The sun began to dip below the horizon. By all accounts, the grand opening was a legendary success, the kind of triumph that would be whispered about in the salons of the Capital for years to come. The ledgers were overflowing with orders from the most influential families in the Empire.
Yet, as the last of the neutral guests trickled out, clutching their silk-wrapped purchases and offering final, fawning congratulations, the air inside the boutique remained thick with an unresolved, suffocating tension.
Verona stood near the central display, her hand resting on a mannequin draped in midnight wool, but her fingers were curled so tightly into the fabric that the silver embroidery bit into her skin. Her eyes darted restlessly between the Vernhardt siblings and Duke Vernhardt himself. To her growing bewilderment and rising dread, the Duke hadn't made a scene. He hadn't unveiled a cursed object, nor had he commanded his soldiers to draw their blades. He hadn't even raised his voice.
