CHAPTER 203: CHAPTER 198: EMOTIONAL WARFARE (3)

Several ladies coughed into their napkins. Alexandra visibly choked. Irina stared at Gabriel like he’d just called down lightning.

Veronne stiffened, then reached—too fast—for her tea.

"You know," she said, lips twitching, "I did hear the Princess had a keepsake from your time together. A little letter, or was it a—?"

"A forged confession?" Gabriel interrupted smoothly, lifting a brow. "A dried flower? Perhaps a lock of hair she plucked while screaming at the palace gates?"

Veronne faltered, caught.

Gabriel didn’t smile. "You must forgive me. I don’t have the luxury of remembering a time with Anya fondly. Unless you count her attempt to strike me in front of the Empire at the coming-of-age ball or her attempt at mimicking my bond."

The air at the table turned to glass.

Irina blinked rapidly, as if trying to decide whether she should breathe. Alexandra didn’t bother; she simply picked up her tea again with slow, theatrical precision.

Veronne’s fingers tightened around her cup. "A misunderstanding, surely. The Princess was under strain—"

"She was under the impression," Gabriel interrupted, tone sharp but pleasant, "that public violence would make her appear more desirable. A miscalculation. One of many."

A few of the other ladies looked away. One shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"I’ve always said," Gabriel continued, "that if your first instinct when threatened is to slap someone at court, you don’t belong there in the first place."

Crista let out a soft, approving hum behind her cup. "Oh, I quite agree."

Veronne attempted a laugh. "We all know how passionate the Princess can be."

"Passionate?" Gabriel tilted his head, his voice mild but merciless. "Is that what we’re calling it now? Curious. I’d call it desperation. It does tend to cloud judgment. She was after the Empress’s seat, not some impossible love story."

The guests stopped pretending they weren’t listening.

Teacups paused halfway to lips. Napkins were folded and refolded with nervous fingers. One of the younger ladies at the far end leaned in so hard her pearl hairpin caught in the lace runner.

Lady Veronne’s smile thinned to a thread. "You make it sound so... calculated."

"It was," Gabriel said, not missing a beat. "Her mistake was assuming the title could be taken with enough tantrums and strategic perfume."

Crista raised a brow, visibly delighted now, even as she reclined gracefully in her chair. "Indeed. There is something so tedious about ambition without subtlety."

"Exactly," Gabriel agreed, sipping his tea. "At least a proper usurper should be clever enough to get through one diplomatic event without threatening her supposed rival."

"Rival?" Alexandra echoed, dry as salt. "She’d need to be in the same league."

Irina blinked, wide-eyed and awestruck, before lowering her gaze to her lap with the good sense of someone trying not to burst into inappropriate applause.

Lady Delphina coughed softly into her handkerchief. "Well, Your Grace certainly doesn’t lack confidence."

Gabriel didn’t look at her. He looked at Veronne. And this time, he did smile.

"I don’t need confidence, Lady Delphina. I have a crown." He set his cup down with a light clink. "And a bond. Which—since it seems health education is lacking—means no rumor, no former ’keepsake,’ and certainly no Princess can undo what the Emperor and I share."

"Tell me, Lady Veronne, when you peddle these fantasies, do you at least get paid well for them?"

Lady Veronne’s composure cracked. "Are you accusing me of forgery?"

Gabriel tilted his head, unbothered. "No. I’m suggesting that if your name appears on the list of contributors when the Shadows finish their investigation, you’ll be lucky if all you lose is your title."

A breath of unease rippled around the table. Even Lady Virelle pulled her chair a touch away from Veronne.

Veronne opened her mouth—then closed it.

Crista’s voice slid in, honeyed and bone-deep cold. "Lady Veronne. Perhaps you’d prefer to step away and collect your thoughts. I find it best not to speak while standing in front of a flame."

"I wasn’t—" she started, faltering.

"You were," Gabriel replied, gentler now, almost pitying. "But you’ve said enough for one afternoon. Go drink something stronger. I imagine you’ll need it."

Veronne rose, face pale, murmuring some excuse about an urgent family matter. No one stood with her. No one even looked at her.

Crista’s attendants swept in silently to refill cups and offer fresh pastries, as though the silence that followed hadn’t just been carved from a political execution.

Gabriel picked up his scone with maddening grace. "So... the weather?"

"Unseasonably warm," Lady Virelle said quickly, lifting her tea with trembling fingers. "Not that I’m complaining."

Irina let out a slow, shaky breath. Alexandra simply smiled behind her cup like a shark watching blood hit the water.

And Crista? Crista leaned closer to Gabriel and murmured, almost fondly, "Next time, dear, try not to destroy the entire food chain at once. We still have lunch."

Gabriel smirked. "I thought I was being merciful."

—

The party was still in full swing, but the tension had shifted. Veronne’s absence echoed like a door slammed shut. Gabriel had been the eye of the storm—now he was its quiet aftermath, and Crista Lyon wasted no time in collecting what she wanted.

"Walk with me," she said lightly, touching his sleeve. Not a request.

Gabriel glanced at Alexandra, who gave him a subtle nod, then followed Crista through the high glass doors into a narrower corridor flanked with blooming white roses and frost-laced ivy. The scent was heady. The silence even more so.

Only when they were truly alone did Crista speak again.

"You were glorious."

"I was vindictive."

Crista’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it sharpened.

"You say that like it’s a bad thing."

Gabriel huffed. "I’m on almost no sleep for days, my spine is ruined, my free day was stolen by pearls and perfume, and apparently there’s another rumor about me—but Edward won’t crack. Which means it’s bad."

Crista gave him an appraising look, folding her hands in front of her. "If Edward won’t say it, it’s because it’s not your fire to put out."

"It’s about me," Gabriel muttered.

"That never stopped Edward," she replied dryly. "Or Damian, for that matter. If it were urgent, you’d already be reading it over breakfast and deciding who to humiliate."

"I already did that today," Gabriel said, deadpan.