He realized, with a sudden, cold, and soul-crushing certainty, that the White Mask persona, which had been a perfect, beautiful, and utterly, brilliantly anonymous tool, had now become a massive, and potentially catastrophic, political liability. A ghost that now threatened to expose him, to shatter his carefully constructed new reality, and to create a diplomatic crisis of such unimaginable, and utterly, completely, and absolutely comical, proportions that it would make his own accidental engagement to a foreign princess look like a minor, social faux pas. The game, which had already been a complex, multi-layered, and deeply, profoundly stressful affair, had just become infinitely, terrifyingly, and absolutely, magnificently more dangerous. And, he had to admit, in a small, dark, and deeply, profoundly insane corner of his own soul, infinitely more interesting. As if the universe itself had decided that the current level of chaotic, romantic, and political tension was simply not high-enough, Jothi, her mind now shifting from the grand, geopolitical threat of Isabella’s obsession to the more immediate, and far more confusing, social puzzle before her, turned her attention to the serene, and quietly, powerfully amused, woman who was sitting at his right. “And you are?” she asked, her tone not rude, but direct, a simple, logical request for a missing piece of data. Lloyd, seeing no possible, logical, or even remotely plausible way out of this new, and even more immediate, social and political minefield, did the only thing he could do. He took a deep breath, and he told a heavily, brutally, and deeply, profoundly awkwardly edited version of the truth. “Jothi,” he said, his voice a masterpiece of strained, formal politeness. “Allow me to introduce Her Highness, Princess Amina of Zakaria. She is… a guest of our house. A… a strategic partner. And… my…” he choked on the word, the sound a small, pathetic, and deeply, profoundly comical squeak. “My… fiancée.” The silence that followed was a profound, beautiful, and utterly, completely, and absolutely magnificent thing. Amina’s serene, amused smile did not falter. Faria’s teacup, which she had been in the process of raising to her lips, stopped, mid-air, a perfect, frozen tableau of shocked, incandescent rage. Jasmin, who had been refilling the teapot, simply, quietly, and with a profound, and deeply, profoundly understandable, sense of self-preservation, began to back away. And Jothi… Jothi simply stared at him. The analytical curiosity in her eyes was gone, replaced by a look of such profound, such absolute, and so deeply, deeply familiar, world-weary exasperation that it was a testament to their entire, long, and deeply, profoundly complicated, sibling relationship. “Everywhere you go,” she sighed, her voice a low, tired, and utterly, completely, and absolutely defeated sound, a sound that was dripping with the long-suffering scorn of a woman who has simply, finally, and completely, run out of the capacity for surprise. “You become entangled in some new, and impossibly complicated, conflict over a woman. I swear, Lloyd, it is a curse.” She then, as if to add a final, perfect, and exquisitely cruel flourish to his own personal, social, and emotional immolation, added, “I even heard a ridiculous, and no doubt completely fabricated, rumor that you were seen in the capital, weeping, in the middle of the main market, while holding the hand of a common, and apparently very pretty, vegetable seller.” Lloyd’s face, which had been a pale, strained mask of polite, social terror, flushed a deep, profound, and utterly, completely, and absolutely mortified crimson. “Please, Jothi,” he begged, his voice a low, strangled whisper. “Do not shame me further. I beg of you.” The tense, chaotic, and now utterly, completely, and absolutely magnificent scene was the perfect, beautiful, and deeply, profoundly horrifying, picture of his new, and impossibly complicated, life. A life that was a constant, desperate, and now, it seemed, utterly, completely, and absolutely failing, juggling act of state secrets, of royal fiancées, of fiery artists, of loyal handmaidens, of long-suffering sisters, of weeping vegetable sellers, and of the constant, looming, and now, it seemed, utterly, completely, and absolutely inescapable, threat of a full, and total, and very, very public, collapse. The chaotic, beautiful, and utterly, profoundly horrifying tableau of Lloyd’s own self-inflicted social and political immolation was brought to a sudden, chilling, and absolute halt by the arrival of a final, and completely, utterly unexpected, guest. It was not a servant. It was not another, long-lost, and deeply, profoundly complicated, female acquaintance. It was a wave. A silent, invisible, and instantly, shockingly familiar, wave of pure, absolute, and unadulterated cold. The cheerful, sun-drenched warmth of the garden seemed to dim, to recede, as if a cloud had suddenly, and completely, obscured the sun. The lighthearted, if tense, and deeply, profoundly comical, tension of the tea party was extinguished, snuffed out like a candle flame in a sudden, icy draft. A figure had appeared at the edge of the garden, a solitary, and deeply, profoundly intimidating, silhouette against the bright, afternoon sky. Her presence was not a sound; it was a sensation. It was a drop in the temperature, a shift in the atmospheric pressure, a quiet, absolute, and unshakeable declaration of a new, and very, very old, kind of power. She stood there, a vision of silver hair and deep, southern blue, her face a mask of serene, beautiful, and utterly, completely, and absolutely impenetrable composure. The tea party, which had been a chaotic, multi-front war of emotions and politics, was now, in a single, silent instant, over. A new war, a colder, quieter, and infinitely more dangerous one, had just been declared. Lloyd, who had been in the midst of a full-body, soul-deep, and utterly, completely, and absolutely mortifying flush of pure, unadulterated shame, felt a new, and far more primal, kind of cold wash over him. The kind of cold that a soldier feels when he realizes that the main, and most formidable, enemy force has just, silently, and completely, outflanked him. He had been so consumed by the immediate, chaotic, and noisy threats of Amina, of Faria, of Isabella’s ghost-hunting, that he had completely, and utterly, forgotten about the quiet, patient, and infinitely more dangerous, glacier that was his own wife. He had left her. He had, with a cool, clinical, and deeply, profoundly logical precision, severed their connection, declared their shared, world-altering quest to be at an end, and had walked away. He had expected her to stay in the South, to resume her old life, to become, once again, a distant, manageable, and politically useful variable. He had not, for a single, solitary moment, expected her to follow him. He rose from his chair, his movements stiff, mechanical, the social, emotional, and political whiplash of the last ten minutes having left him in a state of profound, and deeply, profoundly shell-shocked, disbelief. “Rosa,” he said, his voice a quiet, stunned, and utterly, completely, and absolutely inadequate instrument. “What… what are you doing here? I thought… I thought you were staying with your mother.” She began to walk towards them, her movements a slow, graceful, and utterly, completely, and absolutely inexorable glide. She was not a woman; she was a force of nature. A slow, beautiful, and utterly, completely, and absolutely unstoppable glacier, and she was coming to reclaim her territory. She did not look at Amina. She did not look at Faria. Her gaze, her dark, profound, and now utterly, completely, and absolutely unreadable eyes, were fixed on him. She came to a stop before their small, and now utterly, completely, and absolutely terrified, little table. She looked at the chaotic, half-finished remnants of their tea party, at the delicate, porcelain cups, at the plate of uneaten cakes, with a cool, detached, and utterly, completely, and absolutely dismissive air. She then, finally, answered his question. Her voice was not the cold, clinical instrument he remembered. It was not the fragile, hesitant whisper of the cave. It was something new. Something quiet, something simple, and something utterly, completely, and absolutely, unshakeably certain. “This has become my home,” she said, and the words were not a sentiment; they were a statement of a verifiable, and now unalterable, fact. “I am accustomed to being here. And I will be staying.” Follow current novels on 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵✦𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮✦𝓷𝓮𝓽 The words were a quiet, simple, and utterly, completely, and absolutely magnificent declaration of a claim of territory. She was not asking for permission. She was not negotiating her position. She was simply, quietly, and absolutely, stating the new reality of their world. This was her home. This was her husband. And this, this chaotic, messy, and deeply, profoundly complicated new life he had built in her absence, was now, whether he liked it or not, hers. Lloyd, his mind now a complete, and utter, and absolute shipwreck, fell back on the only, single, and now utterly, completely, and absolutely pathetic, piece of leverage he thought he had left. The logical, rational, and beautifully, perfectly clean escape clause he had so foolishly, and so arrogantly, believed he had secured. “That… that will be difficult,” he stammered, his voice a weak, pathetic, and deeply, profoundly foolish sound. “After… after the divorce.”