Years later, she had stood inside a ritual that made Danton what he was now.
By then, she had become useful enough for family to draw closer. That was how trust worked among the Maxtons. It did not mean affection or confidence. Her family trusted people the way a butcher trusted a sharp knife, which meant they expected it to cut where guided and remain silent afterward.
Cassiopeia had helped wake the Prince.
That placed her inside the core circle, a tan bit closer than her mother had been ever let in, who had retreated from everything to do with that family long ago into the quiet country of her own suffering, and closer than other women in the Maxton family.
Cassiopeia had been made useful, and in that family usefulness was a collar worn under silk.
The choice had never been a choice in any meaningful sense.
Still, she had stood there.
Her hands had been present.
That mattered.
But the matter of Phei's parents had caught her differently at the very day of the ritual.
