The palace looked the same.
Which was, frankly, insulting.
Gabriel stepped out of the convoy with the wind still tugging at the edges of his coat, the collar skewed from the ride and his scarf half-loosened in frustration. He hadn't said a word on the way back—which, for Gabriel, was never a good sign.
He'd been pulled from the Winter Ball halfway through a sentence. A well-constructed one, delivered with perfect timing and a razor's edge of charm. There had been polite laughter, Serathine's daughter hovering too close, and a tray of overly sweet fruit cocktails he'd already declined more than once.
"We're going home," Edward had said, with that particular tone that didn't allow for interpretation. Not later. Not after dessert. Not after Gabriel had finished bleeding diplomacy across a room of half-interested nobles.
Now.
They'd informed Serathine and the rest of the group. And then they'd left—without Damian.
And that… that was the part that stuck.
