They returned to the salon with measured steps, re-entering the shimmering light of the Winter Wing just as a new tray of refreshments was being circulated among the nobles.
Conversations faltered as soon as Christian and Irina crossed the threshold—eyes cutting toward them, fans fluttering, the inevitable stitching of new rumors beginning before their footsteps even faded.
They had almost reached their table again when it happened.
Rafael Roseroth, lingering awkwardly near the dessert table with a glass of deep red wine in his hand, turned—too sharply, too eager to intercept Christian again—and collided squarely with Irina.
The collision wasn't violent, just clumsy enough to be noticeable.
A splash of red arced through the air and landed across Irina's pale silk gown—the delicate fabric blooming with a sharp stain.
The room gasped.
The kind of sound that ripples like a stone dropped into still water.
