Chapter 88
"...Brrrr!"
The flower trimmer came to an abrupt stop, followed by a soft, respectful greeting.
"Good morning, sir," a servant muttered the moment Sebastian's heels and face came into view under the sunlight.
He ignored all the greetings thrown at him — not even sparing them a glance. He had already worn that cold, arrogant mask; the one he believed separated respect from familiarity.
To him, being too close to the servants was an insult to hierarchy, a stain on control.
The air outside smelled fresh and green, soft against his lungs — like butter pressed against metal.
After the suffocating mix of his cologne and sweat in that room, this was relief. A good, necessary change.
Servants moved briskly from one point to another, eyes lowered, postures taut. No trace of smiles anywhere — just precision, rhythm, and silence.
They walked with the urgency of soldiers in parade. Of course they did. Victor Cross was outside.
