Lady Veronne had not come to the tea party to lose.
She'd arrived with her pearls gleaming, her entourage in coordinated silks, and her expressions rehearsed with the precision of a court actress. She had come to remind the palace—and its suddenly elevated Consort—that scandals had memory. That the Princess had once been first. That Gabriel von Jaunez, no matter how clever or bonded, could still bleed.
But she hadn't expected that.
She hadn't expected him to smile like a knife or speak like someone who'd already decided her relevance was optional.
She hadn't expected Crista Lyon to sit beside Gabriel as if she were grooming a successor, not merely entertaining one.
And Veronne certainly hadn't expected her own name to hang in the air like a condemned man's final breath.
