Ophelia hadn't expected him to look back at her. But that was the thing, he didn't.
The Lucas seated across the courtroom remained still, chin lifted, expression carved into something too careful, too diplomatic. A performance. Not even an angry one. Just indifferent enough to sting. He wore the kind of tailored restraint one would expect of a noble spouse, not a boy who used to flinch when she raised her voice. Not the brother who used to avoid mirrors. Not the victim.
That made her hesitate.
"He's changed," one of the ministers murmured a few seats away, a little too loudly, feeding the noise.
"He's not changed," Serathine said under her breath, gaze still fixed forward. "He's just not here."
She sipped from her water glass, ignoring the sudden tension near her, as Ophelia rose from her seat.
Ophelia didn't even make it to the aisle.
