He arrogantly ditched his pregnant wife for his secretary, mocking her as a penniless burden—but his world collapsed when he watched her board a royal private jet to Paris, realizing she was the secret heiress to a throne he had desperately tried to impress his entire life.

Back in France, autumn had returned to the valley of Provins, painting the ancient stone walls in shades of amber and gold.

Inside the private study of the palace, Vivian sat at a mahogany desk writing letters by hand using an antique fountain pen. The room was quiet, save for the crackling of a wood fire in the hearth.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

"Enter," Vivian said without looking up.

Arthur Pendelton walked in, holding a small, unmarked envelope on a silver tray.

"A piece of mail was forwarded through our international legal liaison office today, Your Highness," Arthur said carefully. "It was sent from an address in Toledo, Ohio."

Vivian paused her pen. The ink pooled slightly on the thick parchment paper.

She looked at the silver tray.

She didn't need to pick it up to know who it was from. She could recognize the clumsy, hurried handwriting anywhere—it was the same hand that had written grocery lists and parking reminders on their kitchen island in Chicago years ago.

"Did you open it, Arthur?" Vivian asked quietly.

"No, Your Highness. That is entirely your decision," Arthur replied, his voice respectful and steady. "Shall I dispose of it?"

Vivian stared at the envelope for a long, silent moment.

Inside that paper was likely an apology. A plea for forgiveness. A request for a photograph of the daughter he had never been allowed to hold. All the things a broken man writes when he finally realizes he has lost everything.

She reached out her hand, her fingertips brushing the edge of the envelope.

Then, she withdrew her hand slowly and shook her head.

"No, Arthur," Vivian said, her voice steady and clear. "Leave it unread. Some chapters of a book do not deserve a second reading. They are simply finished."