The royal garden was too perfect. Trimmed hedges. Imported orchids. Fountains that whispered wealth. It all smelled like gold and repression.
Seraphina didn't belong here.
Which was why she arrived fifteen minutes early, in a dress the exact shade of dried blood and lined in silk sharp enough to cut expectations.
The Crown Prince—Alaric—arrived exactly on time, because of course he did.
Tall. Clean lines. Smile like a dagger dipped in honey. His eyes said, "I don't trust you," but his mouth said, "Baroness von Ashgrave. A pleasure."
"Charmed," she replied, without blinking.
They sat. Tea was poured. Silence stretched.
Alaric watched her over the rim of his cup. "You've been... making noise."
"I prefer the term impact," she said, stirring her tea once, precisely.
He leaned in slightly. "You humiliated a nobleman. Acquired a gladiator. And upset half my court in one week."
She didn't lean away. "I could do more."
He grinned. "I hope you do."
Their hands brushed as he offered the sugar. Deliberate. Calculated.
She didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Let the tension breathe.
"You're dangerous," he said softly.
She met his eyes. "You're bored."
Alaric's grin slipped for half a second. Just long enough.
Then: "I knew your family. The Vellorias. Cold people."
"I thawed."
"Oh, you burned."
He leaned in again—closer this time. "Tell me, Baroness... what exactly are you building in Ashgrave?"
She smiled sweetly. "An empire of sin, Prince."
He laughed, low and honest. "You should be careful."
She placed her cup down, slow and precise. "So should you."
And for a moment, the entire garden felt like a battlefield. A beautiful, polite, slow-burning war.