POV: First Lady Illara Voss
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The wine glass clattered as it slipped from her trembling fingers.
Dark crimson spilled across Chris Blackwood's pristine white suit like blood on snow.
The hall went dead silent.
Time slowed.
She didn't breathe. Couldn't.
All eyes shifted from the soaked king... to her.
Then to the one woman whose expression hadn't changed —
Amara Blackwood.
Still. Regal. Unblinking.
Chris sat motionless, calmly brushing a few droplets from his chest as if he'd seen worse — and he had. Far worse.
But Amara?
She didn't touch her glass.
She didn't blink.
She simply rose to her feet.
The clatter of her chair against the polished floor echoed like a gavel.
"First Lady…" Amara said, her voice like silk wrapped around a dagger. "Was that meant for his throat or his pride?"
Illara's heart thundered. "I—it was an accident. Truly! I didn't mean—"
Amara stepped forward, ignoring the apology like it was dust on her boot.
"My husband's suit," she said. "Hand-stitched from the Blessed Weavers of Batalon. Presented by the Eastern Arch-Alliance as tribute. One of one. White to symbolize peace."
She tilted her head.
"And you poured war on it."
"Please—" Illara gasped, eyes wide. "It was just a slip of the—"
Before she could finish, President Darn Vox — her husband — stood up abruptly from his seat, raising both hands in desperation.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice cracking with nerves, "please. Allow me to apologize on behalf of my wife and the entire Republic of Darnova. She's been overwhelmed… this visit, the honor… the nerves."
He turned to Chris directly. "King Blackwood, please. She meant no harm. This was not symbolic. I swear it on my flag."
Chris slowly looked up, then stood.
The hall collectively held its breath.
He glanced at his ruined suit, then looked at Darn's trembling figure… and finally at Illara, who looked one breath away from fainting.
Then — that faint smile.
Not kind. Not cruel.
Just unreadable.
"I accept your apology," Chris said calmly, his voice even. "But remember, President Vox…"
He took a step forward.
"There are no 'accidents' in diplomacy."
Darn Vox bowed deeply. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Chris turned to his wife. "Amara."
She lowered her gaze in obedience. "Yes, my King."
"We'll return to the suite after this. Prepare a statement. The media will spin this into humor."
"As you wish."
Chris turned one last time toward Illara.
"White may forgive," he said. "But Blackwood never forgets."
Then he walked off — not storming, not rattled.
Just… gone.
And when Amara followed, the air behind her felt colder.
Illara sank into her chair as murmurs rippled again through the hall. Her face flushed with heat and humiliation, but it was the fear that stayed in her bones.
Because next time… it might not be a suit that gets ruined.
It might be her entire country.
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