Alexandra sat back with her glass of pale wine, legs crossed at the ankle in a picture of noble composure that didn't match the glint in her eyes. The tension from earlier—Lord Imbecile, the execution, the Empire's unflinching retaliation—had faded into the kind of courteousness that came after blood had already been cleaned. The music played again. Conversation resumed. But the group gathered at the imperial dais, the inner circle, was far from bored.
"One more," Alexandra said, tapping her glass thoughtfully against the armrest of the couch. "There's still one more left."
Rafael, mid-sip, froze.
Gabriel raised a brow. "One more what?"
"Successful match," she replied. "Astana and Christian, pending, but we all know it's happening. Irina and Alexander are a walking scandal waiting to be formalized. You two…" She waved between Gabriel and Damian like their bond wasn't already the central axis of the Empire. "Max has one. That leaves one person unaccounted for."
