The slap echoed through the corridor like a gunshot in winter. For a moment, even the flames in the torches seemed to still, holding their breath in stunned silence.
Lucian's head tilted slightly with the blow—not in recoil, but in acknowledgment. His posture remained unshaken, regal and still. But something in his eyes flickered which was quiet and razor-thin.
His grip tightened on the velvet box in his hand.
Ruelle's hand dropped to her side, burning with the sting of contact. Her breath was shallow, and her eyes—wide, glassy—swam with tears she tried to hold back, and it locked onto his.
"Whoa—easy, easy now—" Sawyer's voice broke the silence, low with disbelief as he pushed himself away from the wall he had been leaning against. "What did you just do?"
But Ruelle didn't look at him.
She stood unmoving, eyes burning into Lucian's. And Lucian, for the first time, met her gaze—not with arrogance nor disdain, but something colder. Something unreadable.
