The morning light filtering through the high arched windows was cold, gray, and entirely devoid of warmth.
Inside her vast, dark bedchamber, Evangeline opened her eyes. The fatigue of the previous night hung over her like an iron shroud—a heavy, suffocating pressure that made her bone marrow ache. Her head pounded with a dull, persistent throb, and her jaw was clenched tight enough to grind her teeth. Her mood was not merely foul; it was a swirling, volcanic abyss of absolute, unadulterated venom.
She did not wait for her maidservants. She did not call for her court dressers. Ignoring every rule of royal protocol, she swung her legs over the side of the silk bed and stood up. She wore only her nightgown—a long, flowing garment of pale silk—and her dark hair fell in wild, tangled waves down her back.
