Kiss of Ruin
I stood beside Damian, smiling, nodding — the perfect queen made of porcelain and pride.
Every glance that touched my skin felt like a blade, testing for weakness.
The other queens — wives and consorts of men drunk on power — looked at me with painted smiles. The Queen of Valdez, dripping in crimson and arrogance, whispered behind her fan. The Duchess of Rivaro raised her glass and said,
> “To those who rise through charm rather than blood.”
Laughter rippled through the table — fake, poisonous.
I raised my glass too. “Charm only lasts when backed by power,” I said, smiling faintly. “And power, as we all know, doesn’t fade easily.”
Bab Populer