The atmosphere in the room changed abruptly.
It didn't become calmer—it became significantly more dangerous.
Father slowly lowered his hand from my shoulder. The dark aura that had been faint before was now thickening again, like a stirred-up fog of vengeance.
"Mary," Father said in a low, firm voice—the kind used for orders that strictly forbid defiance. "Inform the guests… they are not welcome."
Mary reflexively straightened her posture. "Ye—yes, Your Grace."
I immediately choked on thin air.
"WA—WAIT!" I nearly bolted out of bed, throwing my hands up like a theater actor who just realized the climax of the tragedy was arriving far too soon.
Every eye in the room fixed on me.
"Father, don't drive them away! Don't kick out my handsome guests!" I pointed at the door, then at my own chest, then at the ceiling, then back at Father—a sequence of gestures I wasn't even sure of the meaning of myself.
