The silence in the Grand Drawing Room following Catherine's sobbing exit was heavy enough to crush a lesser woman.
At the far end of the room, sitting in a wingback chair that looked like it cost more than the GDP of a small island nation, was Grandfather Sinclair.
He wasn't a withered king; he was a shark in a three-piece suit. He held a cane topped with a silver lion's head, his knuckles white as he gripped it, but his posture was rigid, impeccable. His eyes—cold, hard, and devoid of the gold warmth that Damien's held—were fixed on Aria.
He looked at her neon green feathers. He looked at the black lace gloves. He looked at the defiant tilt of her chin.
"You," the old man said, his voice a low, dry rasp that carried perfectly across the room. "You chased away a woman with actual breeding to make room for... that?"
He gestured vaguely at her outfit with his cane.
"Damien. Explain. Why is there a highlighter standing on my Persian rug?"
