Hanna left the suite before anyone could stop her. The corridor outside was silent, polished marble reflecting her furious steps as she marched through the east wing. Her assistants trailed behind for exactly ten seconds before she waved them off with a clipped, "Leave. Now."
The moment she turned the corner, her composure cracked.
The audacity, the sheer audacity, of that pampered omega. She'd worked under the Altera crown for years, dressed men and women who ruled continents, and stitched lineage into seams and diplomacy into hems. She'd tailored consorts for their marriage, princes for funerals, and Dax himself for war councils.
But Christopher Malek?
He was impossible. Spoiled. Too clever for his own good and far too unafraid of the man who commanded the kingdom.
Hanna reached the service stairwell and exhaled sharply, forcing the anger back into something usable. She wasn't about to storm the royal comm line over a tantrum. She'd find her own way to fix this.
