CHAPTER 212: CHAPTER 207: THE BALLROOM TRIAL (1)

Gabriel tilted his head, lips curling in the most innocent imitation of a smile. "The one involving a certain folder. And a scent."

Max, halfway through sipping from his wine glass, froze.

He didn’t choke. Didn’t flinch. But he very, very carefully lowered his glass to the nearest table and began calculating—visibly—the number of exits, the distance to each, and how many nobles stood between him and sanctuary.

"You know," he said slowly, "I suddenly remembered a pressing appointment. With a different continent."

Alexandra reached out and grabbed his sleeve without even glancing at him. "Sit."

"I’m being framed," Max muttered. "This is a diplomatic ambush. I want a lawyer. Or at least a distraction fire."

Gabriel didn’t look away from Damian. His voice was velvet, his smile a blade. "Did you know, Your Majesty, that Max has a perfect memory? Vivid, even. And a fondness for retelling scandalous moments when no one asks."

"I’m beginning to," Damian replied, golden gaze sliding—unhurried, amused—to his half-brother. "Though I’m particularly curious about how Max knew what I felt. Or what I did."

Max raised both hands, palms out. "I said interested. Not feral. And I was mostly just trying to stop you from working me to the bone. I failed."

Gabriel arched a brow, his voice silk-wrapped and venom-tipped. "You also failed to mention to anyone that the Emperor of the Empire was sniffing folders like they were love letters."

Max looked betrayed. "That is a gross exaggeration. For all I know, you are together because of this; otherwise, Gabriel would have been my fiancé."

Alexandra inhaled her drink and immediately coughed it back out.

Irina’s eyes went wide. "What?"

Max, to his credit, did not back down. He shrugged, fixing his cuffs like they were the real victims. "George had plans. You remember. Before Damian swooped in with his golden gaze and imperial pheromones. He wanted me to mark Gabriel and have a nice union of power between the families. Lucius was on board."

Gabriel blinked once. "You forgot that I was going to throw you out of my window?" He looked at Damian. "We had a plan to stall George until we had leverage on him. Max has a mate and had the audacity to propose to mark me and leave it there. Good thing that one of us is good at planning."

Damian’s expression didn’t shift much—just enough for the gold in his eyes to catch the light like a blade unsheathed.

"You were going to mark my mate?" he asked, voice silk-wrapped and serrated.

Max exhaled slowly, clearly reevaluating every life choice that had brought him here. "Technically, no. It was more of a bluff. A political illusion. Gabriel and I had it under control."

"We are not compatible." Said Gabriel, shrugging.

Damian’s gaze lingered on Gabriel—fond, dangerous, and just a little smug. "No," he said softly. "You’re not. You would’ve devoured him."

Max grimaced. "Thanks for the image." He leaned on the window frame with his arms crossed on his chest. "Still, George is now busy saving Callahan, but he didn’t seem happy seeing the two of you together."

Gabriel’s eyes sharpened at that. "He’s welcome to choke on the irony. He pushed me into this game, and now he’s upset the other player had teeth?"

Damian didn’t look away. "He’s lucky I didn’t return the favor. I only claimed what was already mine."

Max snorted softly. "And yet somehow you make that sound romantic and terrifying in equal measure."

"Thank you," Damian said without a hint of irony.

Gabriel sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "George knew I’d never agree to his plan long-term. He thought he could corner me with politics and guilt."

"You didn’t just break the corner," Alexandra added, settling back in her seat with a smile. "You burned the whole table."

Irina, still taking in the conversation with wide eyes, murmured, "He did say Gabriel was too clever to waste on scandal."

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "He said that after he tried to sell me like a gilded pawn to the Claymores."

Max raised a brow. "We were not the worst option."

"You were already in love with someone else." Gabriel’s voice cut clean. "And I was already a weapon no one could afford to leave unguarded."

Damian’s voice came low, dark with possession. "Now you’re mine. And no one will touch you again."

Max threw his hands up. "Can we save the territorial declarations for after the food arrives?"

Gabriel just lifted his glass, unbothered. "Why? Watching you squirm is the only thing keeping me from throttling Patricia."

"Lovely," Max muttered, glancing across the ballroom. "Just what this Empire needed. A Consort with sharp teeth and no patience."

The sound of clanking armor reached the ballroom first—quiet at first, like distant thunder, before it grew unmistakable.

A hush fell over the guests.

Gabriel’s hand froze mid-sip. Max turned his head slowly. Alexandra straightened in her chair with the sharp attention of someone who recognized timing too perfect to be coincidence.

Damian’s golden gaze didn’t shift from Gabriel. He merely murmured, "Right on time."

Then the grand doors creaked open.

A line of imperial guards entered in full dress uniform—leather black and steel-bright, swords glinting at their hips, cloaks trailing behind like banners of silent judgment. At their lead was Gregoris, the Shadow Captain, his face emotionless but for the faint curl of something cold and satisfied in the corner of his mouth.

Whispers rose like a tide as the guards split formation and moved toward the far side of the ballroom—toward the third column.

Toward Lady Patricia.

Her expression didn’t change at first. But her fingers curled too tightly around her glass.

A beat. Two.

Then Gregoris raised a scroll, the imperial seal glinting red as blood in the chandelier light.

"Lady Patricia Duarte," his voice rang out, clear and without haste, "you are summoned by order of His Imperial Majesty to answer to charges of treason, sabotage, and conspiracy against the Crown."

Gasps broke across the room like shattered porcelain.

Patricia rose slowly, trying to summon the haughty disdain that had once commanded salons and ministers alike.

"This is absurd," she said, her voice brittle.