Arabella's POV
The teacup trembled in my hand.
Not from fear. Never from fear. From rage that was threatening to crack my carefully maintained composure like the porcelain I was gripping.
I set the cup down with more force than necessary. The delicate china rattled against the saucer, and I watched a single drop of tea splash onto the white linen tablecloth like a bloodstain.
How fitting.
My chambers—my chambers, the ones I had occupied since I was old enough to walk, the rooms that had been designed specifically for the heir apparent, suddenly felt like a cage.
The guards posted outside my door weren't there for my protection. They were jailers. Father had made that abundantly clear when he had ordered me confined until the trial.
The trial.
My hands clenched into fists, nails digging crescents into my palms.
