Wilhelm Von Meier's study felt stifling, even with the oak-framed windows flung wide open. The cool night air did nothing to ease the heat simmering in the Viscount's chest. The Emperor had just taken his leave, flashing that flawless diplomatic smile, polished, practiced, and utterly infuriating. He left behind a storm of chaos and boiling rage.
Dietrich Maximillian was immaculate, every gesture smooth as silk. All afternoon, his gaze on Greta had been soft, his compliments subtle, his smile perfectly timed. But Greta wasn't some naïve little girl, and Wilhelm saw straight through the flattery. Behind every word about her "enchanting eyes" lurked intentions that were anything but noble. The Emperor didn't look at her like a man in love, he looked like a collector sizing up a masterpiece.
