Maria sat frozen, guilt radiating from every inch of her expression.
Her eyes darted around the room—the window, the floor, the ceiling—anywhere but at Diana.
Her hands trembled slightly in her lap and she looked like a woman who had just discovered she had accidentally committed an unforgivable crime.
Diana watched her, and her heart clenched with sympathy.
Because here was the truth that Maria didn't know:
Cassius wasn't actually going through any of those symptoms.
Every word Diana had spoken about his changed behavior, his distant stares, his wandering alone in gardens—it was all completely fabricated.
A carefully constructed fiction designed for one purpose only.
And even if Cassius were truly suffering, Diana still wouldn't want Maria to feel this guilty about it.
She hated seeing her friend like this—so flustered, so burdened, so convinced she had done something irredeemably wrong.
But in this moment, Diana knew it was necessary.
