CHAPTER 193: CHAPTER 188: ILLUSION OF CONTROL (2)

The sound of the doors shutting behind George was almost satisfying. Almost.

Patricia remained still for a moment, staring into the fireplace like it might speak back. It didn’t, just silence and the occasional crackle of the fire.

She reached for the crystal decanter on the sideboard and poured herself a measured glass of amber liquor. The scent was sharp and comforting. The taste, clean fire down her throat.

She needed it. George always left behind the smell of unfinished ruin, like an old book soaked in smoke. She hated how calm he had been. How composed. She hated him from their first day as a couple; she deserved better.

That man was too composed.

But she wasn’t concerned. Not truly. She would have enough time to destroy him once her and Hadeon’s plans were finalized. For the moment, it was enough that George was nothing more than a puppet—leashed and dangling, made to perform his little theater of regret while the real power moved in silence behind him.

She stepped toward the desk, her fingers ghosting over the dark wood surface before opening the locked drawer with a key hidden beneath her ring. Inside lay the folder. Cream-colored. Unlabeled. Ordinary.

Its contents were anything but.

She drew it out with precision and opened it, eyes cool as they landed on the ether-fused portrait at the top. Elliot and Gabriel.

Suspended in shimmering clarity, the image pulsed faintly with residual ether, too refined to be dismissed as coincidence, too damning to be ignored. No need for words. The positioning of their bodies, the lighting, and the moment are captured like a secret begging to be misread.

Almost pornography, almost too much.

She studied it for a moment longer, then flipped the portrait back into place and closed the folder, returning it to the drawer with the same care one might give a loaded weapon.

Patricia had only the best resources at her fingertips, only the better Hadeon could provide. Even the Emperor could not figure out who was responsible, and she made certain that the princess would never remember who gave her the idea or who drew the portraits.

Soon, very soon, she would take Hadeon’s rightful place as the true Empress, not the joke of the von Jaunez family.

Just as she was turning away, a soft knock came at the door.

"Enter," she said crisply, straightening the already flawless cuts of her dress.

One of the manor attendants stepped inside, his expression tight, breath shallow. He bowed low, clearly anticipating the worst.

"My lady... Princess Anya is missing from her chambers. She left sometime after sundown. Her attendants found her rooms empty. No one saw her leave."

Patricia said nothing for a moment. Her gaze slid past him to the hearth, past the crackling flames. Her face remained unreadable.

"Quiet the staff. No one speaks a word of this outside these walls. Not until we know where she is and what she’s done."

The attendant bowed again, relieved he wasn’t bleeding, and quickly departed.

Alone once more, Patricia moved with steady purpose back to the drawer. She unlocked it again and retrieved a second, thinner folder—one she’d commissioned as a contingency. Not as brutal. Not as overt.

But potentially far more devastating in its simplicity.

She opened it, revealing the ether-fused portrait inside. It was subtle, even elegant, but full of implication.

Gabriel and, this time, Anya.

They stood beneath one of the palace’s archways, caught mid-conversation. Gabriel’s posture was relaxed, almost familiar. Anya’s expression was soft, as if a thorn lover begged the other to reconsider and return to her.

They were not touching, nothing suggestive like the other one, but enough to start rumors.

The lighting was golden and flattering. Their silhouettes framed like a lover’s secret. And no one would care about the truth in the right circles or among the right tongues.

The positioning of their bodies, the lighting, and the moment were captured like a secret begging to be misinterpreted.

Let the high society wives see it. Let the senators’ daughters clutch their pearls. Let the dukes’ wives murmur behind their fans while their men and alphas are scrambling to attack the legitimacy of their Emperor bond.

’Of course she’s been acting out.frёewebηovel.cѳm

Of course she hates the Consort.

He left her.

She doesn’t want the Emperor’s attention, but the man that caught his heart.

Was Prince Olivier one of his victims?

The Emperor lost his first mate, Leora Abalone, during the rebellion. Do you know that an alpha cannot have another mate like that?’

Patricia smiled faintly.

She placed the portrait back into the folder and sealed it.

This was no longer about shaming Anya. It was about isolating Gabriel. Undermining the bond between him and Damian, not with violence or accusation, but with nostalgia. With doubt.

The setting was almost perfect; however, she preferred the first version, which was more devastating for an omega and scandalous. She wanted Gabriel to be seen as an alpha’s toy because he had no idea what he had done to himself by refusing and humiliating Elliot.

She rang the bell, a silver one that called only the most trusted of her servants.

Her assistant arrived as if summoned by thought alone.

"Send the second set," she said. "Through the private channels. No courier uniforms. It needs to feel like a leak."

He bowed.

"And monitor the salons. Especially the ones in the northern wing of the city. I want to know what’s being whispered by the end of the night. Announce it at the Abalone ball tonight; make sure that it reaches every queen socialite."

"Until morning it has to be in every media available."

"Understood."

The door closed behind him.

—

By the time the chandeliers were lit at the Abalone Ball, the whispers had already begun, soft as silk, sharp as needles. A portrait here, a knowing glance there. The empire didn’t need proof to devour its own. All it needed was suggestion... and Patricia had delivered it wrapped in gold.

Lady Veronne, draped in emeralds and old money, was the first to let the image "accidentally" slip from her fanfold during conversation. She gasped just loud enough to draw curious eyes, then whispered behind her gloved hand, "Of course, it explains everything. Poor Princess Anya. Poor Emperor, to be blinded by such an omega!"

By midnight, half the ballroom had seen it. The other half was already pretending they had.