Heather did not run. She did not cry. She did not dramatically faint like the prime-time socialites who wanted headlines to document their humiliation. She simply retreated with as much dignity as a fifteen-year-old whose heart had just catastrophically attached itself to the wrong royal man could manage.
Which meant she disappeared behind a marble column, opened her clutch, and sulked at the universe while actively ignoring the fifteen unread messages from advisors demanding she stop being seen in public immediately.
A very expensive sulk, wrapped in couture fabric, monarchy, and theatrical outrage at the laws of reality.
Marianne stood beside Dax like a crisis manager, mentally composing ten different press statements and a civil apology to Rohan's PR department.
"Well," she muttered. "That could've gone worse. Nobody cried, screamed, or livestreamed it. Yet."
Dax hummed.
