The words hung in the air between us, a fragile shield against the storm of her contempt. For a moment, the only sound in the fancy chamber was the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth and the frantic, silent pounding of my own heart. Evelyne's triumphant smirk didn't falter; it deepened, curving into a mask of pure, unadulterated scorn.
"The ring?" she repeated, her voice a silken caress laced with poison. She took another step closer, her gaze dropping to the signet on my finger as if it were a curious insect. "That pretty little trinket? It looks heavy, Damien. Does it chafe? Does it remind you every waking moment that you are nothing more than a placeholder? A pretty face the Duke likes to look at until he produces a real heir with a proper lady?"
