The Winter Ball of House Varel was, by every outward measure, a triumph.
The orchestra swelled, chandeliers shimmered, and the ballroom flowed with color and etherlight. Conversation rose in low waves between glasses of imperial wine and seasonal delicacies passed on silver trays. It was effortless, curated—a picture of high society at ease.
Which, of course, was a lie.
At the center of it all stood the two people no one could ignore.
Damian moved through the room like the gravity he was—formal, composed, speaking only when necessary, and always with the kind of quiet authority that made even the most powerful duke straighten his collar. He didn't smile often. He didn't need to.
Gabriel, on the other hand, was smiling.
But that made it worse.
Because he didn't smile like he was pleased. He smiled like he was collecting names.
