Adonis Malek did not enjoy galas.
He endured them.
The Viscount of Clearstone sat slightly apart from the densest clusters of conversation, posture composed, one elbow resting against the carved arm of his chair as he regarded the room through the amber of his drink. Silver threaded his hair at the temples, neatly kept. The cut of his suit was immaculate, old-money restraint refined into something sharper. He looked like a man who had survived several versions of power and learned which ones were worth acknowledging.
Saha's court glittered around him with polished laughter, calculated glances, and alliances rehearsed between sips of champagne. Important, yes. Necessary, perhaps. Never interesting.
He lifted the glass, inhaled once, then set it back down untouched.
"Viscount Malek."
Adelaide's voice carried the warmth of someone who believed proximity could manufacture relevance. She had positioned herself carefully, eyes bright with intent as she inclined her head.
