The royal family suite had weathered centuries of political storms, but tonight it felt too small for the tension it held.
The doors had barely shut before Queen Talia’s voice—soft, controlled, and deadly—cut through the air.
“When were you both going to tell us?”
Not a shout.
Not an accusation.
Something worse—a mother’s quiet disappointment layered over a queen’s fury.
Reign stood near the window, jaw locked, shoulders squared like a soldier awaiting discipline.
Luca hovered beside the hearth, fingers drumming against his leg, trying—and failing—to appear casual.
In the corner, Ash leaned against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
He looked like he was enjoying the spectacle.
It was rare that the youngest triplet got to watch
