CHAPTER 223: CHAPTER 218: TEA PARTY (2)

...He took another sip of mint water, willing his stomach to behave.

The quiet resumed—but it was brittle now, delicate as sugar glass. The nobles had adjusted to Gabriel’s too-perfect behavior, and their minds were beginning to itch.

And Countess Myrenne, ever the opportunist, scratched first.

"I must say," she drawled, her voice the kind of gentle that only ever introduced a blade, "it’s remarkable to see the palace so vibrant again. Almost as though the past never happened."

Gabriel didn’t glance her way. He simply folded his napkin with exquisite precision.

Myrenne leaned slightly forward, her smile faint. "Of course, some memories are harder to erase. I imagine it’s... challenging, stepping into a role once filled by Lady Leora Abalone. She was the Emperor’s wife before the rebellion, wasn’t she?"

That name hit the air like frost on glass.

Alexandra went stiff beside her teacup. Irina blinked. Even the fireplace crackled a beat too loud, like it had gasped.

Countess Myrenne carried on, undeterred, her voice smooth and sugar-coated like candied citrus.

"Such poise. Such beauty," she murmured, eyes flicking toward Gabriel with deliberate softness. "Some say she embodied the heart of the old court. It’s a shame how she died in the rebellion."

A few nods followed—small, uncertain, as though the words were too heavy to agree with outright but too traditional to deny.

Then she added, with a wistful sigh that dripped like poisoned honey, "She didn’t live long enough to become Empress by her mate."

It was bait. Wrapped in lace. Served with tea.

Gabriel didn’t react at first. He set his cup down quietly, the sound polite, precise. His fingers brushed the rim once, the movement too elegant to be anything but intentional.

He didn’t smile when he looked up.

"Everyone loves a mourning Emperor," Gabriel said, his voice light, almost wistful. "A man shaped by loss. So dignified. So untouchable. It makes the story easier to swallow—this idea that he waited out of devotion. That his silence meant love."

Countess Myrenne blinked at the sudden shift in tone.

Gabriel tilted his head just a touch, expression unreadable. "But the Emperor should be the one answering your questions about her."

Then, smoothly—almost gently—he added, "I never had the pleasure to meet her. The Emperor promised to grace us with his presence in less than an hour. You can ask him then."

Countess Myrenne blinked, unsure whether she’d just been dismissed or warned. The line between the two had been drawn with such elegance that it glittered.

Julian’s brow lifted faintly. Irina sucked in a breath and nearly dropped her fork. Alexandra gave a soundless little laugh and tapped her fan twice against her palm like she was giving a standing ovation no one could see.

But Gabriel wasn’t finished.

"I imagine he’ll be thrilled to revisit that Chapter," he added, lifting his glass once more, his tone as bright as snow. "It’s been, what—seven years? A good time for nostalgia."

This time, even Lady Meredale looked up.

Because everyone in the room knew exactly what Damian Lyon was like, and it was not nostalgic.

Gabriel took a small sip of water, his throat still tight from the citrus, and glanced back toward the clock above the fireplace.

"He should be arriving any moment now," he said, utterly serene. "It would be a shame if he found the conversation boring."

Myrenne swallowed.

The topic shifted after that—but no one changed it. It simply dissolved, quietly, like frost under the morning sun.

And still, from his place near the hearth, Rafael watched Gabriel with a thoughtful, too-still expression.

Delphine didn’t blink. She only lifted her tea, sipped, and smiled faintly behind the porcelain rim.

The Emperor had yet to arrive.

But in every glance, every stilled breath, every too-careful adjustment of napkins and posture, the nobles were already shifting their weight.

It was Lady Serathine of House Varell who moved next.

Elegant in muted rose silk, pearls pinned like stars across her dark braid, she had the bearing of someone born into old money and older ambitions. Her domain lay along the western border, where Ether mines had funded an entire generation of Varell heirs too proud to kneel but too clever to rebel.

She rose slightly from her seat, enough to command attention but not scandal, and said with a gracious incline of her head, "Your Grace. I know this gathering pales beside what you’re likely used to in the imperial wing, but I do hope you’ve found the company amusing."

Gabriel turned to her, his gaze warm but not familiar. "It’s always a pleasure to observe the social choreography of nobility," he said, smooth as ice on glass.

A few faint chuckles. Lady Serathine smiled.

"I wondered," she continued, her tone light, "if you would honor my household with your presence next week. I’ll be hosting a winter ball at our estate, just outside the city. A private affair."

The words dropped like a jeweled glove onto the table.

A private affair.

Around the room, fans paused mid-sweep. Silverware stilled. Irina’s eyes widened slightly, understanding what had just been done.

She was bold. Too bold.

In court etiquette, invitations to a member of the imperial family, particularly one related to the Emperor, were never extended directly. They were filtered through secretaries, advisors, and weeks of carefully calibrated diplomacy.

Gabriel didn’t answer immediately. He set his glass down, brushing his fingers once across the rim, as if considering the weight of her move—not just the ball, but the risk.

He looked at her calmly.

"I’d be delighted," he said at last, his voice smooth and public.

Gasps stirred the edges of the salon. A few nobles leaned subtly forward; others turned toward Alexandra, hoping to catch her reaction. She gave them nothing but a polite flick of her fan, though her eyes glittered with something dangerously close to pride.

Gabriel leaned back slightly, fingers laced in his lap. Then, with the elegance of a diplomat—and the authority of something more—he added:

"I will notify Edward. I’m confident you can work with him to be properly accepted by the imperial house."

The words were soft. Polite. Devastating.

Lady Serathine blinked once, clearly aware of the nuance. Gabriel had not just accepted her invitation—he had granted permission for it to be formalized. And more than that, he had publicly claimed the right to set the terms.

"I... of course, Your Grace," she said quickly, dipping her head. "I’ll ensure everything is forwarded as required."

Gabriel offered a nod, composed and glacial. "Then I look forward to it."