Mr. and Mrs. Crestmont rushed straight to Serena's side. Mr. Crestmont, seeing his daughter's torn sleeve, immediately shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders before turning a murderous glare toward Casanova.
"What have you done to my daughter?!" he roared.
But the moment his gaze flicked toward the shimmer of Casanova's pristine white wings, his voice faltered, his jaw tightening as he swallowed hard.
"What have I done?" Casanova scoffed, folding his arms. His bright red shirt, embroidered with golden heart motifs, glittered beneath the light, a loud declaration of status, privilege, and the kind of pampered authority that had never once been questioned.
He was a man who had never been made to explain himself. Never been held accountable.
Never even learned to recognize when he had done wrong.
And worst of all, he sincerely believed he never could.
