Isabella had been quiet for two days. This was unprecedented. Isabella Vane — the woman who'd once almost killed me and destroy my empire because she was annoyed — did not do quiet. Quiet, from Isabella, was not peace. No it wasn't.
I should have known.
The announcement came at breakfast, delivered with the imperious certainty of a woman who had once controlled the monetary policy of a continent and saw no reason to stop controlling things just because she was on vacation.
"We are going to the opera," Isabella said.
Nobody responded for a moment. The table was mid-bite — Sofia into a grapefruit, Victoria into an egg white omelet, Elena into a piece of toast she'd cut into precise geometric quarters. Ethan had a mouthful of cereal. Darius had a mouthful of nothing, because Darius didn't eat breakfast, he just stood near the table and radiated quiet menace.
"The opera," Victoria repeated.
