The night after the gala was heavy with silence. Elara sat by the window of her chamber, still wearing the silver gown that had dazzled under the chandeliers hours ago. Now, the fabric felt like chains around her body. The voices from the evening echoed in her mind—accusations, whispers, and the quiet sound of her son asking, “Was I wanted?”
The question kept cutting through her like glass.
Down the hall, she could hear Caelen’s muffled sobs through the thick wooden door. He had refused to let her tuck him into bed. Instead, he had curled up on his own, clutching the stuffed wolf Dorian once gave him.
Elara wanted to go to him, to explain, to hold him, but she couldn’t. Not tonight. Not when her own heart felt hollow.
Dorian had not returned to their quarters. He had stormed out after
