ADAM
Daniel's temper snapped before anyone could stop him.
The sharp clatter of porcelain against marble shattered the quiet like a gunshot. The teacup hit the floor and rolled, spilling amber liquid across the tiles.
"What does she mean by she's busy?" Daniel barked, half-rising from his chair. The veins on his neck strained with fury, his fists trembling where they rested against the table.
We were in the royal dining room. Lunch had just ended, and the maids had barely cleared the plates. Sunlight filtered weakly through the stained-glass windows, scattering colors over the long table, but the air was thick with tension instead of warmth.
Daniel's outburst didn't surprise me. His admiration for Sage had turned to bitterness since the day she had insulted us all after we hosted her. His pride was bleeding, and he was the kind of man who'd rather burn than let it heal.
