The music had died with a screech, the laughter choked off. The air was thick, suffocating with the scent of roasted meat turning cold and the sharp, metallic tang of public humiliation.
Carlos, the man who was supposed to be a commander, the man who was supposed to be the "bright star," was on his knees. He looked up, his eyes scanning the sea of faces—hundreds of them. Nobles in silk, merchants in wool, servants in uniforms. His wife's parents, Lord Malone and Lady Anita, stood frozen near the buffet table, their plates still in their hands, staring at their son-in-law with a mixture of shock, pity, and growing disgust.
"Why..." Carlos rasped, his voice a broken whisper that barely carried over the sound of his own ragged breathing. He looked at Ashlyn, confusion warring with his pain. "Why are there so many guests at home?"
