The pastries were ready.
Golden, delicate, and glistening with citrus glaze, they sat on silver trays like edible jewels. Marco had plated them with precision — each tart a quiet rebellion against the noble who had tried to undermine him.
But tension swirled.
The noble, seated near the head of the table, watched Colden with narrowed eyes. Every glance Colden gave Marco — every subtle smile, every nod of approval — was a dagger to his pride.
It was almost reckoning.
The dinner began.
Elaine entered, poised and unreadable, and took her seat beside Francis, who had just returned from his diplomatic trip. He looked around, confused by the strange energy in the room — the silence, the stiffness, the way no one met the king's eyes.
Because the king… was stuffing his face.
Forks clanged. Sauce dripped. He devoured roasted meats and honeyed bread with abandon, ignoring etiquette, ignoring stares.
No one said a word.
Not even Viremont.
Then came the pastries.
Waiters arrived with trays, placing them delicately before each guest. The aroma — warm berries, mint, and almond — filled the hall.
Viremont took one bite.
She paused.
Then turned to the nearest waiter. "Who made these?"
The waiter hesitated. "A kitchen assistant, my lady."
"Bring him out," Viremont said.
Elaine's eyes sharpened.
Francis leaned forward.
They knew.
Marco.
In the kitchen, Marco stood behind the curtain, hands folded, heart pounding.
He heard footsteps.
He heard his name.
And he knew — the moment was coming.
To be continued…