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I had never seen Mother like this before.
Not truly.
Oh, I'd seen her angry plenty of times.
I'd seen her scowl at nobles who displeased her, sneer at commoners who wasted her time, even rage at Felix when his plans failed.
But this… this was different.
She was quiet.
That was what scared me the most.
Her hands, always poised, always graceful, trembled ever so slightly as she adjusted the golden embroidery on her sleeves.
Her eyes—those sharp, calculating violet eyes I had inherited—were dark with something I couldn't quite name.
And her lips, usually curved in either amusement or disdain, were pressed into a thin, colorless line.
She wasn't just angry.
She was furious.
And it all was my fault.
I sat stiffly on the cushioned chair in her chambers, watching as she paced before me. The long train of her robe dragged against the polished floor, the candlelight flickering off the fine silk.
Still, she didn't say a word.
