Rafael refused to go to his mother's funeral.
The official narrative was neat and tasteful: his pregnancy had been flagged as delicate, the strain of a public ceremony would only make it harder, and Delphine wouldn't have wanted that.
An excuse everyone accepted without blinking, because Delphine had spoken about Rafael's pregnancy almost every second like it was hers. Even in death, she was granted the last little performance of ownership. People nodded solemnly, clucked their tongues, and pretended it was compassion instead of convenience.
Rafael stayed home.
Gregoris stayed closer.
The days that followed were quiet in the same way that a storm makes an estate quiet: the air still tastes like metal, but nothing is actively collapsing.
If one ignored Charles.
