Same Night
In the mansion.
"YOOOOOUUU DIIIIIID WHAAATTT!?" Catherine's voice cracked like a whip across the dining hall, bouncing off marble walls and rattling crystal chandeliers.
Her rage was not the quiet kind, not the restrained noblewoman's anger Augustus was used to navigating. This was raw, primal, and unchained.
Augustus, the Viscount of the house, unconsciously pressed himself lower into his carved oak chair, his body shrinking as though sheer weight might protect him from the storm.
His hand twitched toward his goblet, not out of thirst but habit—something to anchor him in the face of her eyes. Blue eyes. Not calm ocean blue but glacial, sharp, wide open, cutting him down with each second.
Never had he seen his wife like this. Not during their arranged marriage. Not even during wartime briefings when other nobles turned pale at losses. No, this was different. And perhaps worse—because this was personal. This was about him.
