CHAPTER 213: CHAPTER 208: THE BALLROOM TRIAL (2)

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.

But no one moved to support her. No one rose in protest. The ambassadors who had been orbiting her minutes earlier now watched from behind their fans and glasses, polite horror stretching across their expressions like painted veils.

Her spine stiffened, chin raised. "I have the right to be informed of any charges before being humiliated in front of the entire court—"

Gregoris didn’t blink. He didn’t need to. The scroll in his hand was already open, the seal broken. Her name, etched in crimson ink, stared back at her like prophecy fulfilled.

Conspiracy against the Crown. Sabotage of imperial image. Forgery, political destabilization, and treason.

It was the last word that nearly took her breath. Treason. The word lingered like rot in silk.

Patricia’s eyes darted to the nearest noble—Countess Marelle, who had once wept with laughter over tea in her salon. She turned her gaze away now. The Earl beside her was already backing up a step, subtly, like stepping out of range of a fire about to leap.

A trap. It had to be.

Patricia’s mind raced, fingers twitching beneath her velvet sleeves as the charge of treason echoed in the vast chamber like a thunderclap dressed in protocol. Her name—her name—had been spoken with the same disdain reserved for criminals and cowards.

But she wasn’t a coward. She was connected.

She was backed by Hadeon Lyon.

Marquis of Lyon.

His reach stretched through the courts, the estates, and the southern networks of old nobility like a web spun of gold and blood. She was his confidante, his mistress, his chosen proxy in matters too delicate—or too scandalous—for direct involvement. He would not let this stand.

He couldn’t.

’He owes me.’

Every quiet favor, every whispered arrangement, every covered scandal—she had cleaned his record with a smile and her tongue. Hadeon was more than a political creature; he was a force of survival, a shadow with a title. And she... she had been his echo in daylight.

Damian wouldn’t dare. Not truly. Not with Hadeon in the capital.

Her eyes darted to the main entrance—no movement. No guards arriving to stop this. No protests. Nothing but the icy stillness of a room that had already decided her guilt before she’d spoken a word.

She looked to Elliot.

Still silent. Still motionless.

His eyes wouldn’t meet hers.

’Coward.’

She wanted to scream. To demand that her son do something. But she couldn’t afford to look like a mother begging.

Patricia Duarte did not beg.

She turned her head—sharply, precisely—to Damian.

"His Excellency, the Marquis of Lyon, will not be pleased," she said, her voice low but laced with warning. "He does not take kindly to humiliation."

Damian didn’t blink. He smiled.

Not kindly. Not gently. But with that slow, terrifying serenity only the apex predator in the room could afford.

Patricia’s breath caught.

"I look forward to informing him myself," Damian said again, more slowly now, each word deliberate. "We haven’t had a heart-to-heart conversation in so long."

Damian’s tone was light and almost playful, so it should have been harmless. But there was no light in his eyes. Golden, sharp, glittering with the promise of ruin. He didn’t just mean to send a message. He meant to send a warning Hadeon would never misinterpret.

The murmurs in the room ceased completely. Even the musicians faltered, the final note of their last stringed phrase trailing off into silence like it feared being held accountable.

Patricia stood rigid, spine locked, as though sheer posture might save her. "You’re making a mistake," she whispered.

"No," Damian said, without looking at her. "I’m correcting one."

Then he turned slightly, as if her presence no longer required his full attention, and addressed Gregoris without ever raising his voice. "Escort Countess Duarte to the south wing. She’ll be received by the tribunal before dusk."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Gabriel’s glass clinked against the table as he set it down, his tone soft and cruel with amusement. "Would you like me to save you a seat, Patricia? Perhaps in the third row. I hear the view of your own downfall is clearest from there."

"You don’t have to manhandle me. I can walk." Patricia said while arranging her expensive dress. If Damian thought that she could be easily disposed of, he was wrong.

She touched one of her rings to calm herself down, or more exactly to make the others think that. She was sending a signal to her people.

’Let’s see if you really can shield your mate.’

Damian’s eyes flicked toward the ring.

He almost chuckled at her silent cry for help; the ring would send a signal to a man who had no interest in saving anyone but himself.

"You’re welcome to walk," he said mildly, almost distracted, as if speaking to someone already beneath notice. "But I wouldn’t test how far."

Gregoris approached her from behind, not grabbing her or even touching her, but remaining present, like a loaded weapon barely sheathed. The air around him hummed with restrained violence. It made the nobles nearest to Patricia take a step back, as if worried whatever came next might stain their silk.

Patricia inhaled through her nose and moved. Proudly. Smoothly. She kept her chin high as she passed Gabriel, resisting the urge to sneer at him

But Gabriel’s smile was maddening. Gentle. Merciless.

"Let me know if the tribunal allows accessories," he murmured as she passed. "It’d be a shame for that ring to go to waste."

She almost started to laugh but composed herself to look like she was cornered. The ring didn’t matter anymore; it was one-time use and now just another piece of metal.

As the doors of the Winter Palace reception hall closed behind her and the guards began their silent escort, Patricia forced herself to breathe evenly. To walk in rhythm. To remain composed.

But her mind was already turning. Calculating.

She had allies. Power. Leverage. Secrets Hadeon had never dared put in writing.

She still had time.

And if Damian Lyon truly believed that shielding his little Consort would be as simple as gold rings and court smiles?

Then he had vastly underestimated what she was willing to burn.