LADY CELINE’S POV
The palace never truly slept. Its walls breathed rumors, its floors remembered footsteps, and tonight, everything felt sharpened, poisonous, awake.
I sat on the velvet couch, wine swirling lazily in my glass, studying the two women across from me.
Emily couldn’t sit still. Her leg bounced wildly, her freshly painted nails tapping sharp rhythms against her thigh, as if she was physically restraining the urge to claw someone’s face open.
Mirella was the opposite; silent and still. She exhaled a thick plume of cigarette smoke, the acrid scent curling through the room and scraping my throat until I coughed.
“Put it out,” I said, my voice low but edged.
She didn’t. She lifted her chin, eyes glowing an unbothered, defiant green.
“Don’t drag me here just to complain at me
