Chapter 2.8

The door clicked shut behind him, and Prince Cyril Ravehart did not exhale until he’d taken three full steps down the corridor.

He pressed his gloved fingers to his temple.

What was that?

Marie Margaret—vicious, arrogant, impossible-to-shake Marie—had looked at him with genuine fear.

She hadn’t cursed at him.

She hadn’t threatened him.

She hadn’t even smirked.

She trembled.

Cyril replayed the moment in his mind as he walked, boots echoing on the polished marble floors of the east wing.

Her eyes had widened like she’d seen a ghost.

And the way she clutched her throat—

The faint blood on her chin—

The little gasps she tried to swallow—

He shook his head sharply.

“No,” he muttered under his breath. “I won’t fall for that.”

Marie Margaret was known for theatrics.

She cried on command.

She feigned weakness when it suited her.

She played the victim so she could manipulate the court into bending around her whims.

This was more of the same.

It had to be.

Cyril’s jaw tightened as he turned a corner, palace attendants bowing as he passed. He barely acknowledged them.

Don’t be fooled.

She’s jealous.

That’s all.

Jealous of Elowen.

Jealous of their engagement.

Jealous that the attention she’d obsessed over was no longer hers.

He remembered the way Marie’s voice had shaken when she asked, “Why are you here?”

As if he owed her an explanation.

Cyril scoffed to himself, pacing faster.

She must have heard that he and Elowen were seen together in the gardens this morning—laughing, talking, finally able to enjoy each other’s company without Marie’s constant meddling.

Of course she’d react dramatically.

But…

He slowed.

But that look on her face.

The panic.

The confusion.

The way her hands trembled like she was barely holding herself together.

It hadn’t seemed rehearsed.

Cyril swallowed tightly.

His chest felt… strange.

A tightness he didn’t want to name.

“Stop,” he whispered. “Just stop. She’s playing you.”

He reached a tall window overlooking the courtyard and paused, staring out at the early afternoon sun reflecting off the fountain. He dragged a hand through his hair, organizing his thoughts with force.

Marie Margaret didn’t deserve his concern.

She had tormented Elowen for months.

She had lied, schemed, and manipulated.

He wasn’t going to doubt the woman he loved over a single bizarre interaction.

…Right?

Cyril exhaled slowly, watching his breath fog faintly against the glass.

Still…

Something was wrong with her.

He couldn’t dismiss that entirely.

She had looked at him not with hatred—

but like she didn’t even *know* him.

That alone unsettled him more than anything.