Chasing the Fairytale

"Do you believe in fairy tales?"

Charlotte’s mother had asked her once, when she was just four—innocent, wide-eyed, and unaware of the complexities of the world. She sat at her mother’s feet, her small body tucked into the rich folds of her auburn gown, her head nestled against the woman’s knees, as if the fabric of her mother’s love could shield her from anything outside their little world.

Charlotte had looked up at her, her eyes wide and bright, gleaming with the wonder only a child could know. Her mind still spun with the words of the fairy tale they had just read—the story of a love so pure, so unshakable, that time and distance shattered in its wake. A love that was endless, that transcended everything, so complete and eternal that it could never be undone.

In that moment, Charlotte didn’t just believe in that love—she craved it. Her heart ached for it; it was a quiet longing that drew breath deep within her. She wasn’t a princess, and there were no castles or enchanted forests in her world. She had no magic of her own, no powers to shape the world as she wished. But none of that could tarnish the dreams she carried within her. The truth of her world—the ordinary, imperfect life she knew—had never been enough to silence the voice inside that whispered of something greater.

She wasn’t just a little girl with hopes; she was a believer, with everything that made her human, in a love so perfect it could only live in fairy tale.

Her mother had smiled at her then, the kind of smile that seemed to cradle the very air that surrounded them, Charlotte could do nothing but to blush and grin in return, the woman had extended a delicate finger towards her daughter all those years ago, stroked her cheek and whispered into the air as if her words were to be a prayer.

‘’Never settle for anything else my little diamond.’’

Charlotte knew she never would. Those stories of love- of intertwined hearts of two souls so compatible they dared make the world dance to their tune- to her they were not mere fairy tales.

They were her birthright. Such a love was meant for her, she was meant to find it, have it and feel it in her bones.

Charlotte had observed the love her parents shared, and it never quite measured up to the grand visions she held in her heart. They weren’t like the fairy tales she had devoured as a child—there was no passion, no fire that burned through their words and gestures.

Their love was not the kind of love that made the heart race, that left a person breathless and yearning. Instead, it was a quiet, steady flame—one of respect, companionship, and mutual understanding. It wasn’t thrilling, it wasn’t consuming, and to Charlotte, it felt entirely ordinary.

It was the sort of love that revolted her in its simplicity, its lack of the intensity she so desperately craved. She remembered, as a child of eight, witnessing her father place a brief, almost absent-minded kiss on her mother’s cheek. To Charlotte, it seemed more like a gesture one would offer a friend, a passing affection, than something born of the deep, passionate connection she had always dreamed of. It struck her then with a disheartening clarity—her father kissed her mother as though he were kissing her, not the way a man should embrace his wife. There was no spark, no depth in the touch. It was a kiss of routine, of familiarity.

They weren’t really in love, Charlotte decided; they merely tolerated one another. Their relationship was a patchwork of years spent together, not a union of fiery, unstoppable passion. It was the product of an arranged marriage—a bond forged from duty and convenience, not the romantic ideal Charlotte had always yearned for.

But Charlotte knew she was different. She would be different. Her marriage, when it came, would be nothing like that. It would be spectacular—extraordinary, even. It would not be a marriage built on familiarity or quiet obligation; it would be a whirlwind of passion and excitement, a love so intense that nothing could stand in its way. There would be no settling, no compromises in the depths of her heart. She would not simply tolerate someone—she would be swept away, consumed by the kind of love that would make the mundane world disappear, the kind of love she knew was her birthright, the one that fairy tales promised. Her life would not be ordinary. Her marriage would be a story that would make even the stars jealous.

The summer she had turned twenty-three she begun her search for the man of her dreams. Her prince.

 She didn’t date, she had always made exceptionally clear to any man that approached her- the word was too mundane to fit into the realms of the fantasy that lived in her head, anytime she would spend with them would be a period of courtship with the sole intension of marriage and there was to be no sex until they were wed. Marriage and Lack of sex seemed to send men running the other direction with hisses of her stupidity and delusions.

Charlotte didn’t care, they were nothing more than shadows in the backdrop of her dream, their presence too dull, too irrelevant to ever taint the brilliance of the future she imagined. She refused to let their bland, measured affection cloud the vibrant, all-consuming love she believed was waiting for her. No, she would wait for him, the one who would ignite her soul, the man who would sweep her off her feet and into a world of extraordinary passion.

And then, one day, he appeared.

The man of her fairy tale wasn’t exactly the prince that the four-year-old Charlotte had met in her book. They had no dramatic fateful encounter in a field of never-ending flowers, and she felt no sudden spark that let her know that he was the one. He simply existed the same way she did.

 They met at a café next to the lake her father had taken her fishing the summer of her 10^th birthday, she had chosen the nostalgic location to meet a man that she had only spoken to online. She had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that this would be the moment she met the one—the man she could imagine calling her partner, her future.

He was the waiter at a nearby table, appearing uninterested as he handed out coffee but quietly observing. It wasn't until her date's angry fist slammed onto the table that he glanced over. The man, frustrated by her continued critique, shot her an irritated look, as she casually crossed off yet another quality he lacked on her mental checklist.

She had no doubt that the entire exchange, the insults, the tension, the drama, had reached his ears—he was there, silently witnessing the unraveling of what had once seemed promising.

It wasn't just the words that carried over the distance; it was the weight of them, the bitterness in her date’s voice, and the unmistakable sense of finality in his departure. As he stormed out, the quiet waiter across the room never flinched, his eyes now locked onto hers, as though he’d been waiting for this very moment.

However, Charlotte had been quick to look away, she had had a much more pressing issue at hand at the moment. Her ex-date had been expected to cover the cost of their meal—and, likely, her ride home as well. She hadn’t given it a second thought. After all, paying for her own meal was beneath someone of her prestige, a fact she had made clear when he had approached her with the bill in hand. With an air of practiced nonchalance, she had waved him off, her voice dripping with entitlement. "I’m afraid I don’t carry cash," she had informed, as though her mere presence should absolve her of such mundane concerns.

She had expected a polite nod, an understanding smile and even a nervous apology but to her utter dissatisfaction that man had rolled his eyes in the slightest and addressed her as if she were nothing more than the average difficult customer.

“We accept credit cards.’’ He had said flatly then proceeded to hand her the bill. She had stared up at him then eyes wide and jaw slightly slack, the very picture of surprise.

The man had hair brown like the deep, enduring shade of aged wood and eyes grey like clouds ripe with thunder. He was tall in a way that beat the room into submission. His presence commanded attention effortlessly, his posture unwavering in a way that made the very space around him bend to his will. And when he spoke, his voice was steady, unyielding, the kind of firmness that suggested he wasn’t swayed by anyone's expectations—not hers, not anyone’s.

“If you also don’t carry that I’m afraid I would have to get the manager involved.’’ He said, irritation clinging tightly to his every word like they were its anchor in a storm, “you’re no different than anyone else.’’

“How dare you?” Charlotte’s voice was cold, controlled. She did not raise it, for her mother had always taught her that a lady never needed to shout to make her words carry weight. Every syllable she spoke was deliberate, measured, cutting through the air with surgical precision.

Her gaze had dropped to his hands, the rough, calloused palms that spoke of a life spent in toil and struggle. Her expression had twisted with the slightest flicker of disdain, the kind that only someone of her refinement could muster. To her, those hands were the very symbol of his inferiority—a man of physical labor, a life marked by hardship. He was beneath her in every essence of the word, though he had no idea yet.

He was nothing like her prince, the hero of her fairytale. He was simply a peasant—a mere side character in the story she had already written for herself. "You may involve whoever you wish," she continued, her tone growing colder, sharper. "But it will not change the fact that at the very least I am above you."

Anger flared in those stormy grey eyes, like a tempest building on the horizon. His fists clenched at his sides; muscles taut with barely contained fury. Charlotte braced herself, expecting the thunder to burst from him, expecting the eruption of rage that would bring him to his knees in front of her. She stood tall, prepared to face the storm that would no doubt follow, but to her utter surprise, the man didn’t shout—he grinned.

It was a dark grin, one that sent a shiver down her spine and made the fine hairs on her neck stand on end. It wasn’t the grin of someone amused or self-assured; it was the grin of someone who had seen far worse, someone who was utterly unphased by her vaunted superiority. The kind of grin that made her blood run cold, a prelude to something far more unsettling than any outburst of rage.

“Are you now?” he asked, his voice low, almost amused. And just when Charlotte had thought nothing could possibly unnerve her further, he did the unthinkable—he pulled out the chair her date had once occupied and took his place across from her.

"Well, princess," he continued, his voice now laced with a dangerous edge, "let’s find out."

The man was truly nothing like her prince. Leo, just Leo—no grand titles, no illustrious heritage. He was a man of substance, but of a kind she had never expected to find herself with. He hadn’t been born with the world at his feet; he hadn’t inherited his fortune or prestige.

Instead, every success he had achieved had been hard-won, the result of years of labor, sacrifice, and determination. A far cry from the fairy tale image she had once harbored in her heart, where a dashing, perfect prince would sweep her off her feet.

Leo was six years older than her, a man of the world in ways she hadn’t fully appreciated at the time. He wasn’t just older in age but also in experience. He had lived a life, a full one, marked by struggles and resilience. He had been divorced, and his previous marriage had left him with a five-year-old son that he co-parented with his ex-wife. Children and ex-wives didn’t fit into her idealized narrative of a flawless, picturesque romance. They were complications, messy realities that had no place in her polished, well-curated fairytale.

Despite all this she had married him.

He wasn’t overly wealthy nor was he overly romantic, but all he had he had given to her and all his passionate gestures were hers alone. He had always said that she had led a privileged life and knew nothing of the world, yet he had spoilt her far more than her parents ever did, he had spoilt her with dresses, jewelry, attention and passion- all things material and all things emotional.

The love they had shared wasn’t the fairy tale that she had imagined but it was still a fairy tale none the less. So sacred, so precious and all theirs.

No one saw it the way she did. Widowed at thirty-five, with three children to raise on her own, Charlotte had become the subject of pity for everyone around her. As they stood in somber silence at the graveside, the weight of their gazes heavy upon her, she could feel their judgment, their silent sympathy.

They all knew the tragic details of her husband's death—the car accident that had left him partially blind, his memories completely erased. They knew how, for the final three years of his life, the man she had once known and loved had faded into something unrecognizable, barely a shadow of the person he had been.

They had remembered how he had shifted unpredictably between periods of dreadful calmness and frightening madness. How, in his last years, he no longer recognized her, nor their children. How the man who had once been her partner, her confidant, had become someone volatile and violent, a stranger who would lash out without warning. To them, he was a tragic figure, but not one to be remembered with love.

They couldn’t understand how she had stayed, how she had held on through it all, fighting for a man who no longer existed in any form they could recognize. But they weren’t her, and they would never know the quiet moments of tenderness that still flickered in his eyes or the tears he shed as he begged her to leave him, moments she held onto long after the madness had consumed him.

They didn’t need to understand.

Months later Charlotte now looked down into the grey eyes of her four-year-old daughter- Leo’s eyes. Charlotte stroked the little girl’s cheek, the touch soft and tender, the way her mother had once done what now felt like an eternity ago. Then her voice in a soothing whisper she asked.

“Do you believe in fairy tales?’’