The music softened as the reception officially began, strings lilting with forced elegance and practiced cheer. The grand ballroom of the Winter Palace was filled with nobles pretending to smile, servants gliding between trays of gilded desserts, and foreign envoys observing everything with that predatory curiosity unique to diplomacy.
Gabriel stood near one of the frosted windows, a glass of something sparkling in his hand, eyes narrowed as he watched Lady Patricia holding court with three ambassadors near the far end of the room. Max, Alexandra, and Irina had wisely retreated a few steps away, sensing the distinct shift in his mood—the moment his jaw tightened and his grip on the stem of the glass turned surgical.
"I should've poisoned the cake," Gabriel muttered under his breath. "The exile is for his safety."
Max, who had just taken a sip of wine, choked on it.
