I Ditched the Crown Prince After His Betrayal

The phone rang at six in the morning, shattering the quiet of my bedroom.

"It’s his heart, Ellie." Margaret’s voice trembled through the speaker, raw and terrified. "The ambulance just took him."

I dropped my hairbrush. It clattered against the vanity. "I'm coming."

Ten minutes later, I shoved my arms into a heavy wool coat, my fingers fumbling with the buttons.

My press secretary, Clara, blocked the hallway. She held a glowing tablet against her chest. "Ma'am, the American delegation arrives at noon. Tonight is the medical tariff banquet."

"My father is in the hospital."

"I understand, Ma’am." Clara didn't blink. Her tone held no malice, only the absolute zero of royal protocol. "Unfortunately, the markets won’t."

"Clara, it's his heart."

"If the Crown Prince and Princess are suddenly absent from the most critical trade negotiation of the year, the press will declare a marital crisis by noon. The stock exchange will react by two."

I stared at her perfectly pressed suit. She wasn't being cruel. She was doing her job. The realization settled cold and heavy in my stomach. The monster eating my life wasn't a villain plotting my downfall. It was a well-oiled machine, and everyone inside it had a perfectly valid reason to put me last.

I pushed past her.

I found Alexander in his dressing room. He stood before a full-length mirror, adjusting his gold cufflinks.

"They admitted my dad," I said, my voice tight. "Chest pains. I need you to come with me to the hospital."

He paused, meeting my eyes in the reflection. "Is he stable?"

"For now."

His shoulders dropped in obvious relief. "Then go tomorrow."

"If it were your father?"

He turned around, his brow knitting together. "That’s different."

"Why?"

"He’s the King."

The silence rang in my ears, sharp and deafening.

Alexander rubbed the back of his neck, his expression shifting as the weight of his own words registered. "That came out wrong."

"How should it have come out?"

He opened his mouth. He closed it. He looked at the floor, then back at me, but he had no answer.

Old habits flared up in my chest. I opened my mouth to excuse him. *You have a briefing. I know you're busy.* The familiar, accommodating words formed automatically on my tongue.

I clamped my teeth shut. I walked to the door, gripped the brass handle, and stopped.

"I needed you today."

"Eleanor, the trade agreement—"

"I didn’t ask why you couldn’t." I looked over my shoulder, meeting his gaze directly. "I told you I needed you."

I walked out before he could formulate another excuse.

Oliver stood at the bottom of the grand staircase, nervously twisting his school tie around his knuckles.

"Mom, if you miss the state dinner, the papers will go crazy." He chewed his bottom lip, refusing to meet my eyes. "They’ll say you and Dad are splitting up. Grandpa isn’t dying, is he?"

I stopped on the bottom step. My grip on the banister tightened.

He flushed red, misreading my silence. "I just mean... I'm scared of what people will say at school. The guys are already talking."

I didn't reach out to smooth his hair. I didn't offer my usual gentle smile to absorb his anxiety.

"Oliver, if you were in the hospital, could I see you tomorrow?"

His brow furrowed in utter confusion. "But I’m your son."

"And I’m his daughter."

My fifteen-year-old stared at me, completely stunned. His mouth parted slightly. For the first time in his life, he was looking at a person, not a function. To him, 'Mom' had always been a shield, a title, a given. He had never considered the girl who grew up into the woman standing before him.

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket.

"Do what you have to do, Ellie," my father’s raspy voice came through the line. "Don't cause a fuss over me. I'm tough."

Hours later, the weight of the diamond tiara pressed into my scalp.

The banquet hall buzzed with hundreds of voices, clinking crystal, and the soft hum of string instruments. I sat at the head table, keeping my posture rigid. Beneath the silk tablecloth, my left hand gripped my phone.

Alexander leaned close. Without looking away from the American ambassador, he smoothly swapped my untouched champagne for a glass of sparkling water.

"Any updates?" he murmured.

"Resting," I whispered back.

Under the cover of the table, his fingers brushed against mine. He gave my hand a brief, firm squeeze.

Warmth bloomed in my chest. *Maybe we can fix this.* The thought sprouted instantly, desperate and green.

Then, disgust followed, bitter on my tongue. I stared at the silver forks and the elaborate floral centerpieces. How long must a woman starve to treat crumbs like a feast?

Midnight had passed by the time I walked into the hospital. The corridor smelled of bleach and stale air.

Margaret met me outside the cardiac ward. She wore a faded cardigan over her pajamas. She didn't look at my gown. She didn't ask about the trade tariffs.

She handed me a paper cup. "Have you eaten?"

Tears pricked my eyes. I took the cup, letting the heat burn my palms to ground myself.

Inside the room, the heart monitor beeped a steady rhythm. Thomas lay against the pillows, looking impossibly small amidst the sterile white sheets.

His eyes fluttered open. He studied my elaborate dress, the heavy jewels at my throat, and the exhaustion masking my face.

"Is he hurting you?" he asked, his voice paper-thin.

I pulled a plastic chair to his bedside. "Not like that."

My father looked past me, toward the door where two royal protection officers stood guard. Beyond them, a dozen reporters were already camping in the lobby. He looked at his own calloused hands, the hands of a retired mechanic who held no power against the crown.

"Can you hold on a little longer?" he asked.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his chin trembling. "God, I hate myself for asking you that."

I covered his hand with mine, my thumb stroking his knuckles. "It’s okay, Dad."

Even here, beside a hospital bed, I was the one offering comfort.

The armored car glided through the empty city streets on the way back to the palace.

My phone lit up the dark backseat. Alexander.

I answered on the second ring.

"How is he?" Alexander asked.

Normally, I would say *Fine*. I would smooth the waters and assure him everything was handled.

"I wanted you there," I said to the dark window.

The line went quiet. Only the faint static of the connection hummed in my ear.

"I’m sorry," he finally said.

A tear slipped down my cheek. I wiped it away fiercely, angry at my own weakness. I was crying over three words.

I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the leather seat. I leaned my head against the glass. I had been trained so well. My husband had offered the absolute bare minimum, and my broken heart still tried to wrap it up like a gift.

The car slowed as we approached the palace gates.

My phone lit up again. Not Alexander this time.

It was a message from an unknown number.

*Check tomorrow's front page. You aren't the only one he apologized to tonight.*