Princess Dahlia stepped out of the private room, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind her. She walked toward Marissa and Lady Edwina, her posture rigid, her chin held high.
She was no longer the furious wife who had twisted the Prince's ear. She was no longer the woman who had thrown a coat at a naked man. She had put her mask back on—the perfect, polite, porcelain face of the Crown Princess. But the mask was cracked. Her eyes were still red-rimmed with anger, and her hands trembled slightly as she smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt.
She stopped in front of them. She smiled. It was a tight, brittle smile, like glass about to shatter under pressure.
"It is getting late," Dahlia said. Her voice was steady, but there was a tremor of deep exhaustion beneath it. "The night air is cold, and I fear I have kept you both too long. Let us reschedule our supper for another day. I find I have lost my appetite."
