Later that afternoon, Gabriel's study was quieter than usual, not because the palace beyond had stilled, but because he had decided it would. The heavy oak doors remained closed, the outer office emptied under the pretext of "uninterrupted work hours." In truth, the interruption was already sitting on his desk, neatly stacked and bound in the cream vellum that only came from Damian's imperial secretariat.
The agenda was an immaculate trap. Tucked between trade agreements and infrastructure funding was a new task, written in the secretary's sharp hand but carrying the unmistakable weight of Damian's authority: Coronation—proposed date: eight weeks from present.
Gabriel's jaw tightened, the muscles in it pulling just enough to betray his mood. He didn't need a crown to be Empress, not in authority, not in practice. Since Arik's birth, he had wielded that power without all the ceremony, without processions, without drowning in court etiquette. Waiting had suited him.
