It had been two peaceful weeks since the cradle was finished. The cake had been eaten, laughter had echoed through the halls, and even the maids had declared the day as the "softest" they'd ever seen the Queen.
But now, in the bright light of the grand dining room, with silver cutlery glinting on the long table and a massive floral centerpiece between Elysia and the chaos brewing at the other end, peace had officially died.
Because Malvoria was one second away from leaping over the table and strangling her sister.
Elysia sat very still, one hand lightly resting on her stomach, the other holding a delicate porcelain teacup as if it were the only thing anchoring her to sanity.
Across from her, Malvoria radiated fury. Her black-gloved fingers were drumming on the table so fast they blurred.
Her lips, perfectly painted this morning, were now curled back in what could only be described as "royally homicidal disapproval." The veins in her neck stood out in sharp relief.
