"So, we have come into an understanding, right?"
Asher's words slithered into the air, low and deliberate, his lips curling into a smile Heinz could only describe as vile.
The resemblance was uncanny. Every time Heinz looked at him, he saw echoes of Florian—the same delicate features, the same sharp grace.
But where Florian's beauty was luminous, almost disarming in its sincerity, Asher's was steeped in something darker.
The similarity was eerie, as though Florian's face had been twisted into a mocking mask.
A bone-chilling aura radiated from the king consort, the kind that prickled at Heinz's skin and lingered like smoke.
Yet Heinz reminded himself—Asher had no real power here. No command, no authority to raise a hand against him. Not in any way that mattered.
And still, the unease settled deep in his chest.
The entire conversation—centered around Florian—should have been reassuring. Every phrase, every slyly offered point, landed in Heinz's favor.
