The Winter Palace was far too pretty for politics.
Snow-dusted glass chandeliers, ribbons of pale gold, and bowls of floating orchids. The kind of decor that made everyone look elegant and underfed. Music hummed from a distant quartet. Silver forks tinkled against porcelain. It was the kind of event where scandals didn't happen; they were scheduled.
Gabriel was seated in prime position on one of the central tables, next to the Emperor's seat.
To his right lounged Max, elbow hooked over his chair, wine glass twirling dangerously close to disaster.
To his left, after the empty throne, sat Christian, somehow looking both royal and bored enough to stage a coup if it meant an early exit.
Crista Lyon sat across from them, like the Empress Dowager she was, sharp-eyed, composed, and vaguely amused by the male attention deficit playing out on either side of her.
