Bastián did not mention the makeup stain.
Not that morning, not during the second assembly, or during the formal meal where Sangre Antigua representatives sat in silence and traded old insults disguised as diplomacy. He spoke when required, listened when necessary, and carried himself with the same cold control he always did.
But something had shifted.
I felt it every time his eyes landed on me; it wasn’t suspicion alone, but constant calculation, and that alone was worse.
By midday, the gathering had started thinning as minor bloodlines prepared to leave the estate. Cars rolled through the front gates, guards rotated positions, while the pressure of formal protocol loosened slightly, but the feeling under my skin did not.
Bastián was watching me carefully now.
I kept my expression n
