Milo’s POV
“Good morning, sir,” I said, stepping into the dining room like a stiff broom in a suit. The black jacket felt too tight, too early, too Monday.
Gregory Cross — Elara’s father, the king of no-smiles — looked up from his newspaper and gave me a nod sharp enough to slice toast.
“Milo. Breakfast. I assume you slept well?”
“Slept?” I lied. “Sure. I survived the night. That counts.”
He didn’t laugh. He never did. The man’s face had two moods: serious… and more serious.
“Good,” he said. “We need to discuss your… assignment.”
That word made my eyes slide, just a little, toward Elara.
She sat at the table eating a croissant like she was posing for a magazine cover. Chin high. Eyes fearless. Attitude loud. She didn’t even glance at me — because why would she? Princesses do not lo
