"I am exhausted," Florian muttered, sinking into the plush velvet couch in Heinz's office as if every bone in his body had given up on supporting him. The moment his back hit the cushions, he practically collapsed, limbs sprawled like a discarded marionette.
His voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it carried the full weight of the evening's emotional toll.
Dinner had passed in a blur—thankfully without any more chaos. No yelling, no insults flying across the table like daggers. Just an eerie, tension-laced awkwardness that filled the air, pressing down on everyone's shoulders. Still, it was an improvement.
The princesses had stepped up when it mattered, gracefully maneuvering conversations and distracting the dukes with practiced ease. Their laughter had been a little too loud, their smiles a little too polished, but it worked.
Somehow, it worked.
Darkthorn and Flameheart hadn't caused another scene. That alone felt like a miracle.
But Alexandria hadn't returned.
