"Are you listening?"
"Yes. Absolutely. Borders. Skirmishes. Very important."
His eyes drop to my mouth.
Ninth time. I'm still counting.
"You're not listening.”
I smile weakly. “You’re distracting.”
“Unfortunately—”
Oh no. Is this it? Is he finally going to—
“So are you.”
—make me feel like I’m the luckiest woman alive to be married to someone like him who’s so good at...oh!
He’s suddenly kissing me, right there in the war room with two soldiers trying desperately to become invisible, and I forget about maps and borders and everything except the way his hand slides into my hair and tilts my head back and—
Someone clears their throat.
Devyn pulls back. Slowly. Like he's not remotely embarrassed to have been caught kissing his wife in the middle of a strategy session.
"Mr. Karp has arrived, Your Majesty."
The warmth in my chest turns to ice, and I end up shivering when I’m left with no choice but to meet him again. He looks exactly like I remember: handsome in a polished way—dark hair artfully tousled, jaw that could cut glass, eyes warm and sympathetic. The light from the window catches him like he's been professionally lit, every angle flattering, every shadow intentional. He enters the room like he belongs there, like every space he walks into reshapes itself to accommodate him.
My photographer's eye recognizes what he's doing. It's the same thing I've seen in a thousand headshots: the deliberate positioning, the calculated charm. The difference is, most people don't know they're doing it.
Amos knows exactly what he's doing.
Every instinct I have screamswrong.
"Your Majesty." He inclines his head to Devyn. Then turns to me, and his smile widens. "What a pleasure to see you again."
"Mr. Karp."
"I understand you were the last person to see Lady Abigail before her...disappearance." He settles into a chair across from us without being invited to sit. "I was hoping to ask you some questions. In private, ideally. Standard procedure."
"No."
Devyn doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't elaborate. Just: no.
Amos's smile flickers. "With respect, Your Majesty, it's protocol for witnesses to be interviewed without—"
"No."
Silence.
Amos looks at Devyn. Devyn looks back. Neither of them moves.
I watch the silent war play out between them—Amos's charm pressing against Devyn's absolute refusal, waves breaking against a cliff face. There's no contest. There was never going to be a contest.
"Of course." Amos's smile returns, but it's thinner now. Tighter at the edges. "I understand. You're protective of your wife. Admirable."
Devyn says nothing.
