Sofia frowned. "But he's being… perfect."
"That's why we're worried," Irina whispered, still watching Gabriel as if he might suddenly shed his skin and reveal a second, more venomous version of himself beneath.
Gabriel was the eye of the storm.
He stood in the center of the glowing salon like he was born there—unbothered, immaculate, the embodiment of winter sun caught in silk and embroidery. His robe was cream and pale green, gold-threaded at the cuffs, and layered just enough to suggest warmth and dignity without ever appearing heavy. His hair had been combed back with a subtle sheen, the ring on his finger catching the light every time he lifted his glass.
There was nothing wrong with him. That was the problem.
No rolled eyes. No venom-coated wit. No slow, curling smiles that promised someone was about to be politely dismembered.
Gabriel wasn't being Gabriel.
And the nobles felt it.
