Misty Kilmer sat alone in her private salon, a glass of wine untouched beside her and her latest silk robe clinging to her shoulders like it had grown too heavy. The afternoon sun bled lazily through crystal-paned windows, casting warped golden bars across the marble floor, beautiful, opulent, and suffocating.
She tapped impatiently at her tablet, waiting for the headline to load on the newswire's primary channel. The court column had promised something "monumental." Something that would "shake the social hierarchy to its core."
She'd hoped, no, expected, a scandal.
An old affair. A bastard child. A power play from Serathine finally cracking.
Instead, the screen lit up with three words that struck like a blow to the ribs:
HOUSE FITZGERALT WEDS.
Misty blinked once.
Then read the full title:
GRAND DUKE TREVOR ARISTON FITZGERALT MARRIES HEIR OF HOUSE D'ARGENTE IN PRIVATE CEREMONY BLESSED BY FIVE BISHOPS.
She scrolled faster, disbelief bleeding into fury.
