Delphine had never been good at swallowing humiliation.
It lodged in the back of her throat like something sharp, something that refused to dissolve no matter how many days had passed or how carefully she tried to compose herself. Rage didn't suit noblewomen, they said. Rage wrinkled the face, shattered poise, and stripped dignity bare. Noblewomen were supposed to ache beautifully, suffer gracefully, and accept loss in silence, preferably with lowered eyelashes and a faint, saintly smile.
Delphine had never been good at that either.
Her hand tightened over the armrest of her chair until polished wood dug painfully into her palm. Papers lay abandoned on the desk in front of her, neat edges threatening to crumple under the tremor of her temper.
'Rafael.'
Her son. The culmination of everything she had invested, shaped, calculated, and sacrificed.
'Ungrateful boy.'
