Natalie did not flinch.
That, perhaps, was the worst thing of all.
She should have. Any sensible person would have. There had been something in his voice just then that did not belong to a teen standing on winter balconies with champagne in their hands and old history between them.
But Natalie Frasner had been raised among monsters polished into nobility, among princes who smiled while delivering ruin and consorts who could dismantle a life with a lifted brow. She knew what danger felt like when it wore silk and perfect posture.
So she looked straight at him, eyes bright with hurt and rage and a humiliation she would rather have died than let him witness clearly, and gave him the only thing she had left that still felt clean.
"Never talk to me again."
Her voice came out colder than the tears burning behind her eyes, which was good, because she would not cry in front of him.
