I, Liliane von Hohenberg, sat at the family dining table, which was long enough to seat a full row of soldiers. On the far left sat Dominic—my older brother with the face that screamed, "Be careful if you approach my cute little sister." (This is my prediction, and it couldn't possibly be wrong.)
On the far right, Duke Tristan von Blackwood—a cold, elegant man who was dangerous to the hearts of normal women (and also abnormal ones like me). And in the middle, who else but me: the mediator, the intermediary, and the human shield.
Yes, a shield. Because since the beginning, I had literally been tilting my body, holding my back straight like a fortress, so that Dominic's hostile gaze wouldn't penetrate Duke Tristan. I had even calculated my tilt angle: about 37 degrees—enough to protect the Duke but not enough to cramp my neck.
