Cedric didn't stand up immediately. The quiet in the drawing room grew so heavy that the rhythmic ticking of the pendulum clock in the corner sounded like a countdown to an execution. His breathing was shallow, his broad chest rising and falling as he stared at the crumpled treasonous ledger in his white-knuckled grip.
Roland—the man he had built a rebellion with, the man he considered an ally—had signed his death warrant.
"You look rather pale, Duke," Olivia spoke, breaking the silence with a soft, melodic purr that carried a venomous edge. She picked up her teapot, pouring a fresh stream of dark liquid into her cup with flawless precision. "Where is that grand confidence you displayed last night? I thought a man ready to pull down an empire wouldn't be so easily shaken by a few sheets of paper."
