Vercourt stepped back immediately, but it was too late.
Gabriel did not raise his voice. One look from him was enough to chill the corridor, to make even Astana stand still in that careful manner of a man already recalculating the remainder of the afternoon.
"What," Gabriel asked, each word clipped clean, "is Lord Vercourt doing in my secretary's path?"
Vercourt opened his mouth.
Rafael, still holding his documents with insulting composure, answered first. "Making poor life choices."
Gabriel's gaze flicked to Rafael once, quick and assessing, then returned to the noble. "I asked him."
Vercourt swallowed. "My lord consort, there has been a misunderstanding."
Rafael almost smiled.
Because men like this always reached for the same thing once caught: misunderstanding, misreading, mutual interest, and ambiguity. They tried to make what happened look messy enough that blame could spread.
And Vercourt, apparently, was going to aim for the filthiest version available.
