The chamber door slammed open with a force that rattled the very glass in the windows.
Two soldiers entered—dragging Duke Alistair Westwood by his arm while Belleah stumbled behind them, still wearing her apron, her hands damp from laundry water.
Belleah's tears were already flowing, her lips trembling.
Duke Westwood, in contrast, wore a look of affronted dignity—as if this entire palace had suddenly offended him personally.
The moment they crossed the threshold, Darius's aura shifted.
Cold.
Deadly.
Imperial.
Aria, sitting upright with Darius's arm behind her for support, watched them with a gaze that could slice diamonds.
Duke Westwood was the first to speak.
"What is this behavior, Your Highness?" he demanded, straightening his wrinkled coat. "I have come here as a guest, and this is the treatment I receive? Has the royal etiquette fallen so low since you took the throne?"
Belleah sniffled loudly beside him.
