I told myself it was curiosity.
That was the lie I clung to as I watched Lady Seraphine lean back in her chair, utterly unbothered by the fact that she had just derailed centuries of royal protocol with bread, cheese, and a cup of dark liquid that tasted like enlightenment.
Curiosity was safe. Curiosity was allowed. But this, this stirring beneath my ribs, was neither polite nor controllable. I had tasted the pizza. Gods help me, I had leaned forward like a fool when the cheese stretched, my dignity forgotten in a heartbeat. I had sipped the coffee and felt something snap into place inside my mind, like a locked door quietly opening.
And now, watching her, I realized it wasn't the food. It was her. Lady Seraphine sat as if she belonged anywhere she chose to be. Not stiff like a court-trained noble. Not submissive like a visiting lord. She carried herself with the casual confidence of someone who knew the world bent eventually, not to crowns, not to bloodlines, but to ideas.
