As the meal wore on, the sharp edges that had flared at the start slowly dulled—sanded down by the weight of routine, tradition, and just enough civility to keep the peace.
Adeline, for once, didn't press. She offered no more jabs, no pointed laughter. She spoke when prompted, commented when necessary, and even made a dry remark about one of the foreign ministers fumbling a public speech. But her eyes were distant, her posture looser.
Damien noticed it.
She wasn't smiling out of triumph anymore.
She was thinking.
Vivienne, meanwhile, returned to cutting her fish with quiet grace, her mind clearly elsewhere—likely running probabilities, imagining risk scenarios, evaluating every year of Damien's past with the speed of a political strategist reviewing a collapsing alliance. But she said nothing more on the subject of the bet.
Not because she had accepted it.
But because she had already begun preparing for the possibility he might succeed.
