Chapter 19
1853 Words
The drive back to the Hague felt less like a return from a honeymoon and more like a deployment to a war zone. As the skyline of the city emerged through the grey winter drizzle, the unmarked SUV was suddenly flanked by four black motorcycles—Royal Military Police.
Casper’s grip tightened on the wheel. "The bubble is back," he muttered.
"They aren't just here to escort us," Elisa said, her phone vibrating in her lap. She looked down at the screen, her face drained of color. "Casper, look."
The headlines were a coordinated carpet-bombing of the Regency's credibility. Bastiaan had been busy. DE DAGERAAD screamed: "REGENT IN RETREAT: CASPER FLEES TO SECRET HOVEL AMIDST BREAKDOWN." Below it, a grainy photo—likely taken by one of Bastiaan’s men from the bushes—showed Casper in his flannel shirt, looking disheveled and wild-eyed. Another article, titled "THE PRICE OF A PRINCESS," detailed the alleged multi-million euro payoff to the Van den Berg family, framing Elisa as a mercenary rather than a bride.
"He’s trying to poison the well before I even drink from it," Casper hissed.
As they pulled through the gates of Noordeinde Palace, the atmosphere was chaotic. Staff were running between wings, and the usual hushed dignity of the halls had been replaced by a frantic, buzzing energy.
They were met in the foyer not by a footman, but by Queen Margriet. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her usual poise shattered. She didn't even acknowledge the rumors or their "secret" getaway.
"The King," she gasped, reaching for Casper’s arm. "He collapsed an hour ago in the Council Chamber. It’s a massive stroke, Casper. The doctors... they don't know if he’ll make it through the night."
The world seemed to tilt. Casper felt the heavy, invisible weight of the crown descend upon his shoulders with a crushing finality. He looked at Elisa, and for a heartbeat, the "Farmer" and the "Rebel" shared a look of pure, unadulterated terror.
The sanctuary was over. The game was real.
They were ushered into the King’s private wing, which had been converted into a high-tech medical bay. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and antiseptic.
Standing at the foot of the King’s bed, like vultures awaiting the end of a feast, were Princess Beatrix and Bastiaan. Beside them, Saskia and Floris stood in the shadows. Saskia was dressed in mourning black already, her eyes sharp and predatory.
Grandmother Willemijn sat in a chair by the King’s head, her hand clutching his limp one. She looked up as Casper and Elisa entered, her expression a mix of fierce pride and deep sorrow.
"You’re back," Willemijn said, her voice raspy. "Good. Because the vultures are already circling the carcass."
"Mother, please," Beatrix said, her voice smooth and dangerous. "We are simply concerned for the stability of the state. With Willem-Hendrik incapacitated and the Regency papers still unratified by the full States-General, there is a constitutional vacuum."
"A vacuum you’re hoping to fill with a Council of State, I assume?" Casper said, stepping into the light. He didn't look like the man in the tabloid photos anymore. He looked like the stone-faced soldier from the altar.
Bastiaan stepped forward, his tablet held like a weapon. "The public is in an uproar, Casper. The scandal of the 'purchased' bride and your... disappearance... has called your judgment into question. The Prime Minister is already questioning if a man who hides in Achterhoek is fit to hold the Seal of the Kingdom."
"I wasn't hiding," Casper said, his voice dropping into a low, resonant growl that silenced the room. "I was preparing. And I have the logs to prove it. But right now, my father is dying. If you have the gall to talk about 'constitutional vacuums' while his heart is still beating, then you aren't fit to be in this room."
"He’s right," Floris muttered from the corner. Saskia shot him a look that could have curdled milk, but for once, he didn't look away.
Saskia stepped toward Elisa. "How does it feel, 'Princess'? To know that your arrival coincided with the downfall of the King? The people see you as a curse. A fifty-million-euro curse."
Elisa didn't flinch. She stepped into Saskia’s personal space, her eyes flashing with the fire she had found in the cottage. "The people see what you tell them to see, Saskia. But they aren't stupid. They know the difference between a sister who helps and a vulture who waits. If you want to talk about curses, look in a mirror. You’ve spent your whole life wanting this room. I’m the only one here who actually wants the man in the bed to wake up."
A sharp beep from the medical monitor cut through the tension. A doctor hurried over, checking the King’s vitals. He looked at Casper and gave a solemn nod.
"He is stable, but he is in a deep coma," the doctor whispered. "The Regency must be enacted immediately. Under Article 35 of the Constitution, the heir-presumptive must take the oath before the Council of Ministers within the hour to ensure the continuity of the executive power."
"Within the hour?" Margriet sobbed. "He hasn't even been properly briefed!"
"He’s been briefed his whole life," Grandmother Willemijn said, standing up with the help of her cane. She looked at Casper. "Go. Take the Seal. Show them that the House of Orange doesn't break. And take your wife. She is the only thing keeping your feet on the ground."
Casper turned to the door, but Bastiaan blocked his path. "This isn't over, Casper. The States-General still has to confirm you. After the story I’m releasing at midnight—the real story about your time as 'Teun'—you’ll be lucky if they let you stay in the country, let alone the palace."
Casper leaned in, his face inches from Bastiaan’s. "I spent thirty years shoveling manure, Bastiaan. I know how to handle a pile of it when I see it. You can release whatever you want. But I am the King-Regent now. And the first thing I’m going to do is audit the Royal Private Purse. Let’s see how many of those 'offshore losses' of the Van den Berg family were actually yours."
Bastiaan’s smug expression flickered for a fraction of a second. It was all the confirmation Casper needed.
The ceremony took place in the Small Ballroom, illuminated by the cold, blue light of the morning. There were no crowds, no bells, and no cheering. Only a dozen ministers, a judge, and the heavy, suffocating silence of a kingdom in crisis.
Casper stood at the podium. He had changed into his formal uniform—the deep blue wool, the orange sash, the heavy gold stars. Beside him, Elisa stood in a simple black dress, her only jewelry the gold band from the Achterhoek.
He placed his hand on the Constitution. His voice didn't shake, but it carried the weight of a man who knew he was signing away his soul to save a ghost.
"I swear to the people of the Netherlands that I will observe and uphold the Constitution and that I will defend and preserve the independence and the territory of the Kingdom with all my power..."
As he spoke the words, he looked out at the ministers. He saw their doubt. He saw the way they looked at Elisa, their minds filled with the lies Bastiaan had planted.
He finished the oath and took the Great Seal. It was a heavy piece of silver and jade, cold as the frost in the east.
"The King-Regent," the Prime Minister announced, his voice devoid of warmth.
The ministers gave a polite, shallow bow.
Casper didn't wait for the formalities to end. He turned and took Elisa’s hand, leading her out of the ballroom and toward the King’s study. The doors closed behind them, shutting out the prying eyes of the court.
The study was dark, smelling of old paper and the King’s expensive tobacco. Casper sat in the massive leather chair behind the desk—the seat of power he had spent his life running from.
"It’s started," Elisa said, sitting on the edge of the desk. "The press is outside the gates. They’re calling for a statement about the 'Purchased Princess' scandal."
Casper looked at the Seal sitting on the blotter. "Bastiaan thinks he’s won because he’s defined the narrative. He thinks we’re on the defensive."
He looked up at Elisa, a cold, calculating light in his eyes. "We aren't going to deny the money, Elisa. We’re going to confirm it."
"What?"
"We’re going to release the full audit," Casper said, his fingers drumming on the desk. "We’ll show the people that the King used the Private Purse to bail out your father. But we’ll also show that the money was funneled through an investment firm owned by Bastiaan’s mother, Princess Beatrix. They didn't just 'buy' a bride; they facilitated a kickback scheme to enrich themselves while the King was ill."
Elisa’s eyes widened. "You’re going to take down the whole family?"
"I’m going to prune the dead wood," Casper said. "It’s what a good farmer does. If the branch is rotting and threatening the tree, you cut it off. Even if the branch is your aunt."
He reached for the phone, his voice steady. "And then, we’re going to talk about Aniek. We’re going to talk about the 'Hovel.' I’m going to tell the people that I spent thirty years learning how they live, how they work, and how they suffer. I’m going to tell them that the 'Purchased Princess' is the only person in this palace who knows what it’s like to be a pawn in someone else’s game."
Elisa leaned over and kissed him—a quick, fierce contact. "The vipers aren't going to know what hit them."
"They think they’re playing a game of chess," Casper said, standing up and pulling her into his arms. "But I’m playing for the soil. And the soil always wins in the end."
Outside, the rain had turned into a sleet that lashed against the palace windows. In the West Wing, Bastiaan and Beatrix were already drafting their response, their faces illuminated by the glow of their screens. In the hunting lodge, Saskia was pouring a drink, her eyes fixed on the television, waiting for the spark that would burn it all down.
And in the medical bay, the King lay silent, his reign effectively over, leaving his kingdom in the hands of a man who hated the crown and a woman who had been sold for it.
The Regency was four hours old. The scandal was at its peak. The King was dying.
"Tomorrow, we bleed," Casper had said on his wedding day.
Tomorrow has arrived.
- Writer
