We were dead.
There was no other explanation. No alternative interpretation, no hidden escape route, and absolutely no defense. Just a slow, humiliating, and utterly comedic social death.
The room fell so silent I could hear the sheer curtains fluttering in the gentle evening breeze.
Draven stood framed in the double doorway. Motionless. Watching. A thick stack of high-level imperial documents remained tucked securely beneath his arm.
His expression revealed absolutely nothing, which somehow made the entire situation ten times worse.
He looked less like a returning Duke and more like a deity preparing to hand down a judgment.
Beside me on the plush velvet sofa, Elara carefully lowered her wine glass. Very carefully. She moved with the agonizing slowness of someone trying not to provoke a sleeping dragon.
Unfortunately, the crystal glass made a tiny, sharp clink as it touched the marble tabletop.
The sound echoed through the quiet room like a full criminal confession.
