The knock on the office door was not polite.
It was decisive.
Three sharp taps, like the prelude to a royal execution. Windstone glanced up from his tablet with the resigned air of a man who had already calculated every possible escape route and found none.
"That," he said gravely, "would be Her Grace Cressida."
Lucas went very still.
Trevor leaned back in his chair with the loose, relaxed posture of a man who had zero intention of saving his husband.
"No," Lucas whispered, eyes wide. "It's too early. She wasn't supposed to arrive until tomorrow."
Windstone didn't blink. "Apparently, brunch is the new tomorrow."
The door swung open with imperial force, revealing Grand Duchess Cressida Fitzgeralt in full glory, head held high, white hair gleaming like frost under cut crystal light, heels clicking with intent, and a coat the exact shade of dried blood. She did not enter so much as claim territory.
