Slowly, Gabriel began to notice her kindness. She did not look at him as a symbol of wealth or pity his supposed weakness. She treated him simply as a man. Her small gestures spoke more loudly than Seraphine’s grand displays ever had.
Weeks turned to months, and Seraphine’s mask slipped completely. Behind closed doors, her contempt spilled out. “You used to be impressive,” she said one evening, her tone dripping with disdain. “Now you are just a broken shadow surrounded by servants.”
The words carved deep into Gabriel’s chest, but the final blow came during a glittering rooftop party. Surrounded by Parisian elites, Seraphine laughed with her friends and gestured toward him. “There sits my prince without a throne,” she said mockingly. The guests offered awkward smiles, unwilling to challenge her cruelty.
Gabriel’s face burned, yet behind his chair stood Elara, calm and resolute. She did not flinch or turn away. Her silent strength steadied him more than any defense could have.