My ladies-in-waiting had conspired against me. The gown they presented was not one of state—no severe silvers or imperial blacks. It was a cascade of twilight lavender and silver, a romantic confection of gossamer and pearl that felt like a surrender.
"For His Lordship," they'd chimed, their eyes dancing with knowing smiles. I had scowled, but time was a tyrant. Gealton was a headache I had to face adorned.
What fresh torment has he planned for tonight?
I braced myself, steeling my nerves for the barrage of provocations that passed for his conversation.
The moment I entered the private dining hall, my carefully composed irritation faltered.
The scene stole my breath. The long table was gone. In its place was a small, intimate round one set for two, draped in ivory silk and scattered with the exact variety of night-blooming jasmine I had once, once, idly mentioned preferring for a wedding. The arrogance of the man was staggering. He'd remembered, and he'd weaponized it.
He stood waiting, a smirk playing on his lips as my surprise registered. With a flourish that was both mocking and gallant, he offered his hand. I placed mine in his, and we performed the short, precise walk to my seat—a ridiculous, formal pantomime.
But then he broke the script entirely.
Instead of taking the chair opposite, he slid into the one beside me, his arm brushing mine. The proximity was immediate and unsettling. I fixed my gaze on a tapestry across the room, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of my fluster.
"Lord Gealton," I said, my voice taut. "Formality. Just for an evening. Is it so impossible?"
He only leaned closer, propping his chin on his hand, his eyes a sea of amused trouble. "Did my queen dress so beautifully only for me?" he purred, the mockery sweet as poisoned honey.
A muscle twitched in my jaw. "It is a formality I am maintaining," I bit out, snatching my wine glass to give my hands a purpose, to hide in the deep ruby liquid.
"Even in anger, you are devastating," he continued, undeterred. His gaze dropped, lingering. "Do you know what I'm looking at?"
I refused to answer.
"Your lips," he whispered, as if sharing a secret. "They look particularly… kissable tonight." He had the audacity to wink, then blow a soft, theatrical kiss across the table.
I choked on my wine. Heat flooded my cheeks—a maddening blend of fury and something else I refused to name.
By all the gods, am I to be shackled to this shameless, vexing creature? Around us, a few servants failed to stifle their giggles, enchanted by his outrageous charm.
With infuriating nonchalance, he then turned to the food, serving my plate with a focus that felt like another kind of intimacy before serving his own. I followed suit, eating in determined silence, denying him the reaction he so clearly craved.
The quiet, punctuated only by the soft clink of silver, lasted until the plates were cleared. Then his voice changed.
The playful lilt vanished, replaced by a low, serious tone that cut through the pleasant haze of the meal.
"Your Majesty."
I turned to him. The mischief was gone from his eyes, replaced by the sharp, calculating intelligence of the spymaster he truly was.
"My networks report a shift in the military," he said, his voice barely above a murmur. "A new General is to be formally appointed within days."
A thread of cold foreboding pulled tight in my stomach. I said nothing, waiting to hear the name.
He let out a slow breath, his gaze holding mine. "The name put forward… is Xane von Raprohenten."
Xane. Not joy, not excitement, but a profound, sinking guilt and a torrent of frantic questions flooded me. He had done it. He had survived the brutal crucible of the frontier and emerged with the title Mother had demanded.
But would he come home? Or had those six years forged a stranger who harbored only resentment? Would he see our plight as his duty, or his opportunity? Would he help… or would he be the final, most formidable enemy?
My hand, resting on the table, gave a slight, betraying tremble.
Warmth enveloped it. Gealton's hand closed over mine, his worry now plain in the slight crease of his brow. The teasing fiancé was gone, replaced by the ally who saw my cracks.
I turned my hand beneath his, lacing our fingers together, and offered a small, genuine smile.
"Do not worry. I will stay strong."
His response was instantaneous and utterly characteristic. He didn't offer platitudes. He acted. In one smooth motion, he used our joined hands to pull me closer, until our faces were mere inches apart, our noses almost touching.
His mischievous grin returned, full of wicked promise.
"That," he whispered, his breath a caress against my skin, "is why I love you so much."
This time, my surprise melted not into anger, but into a burst of genuine, relieved laughter. It was absurd, bold, and completely disarming.
In a world of calculating lords and hidden daggers, Gealton was a unpredictable storm—infuriating, relentless, and in his own chaotic, honest way, the only one who made the weight of the crown feel, for a moment, just a little bit lighter. And, though I would never grant him the satisfaction of saying it aloud, that was the thing I was coming to like about him most of all.