"Verona! My dearest, darling girl," the Duke of Vernhardt exclaimed, his voice booming with a forced, jovial warmth that made the nearby nobles pause and lean in. "Look at you! I told your brothers you would flourish in the North, but I must admit, even I am stunned by how much the mountain air has agreed with you." He reached out his hands, attempting to pull her into a theatrical embrace. It was a gesture meant for the audience, a public claim of ownership.
Verona moved before he could make contact. She stepped back, a sharp, fluid retreat that left the Duke's arms clutching at nothing but empty, humid air.
"Don't," she said.
The Duke's hands hovered in the air for a fraction of a second before he lowered them with a patronizing sigh. Verona's heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against her ribs, but she kept her gaze level.
