"I…" Sylvia faltered. "You weren't well. I thought—"
"If he was waiting," Lorraine said, not coldly, but like someone speaking through a door half-closed, "I would've gone."
The silence that followed wasn't dramatic. It was worse. Still. Shameful. Even Emma, who'd only meant to bring good news, shrank beneath the weight of it.
Lorraine rose, slow and stiff, every joint a protest. Her nightgown clung to her back, damp with sweat. Her legs trembled slightly, but her voice didn't.
Her gaze stayed on Sylvia. Unflinching.
"Next time," she said softly, "don't protect me from the only thing that still matters."
Sylvia opened her mouth to speak, but a knock interrupted her.
A footman stood at the door with a folded parchment. Sylvia took it, read the encrypted scrawl, and let out a small sigh.
"The Prince is causing trouble," she muttered. "He's holding two women hostage and says he won't leave until he meets you."
Emma gasped.
Lorraine's brows furrowed. "Prince Damian, I assume?"
