CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
The moment Frederick slams his hand on the table, the room turns into a graveyard of shocked silence and shattered etiquette.
Teacups jump. Porcelain rattles. Several noble ladies gasp loud enough to echo.
But the queen, she rises slowly, like a storm building behind her eyes.
The queen rises so sharply her chair scrapes the marble with an ugly screech.
“This is a women’s gathering,” she says, her voice dripping with regal outrage. “Men do not step foot in here. Except the king and you, Frederick, are not the king.”
But Frederick doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he steps deeper into the room, ignoring the gasps and fanned faces.
“Then explain something to me, Your Majesty,” he says, every word edged with steel. “Why is a pregnant woman being forced to stand for hours wh
