Amara’s POV
The aftermath of Adrian’s "scorched earth" policy had turned the Wolfe mansion into a silent, gilded cathedral. The staff moved like ghosts—not out of their former disdain, but out of a sudden, paralyzing fear. I could feel their eyes on me as I walked through the halls, waiting for the "New Queen" to strike, to fire, to demand the impossible.
It was exhausting. I didn't want a kingdom of terrified subjects; I wanted a home where I didn't have to check my tea for the bitter taste of resentment.
I was headed toward the conservatory when I heard the unmistakable sound of porcelain hitting marble. A sharp, rhythmic shattering that echoed through the gallery.
I rounded the corner to find a young maid—no older than nineteen—standing over the remains of a Ming vase. Her face was
