Gabriel tilted his head, lips curling in the most innocent imitation of a smile. "The one involving a certain folder. And a scent."
Max, halfway through sipping from his wine glass, froze.
He didn't choke. Didn't flinch. But he very, very carefully lowered his glass to the nearest table and began calculating—visibly—the number of exits, the distance to each, and how many nobles stood between him and sanctuary.
"You know," he said slowly, "I suddenly remembered a pressing appointment. With a different continent."
Alexandra reached out and grabbed his sleeve without even glancing at him. "Sit."
"I'm being framed," Max muttered. "This is a diplomatic ambush. I want a lawyer. Or at least a distraction fire."
Gabriel didn't look away from Damian. His voice was velvet, his smile a blade. "Did you know, Your Majesty, that Max has a perfect memory? Vivid, even. And a fondness for retelling scandalous moments when no one asks."
