//CLARA//
The entire dinner was a circus of tension and gawking eyes.
I maintained my best efforts to entertain Prince Felipe, not because I was told to, but I genuinely enjoyed his company. Around me, he didn't perform his royal station. He talked about his travels and the absurdity of American wealth like any regular man might.
He even circled back to the jellyfish, making a joke so dryly hilarious that I actually laughed. Not a refined, lady-like titter, either. It was a full-blown snort.
That act was practically a social felony, but Felipe didn't look horrified. He looked delighted. As if I was the first real thing he'd encountered in a room full of waxwork figures.
Then, around the second course, Bartholomew walked through the door with Adelaide Chase on his arm. They apologized for their tardiness, but Barty's eyes found mine immediately, that familiar smirk playing at his lips.
