He scarcely recalled striding into that room. Yet there he stood, every muscle taut with the effort of not tearing the house apart stone by stone.
And then—he had seen Kitty’s face.
She stood in the center of the parlor like a ghost. No, like something ripped out of a nightmare, her expression frozen between rage and agony, her hands balled at her sides, her lips trembling with unshed tears.
Grewin beside her, too close, always too close.That bastard.
And the grotesque absurdity of them—Kitty forced to act outthatscene withhim, of all people—was so wrong it made Norman’s vision go white at the edges.
His blood howled in his ears at the sight. The room’s air, once warm with social noise, had turned brittle and cold.
No one spoke. Even the most gossipy among them—the fluttering aunties, the wine-loosened baronets—sat still as statues. Grewin’s grin, always the first offense in any room, had disappeared from his face.
Then—
“I—I did.” Lady Mulberry stepped forward. Her voice cracked like a twig underfoot.
Norman turned to her, slow and menacing as he could feel sparks of fury flowing out of his eyes—burning like furnace coals.
“You.” He didn’t shout. Not yet. But the weight in his voice dropped like a hammer. “You broughthiminto my home?”
Lady Mulberry flinched, her hands clasped in front of her as though in prayer, but she nodded.
Kitty still hadn’t moved. The silence around her made it worse, somehow. She looked like she was standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting for someone to shove her off.
Norman looked at her, and that was it.
The fury broke.
“I will deal withyoulater,” he spat at Lady Mulberry, and the room jumped with the force of his voice. A few guests recoiled. Someone gasped sharply. Norman barely heard it.
He turned to Grewin, took two strides forward, and grabbed the man by the collar so violently that his script dropped from his hand to the floor with a thud.
“Howdareyou,” Norman hissed, his breath sharp and hot in Grewin’s face. “After what you’ve done. After everything. You think you can slither back in front of her? What—what did you think would happen? That you’d get applause? A danged encore?”
Grewin opened his mouth, maybe to lie, maybe to laugh it off. But he seemed to think better of it.
The grin was gone, wiped clean. There was something tight around his eyes now—fear, maybe. But still, the man managed to murmur, “I was invited.”
Norman’s fist clenched. He shook Grewin once, hard enough that the man staggered.
“You listen to me,” Norman said, so low and lethal the fire in the hearth seemed to shrink. “If youeverset foot on my property again, if I so much as see your shadow near these walls?—”
He pulled Grewin in, until their noses nearly touched.
“—I willruinyou. In ways you can’t even fathom.”
Then he let go.
Grewin stumbled back, coughing and brushing himself off, trying to salvage some shred of dignity.
He adjusted his jacket as though Norman’s handprint hadn’t just burned into it. He turned to the room like a performer giving his last bow.
“Well,” he said hoarsely, “clearly, I’m not welcome.”
No one answered. Not a soul in the parlor moved.
He gave a little bow—mocking, as always—and stalked out the door.
