CHAPTER 222: CHAPTER 217: TEA PARTY (1)

Sofia frowned. "But he’s being... perfect."

"That’s why we’re worried," Irina whispered, still watching Gabriel as if he might suddenly shed his skin and reveal a second, more venomous version of himself beneath.

Gabriel was the eye of the storm.

He stood in the center of the glowing salon like he was born there—unbothered, immaculate, the embodiment of winter sun caught in silk and embroidery. His robe was cream and pale green, gold-threaded at the cuffs, and layered just enough to suggest warmth and dignity without ever appearing heavy. His hair had been combed back with a subtle sheen, the ring on his finger catching the light every time he lifted his glass.

There was nothing wrong with him. That was the problem.

No rolled eyes. No venom-coated wit. No slow, curling smiles that promised someone was about to be politely dismembered.

Gabriel wasn’t being Gabriel.

And the nobles felt it.

Lady Meredale, who had once called him scandalous but efficient at a luncheon, had spent the past ten minutes blinking as if trying to determine whether the creature before her was real. The younger daughters of House Estrelen, normally giggling at any hint of Gabriel’s notorious temper, were unusually quiet. Even Countess Myrenne, who had once snidely said Gabriel’s manners were borrowed from the theater, was now nodding along to his light conversation with the same confusion one shows a tiger sipping tea.

"He just complimented Lady Harland’s shoes," Alexandra whispered from behind her fan. "Her shoes. I saw her call him a petulant concubine in writing last month."

Julian, standing nearby with his arms folded and his face unreadable, muttered, "She also funds three of the Empire’s largest Ether mines. It’s strategic."

"It’s unsettling," Irina said. "He hasn’t said anything rude in twenty whole minutes."

"I think he’s trying to prove a point," Alexandra added, tapping her nails against her cup. "Or kill us with anxiety."

Across the room, Gabriel smiled at yet another noblewoman—Lady Yelvine this time, who was known to host covert fundraisers for factions that had once voted against Gabriel’s appointment as Empress-in-waiting.

"And how is your cousin after the last frost?" Gabriel asked, warmth dripping from his voice like honeyed poison.

Lady Yelvine’s reply was stilted. "Still recovering. Thank you for asking, Your Grace."

Gabriel touched her wrist briefly as he handed her a napkin. "Do give her my regards. And avoid the lemon tarts—they bite back."

Irina turned to Sofia, expression wide-eyed. "Did he just make a joke that wasn’t a threat?"

Sofia was still watching him. Harder now. Slower. "He’s doing it on purpose," she said. "He’s holding the entire room in place just by being... exactly what they expect."

"Which means he’s going to do something none of them expect very soon," Alexandra whispered.

Julian’s jaw shifted slightly. He looked at Gabriel like a man reading the final moves of a duel. "Or someone else is."

And then—

The doors opened.

Not loudly. Not with ceremony. But with enough force to interrupt the flow of polite conversation. A ripple passed through the salon, soft and immediate, like a change in temperature. Even the fireplace seemed to hush.

Delphine stepped into the room.

Wrapped in winter pearl, her coat pristine, her gloves removed with meticulous grace. Her hair was pinned with snowflake-shaped opals, subtle and expensive. She looked exactly as she always did—danger in the shape of diplomacy.

But Gabriel’s gaze barely flicked to her—because the man at her side was the one who mattered.

Rafael.

He entered without hesitation. Twenty years old, perhaps a little older than he looked—tall for an omega, slim in build, and dressed in navy and pearl, with silver embroidery at the collar. His expression was gentle, his posture relaxed, and his eyes lowered just enough to play the part of deference. But his every movement was exact. Controlled. Intentional.

Gabriel’s spine straightened by instinct.

This wasn’t a boy.

This was a player.

"Your Grace," Delphine said smoothly, her voice full of courtly warmth, "may I present my son, Rafael? I thought he might benefit from attending. He’s just returned from his studies abroad."

Gabriel didn’t answer immediately. He let the silence stretch—a gracious beat too long, just enough for the room to feel it. It gave him time to study Rafael properly.

Rafael, who stood with his chin dipped at the perfect angle, was the portrait of respectful humility. Rafael, whose robe was cut in the exact same silhouette favored by junior consorts in older courts. Rafael, whose every breath was measured, every glance calculated to appear nonthreatening.

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And Gabriel saw right through it.

He stepped forward, all winter sun and imperial grace, and offered a hand—not in welcome, but in acknowledgment. "Rafael," he said, his voice warm and just a little too soft. "It’s a pleasure."

Rafael took the offered hand with a bow deep enough to charm tradition but brief enough to suggest he didn’t truly bow to anyone. "Thank you, Your Grace. I’ve been... very curious."

"About the palace?" Gabriel asked, tilting his head.

Rafael’s lips curved, polite. "About you."

That earned a few glances from nearby nobles. Someone coughed discreetly behind a fan. A murmured name fluttered down the table like a loose ribbon.

Gabriel’s smile didn’t move. "You’re not the first."

"I imagine I won’t be the last." Rafael met his eyes—directly, unapologetically. "But I don’t need a scandal. Just the truth."

Delphine made no move to interfere. Her son stood exactly where she wanted him—on the battlefield, dressed like a witness.

Gabriel’s brow arched. "Truth," he repeated. "In this room? Well, now I see why your mother brought you to court."

Rafael didn’t flinch. "And here I thought she brought me to learn grace under pressure."

Gabriel smiled, slow and bright, a flicker of something sharper behind it. "Oh, you’ll learn."

He was nauseous, his temples throbbing beneath the weight of citrus and expectation. He had been polite to the point of stupidity, smiling through venom, entertaining the same nobles who once whispered he’d never last a month. And now this—this boy cloaked in deference and quiet challenge—had come to test a domain he didn’t understand. A domain Gabriel had bled for.

And he wasn’t going to help him.

Not soften the edge. Not offer a hand.

Gabriel took a calm step back, his smile turning silkier. "Enjoy the party," he said.

It was a dismissal dressed in velvet.

Rafael bowed again—perfectly, like a court-trained shadow—and turned toward the fireplace with the grace of someone who had not, in fact, been dismissed at all.

As Gabriel turned back to the gathering storm of nobility, the scent of candied citrus hit him again like a curse. He took another sip of mint water, willing his stomach to behave.