze fixed on the floor.

"It's the winter final, Ollie. I wouldn't miss it."

He shifted his weight, pulling away slightly. "The guys at school... they talk."

"About what?"

"About Dad. And Camille." He finally looked up. "They make memes, Mom. Of you sitting alone while he's out. It's embarrassing."

My chest tightened, a sharp, invisible puncture.

"It’s easier when you’re not there," he muttered.

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him I was his mother. But he was fifteen, the future King of Albion, living under a microscope. He carried enough weight without managing my feelings.

"All right, sweetheart," I murmured, stepping back. "Play well."

He grabbed his gear bag and bolted out the door.

Only when the latch clicked shut did I look down at my palm. My fingers were curled tightly around the silver lucky badge I had meant to slip into his pocket.

Why must I absorb everyone's difficulty?

The thought flared hot and ugly. Almost instantly, shame washed it away. I was the Crown Princess. I was supposed to be the anchor.

***

Two hours later, the television screen in my private sitting room flashed with victory.

Oliver hoisted the trophy. His instinct was immediate—he scanned the royal box, broke into a run, and threw himself into Alexander’s arms.

Then, the camera panned.

Camille Laurent stood right beside them. She reached out, laughing, and wiped a streak of mud from Oliver’s cheek.

My phone buzzed. Social media notifications poured in.

*A Natural Royal Family,* the headlines read.

I knew I shouldn't look. I tapped the screen anyway, refreshing the feed like a tongue probing a cracked tooth.

I pinched the glass, magnifying Camille’s face. I studied the perfect set of her pearls. I scrutinized the shade of her lipstick. I wondered what perfume she wore to smell so inviting that my son leaned into her touch.

Bile rose in my throat.

Before Alexander, I was a girl who devoured history books, wrote terrible poetry, and ate cold pizza at three in the morning. Now, I was a thirty-six-year-old woman dissecting another woman’s jawline, searching for the exact reason my husband didn't love me.

***

The crystal chandeliers of the Winter Gala cast fractured light across the gallery.

"Eleanor gave him an heir." The whisper drifted from behind a marble pillar. Lady Thorne leaned closer to her companion. "Perhaps that was all anyone expected."

I kept my chin high and my stride even. Fifteen years in the royal family had taught me one flawless survival tactic: never let the people humiliating you know they scored a hit.

The orchestra struck the opening chords of the traditional first dance. Alexander found me near the center of the room. He extended a hand.

I placed my fingers in his.

He guided me into the waltz. His right hand settled on my waist, naturally resting just above the spot on my lower back that still ached from Oliver’s difficult birth.

"You barely touched your dinner," he murmured over the music.

That casual, ingrained familiarity was the cruelest part of my marriage. If he had been entirely cold, walking away would have been easy.

I met his eyes. "Are you still seeing Camille?"

His steps remained perfectly in time, but his fingers tightened against my spine. "Not here, Eleanor."

*Of course,* my mind automatically supplied. *This isn't the place to discuss it.*

The song ended. The applause rippled around us.

Only then did the reality strike me. He hadn't said no.

***

We moved toward the grand exit. Ahead of us, Camille stepped out into the freezing night, instantly swarmed by a pack of aggressive paparazzi.

Without a second thought, Alexander dropped my hand.

He surged forward, inserting himself between the cameras and his former flame, shielding her face from the flashing bulbs.

I stood frozen on the steps, the cold air biting through my silk gown.

My mind violently snapped back fifteen years. Our engagement interview.

The journalist had leaned forward, smiling. *"Are you in love?"*

Twenty-one-year-old me, blushing, eager. *"Of course."*

Twenty-seven-year-old Alexander, offering a charming, careless smirk. *"Whatever ‘in love’ means."*

The reporters had laughed. I had laughed with them, desperate to wrap his jagged words in a soft, romantic excuse.

Watching him guide Camille to a waiting car, the truth settled over me like frost. It was never a joke. I was just the only one who didn't get the punchline.

***

I found him on the private terrace of our apartments, phone pressed to his ear.

"Kill the story," Alexander snapped at his press secretary. "She’s being treated unfairly. Fix it."

He ended the call, turning to find me standing in the doorway.

"Do you think they’ve treated me fairly?" I asked.

He rubbed his temples, exhaling a long, exhausted sigh. "This isn’t the same."

"Why?"

"You knew what you were marrying into."

I stared at the man I had spent my entire adult life loving. "Did I?"

He flinched. He knew he had crossed a line, but pride kept his jaw locked. "I am not doing this tonight."

Normally, I would retreat. I would smooth the waters.

"When can you?" I asked instead.

Alexander looked out over the darkened gardens. He offered no answer.

***

The clock on my dressing table read midnight when the door pushed open.

Oliver stood in his pajamas, shifting from foot to foot. "Camille said she'd come to my fencing tournament next week."

I set my hairbrush down. The bristles scraped against the polished wood.

"Would you like me there?" I asked, keeping my tone perfectly level.

"You can come if you want."

I turned on the velvet stool to face him. "That wasn’t what I asked, Oliver."

His shoulders spiked up defensively. "Why do you always make everything so serious?"

The silence that followed was heavy and absolute. I didn't rush to soothe him. I didn't apologize for ruining the mood.

"Good night, Oliver," I finally said.

He blinked, surprised by the dismissal, then turned and walked out.

I didn't chase him down the hall. I didn't knock on his door to make sure we were okay.

I faced the mirror. I reached up and unclasped my left diamond earring, letting it clatter onto the glass tray. Then the right.

*Maybe I’m asking too much,* the old, familiar voice whispered in my head.

I stared at my own reflection. For the first time in fifteen years, a new, incredibly quiet voice answered back.

*Am I?*