Lucas took a slow sip of orange blossom tea and seriously considered leaping off the balcony.
They were seated at an ornate glass table on the sun-drenched terrace of Le Verité, one of Palatine's most exclusive brunch venues. Everything sparkled. The cutlery. The water glasses. The people. Even the toast shimmered suspiciously, like it had been lacquered with edible gold leaf. And most likely it was.
He hadn't so much sat down as been installed, Cressida's perfectly manicured hand pressing firmly to his back as she guided him to his seat between a duchess with no eyebrows and a viscount who smelled like an aftershave with thunder in its name.
Across from him, Cressida smiled with the serene confidence of someone who had never once considered losing a war, social or otherwise. She sipped her champagne, patted his knee under the table like he was a well-behaved lapdog, and said in a voice just loud enough to be heard by their immediate surroundings:
