Angelica Craven POV

Angelica Craven sat at the head of the table, her fingers wrapped around the delicate stem of an empty crystal glass. She was a woman of poise and precision, her blond hair swept back into an elegant twist, not a strand out of place. Her blue eyes—icy and sharp—moved with calculated patience, flicking between the ornate clock on the wall and the empty chair across from her.

Elena was late. Again.

The resemblance between mother and daughter was unmistakable. Elena had inherited Angelica's blond hair and those same piercing blue eyes. But where Angelica's features had softened over the years, rounded by time and the burdens of high society, Elena's were sharper—gifts from her father. High cheekbones, a defined jawline, a look that could cut through pretense as easily as a knife through silk. Where Angelica looked like royalty grown accustomed to her throne, Elena had the edge of a princess who had never cared for the crown.

Angelica's lips tightened, a thin line drawn with a practiced hand. Her daughter had always been difficult—too willful, too independent. Out of their three children, it was always Elena who had questioned, who had resisted. She had been a pebble in Angelica's perfectly polished shoe from the moment she could speak.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Angelica had mapped out Elena's life with the precision of a general orchestrating a flawless campaign. The best academy. The most advantageous marriage. A rise to high noble status that would solidify the Craven name among the elite. She had been so close.

But no. Elena had thrown it all away for a common bastard. A nobody. Damn her.

Angelica's fingers tightened around the glass, her knuckles paling. She could almost hear the doors of opportunity closing—the soft click of a lock turning as the whispers of high society shifted from approval to disdain. She needed to calm herself, but the rage simmered just below the surface, hot and unyielding.

She needed a smoke. The thought coiled in her mind, seductive and forbidden. But not here. Not in public. She would not show a single crack in her façade. Instead, she signaled to a passing waiter with a snap of her fingers—quick, sharp, the gesture of a woman who was used to being obeyed.

The young man approached, his expression the perfect blend of respect and subservience. "Madam, how may I assist you?"

"A glass of the Crystalline Reserve," Angelica said without looking at him. Her focus remained on the empty chair, her voice as smooth as glass. "Chilled. Not cold. And if it isn't the 876 blend, don't bother."

The waiter hesitated, just for a moment. A fleeting shadow of uncertainty.

"Of course, Madam. I'll verify with the sommelier—"

Angelica's eyes finally slid to him, a glacier's gaze that could freeze a flame. "Then do so quickly. I do not enjoy repeating myself."

The young man's cheeks flushed, and he bowed his head before retreating. Angelica dismissed him from her mind immediately. He was nothing—a shadow passing through her light. Her attention returned to the table, to the carefully arranged silverware, the soft glow of candlelight reflected in polished surfaces.

Her husband sat at the opposite end of the table, as far from her as the room allowed. He cradled his glass, staring into its depths as if he might find the answer to all their problems there. His shoulders had begun to sag in recent years, the weight of regret pressing them down. She suspected he was beginning to reconsider their choices regarding Adam. The fool.

Angelica could already hear his quiet disapproval, feel his discontent like a draft through a cracked window. But he wouldn't speak. He never did. Not anymore. His softness had cost them too much already. Weak. Pathetic. He had allowed Elena too much freedom, too many choices. Choices that had led them here—to this place of waiting and wondering, of lost opportunities and tarnished ambitions.

Elena was late on purpose. Angelica knew it. A petty act of defiance. The girl had no status, no title—not anymore. In matters of propriety, the children should always arrive before the parents unless their status surpassed them. And Elena had forfeited any status when she chose Adam. She had dragged the family name through the mud, turned their ascent into a painful, embarrassing stumble.

When the waiter returned with her drink, Angelica accepted it without acknowledgment. Her grip was delicate but firm, the cool glass a small comfort against the heat of her anger. She took a measured sip, the liquid smooth and clear, tasting of old vineyards and prestige. It wasn't for enjoyment—pleasure had long since faded from such indulgences. This was control. A reminder that in a world spinning off its axis, she could still dictate the small things.

She breathed slowly, the air filling her lungs, steadying the fire inside.

Then there were the grand bastards, as Angelica so delicately referred to them—mutts who carried the bloodline of a commoner. Adam's children.

Her husband had used them as an excuse, pretending that this dinner was about seeing their grandchildren. As if those children mattered. As if they could ever wash away the stain of their father's mediocrity.

Please. Adam had been a fluke, a stroke of luck that had briefly lifted him above his station. And, just as she had predicted, he had amounted to nothing—because that was all he ever was. Nothing.

She shared a rare look with her husband, a fleeting exchange across the polished table. His expression was bland, carefully neutral, but she could almost taste the bitterness beneath it. The loathing sat between them, a palpable thing, coiled and waiting. It wasn't just aimed at Elena for her foolish choices but at each other for the years of disappointment, the layers of betrayal wrapped in silk and protocol.

Her daughter thought she was leaving. Her husband thought he could help her. Fools, both of them.

Angelica took another sip of her drink, the glass cool against her lips. She allowed a small smile to curl at the edge of her mouth, a hint of something sharp and unyielding. Let them think what they wanted. Let them hold on to their fragile hopes.

She had plans. Real plans.

And as for her good children—well, they knew how to follow the script. They knew how to play their parts, how to smile and nod and let their mother pull the strings. They were the future, not these bastards, not Elena's pathetic attempts at freedom.

Angelica set her glass down with a delicate clink, her fingers still wrapped around the stem. She breathed in the opulent air, her expression serene. She didn't need to rush. Everything was falling into place, just as it always had.

When the door finally opened and Elena arrived, she would remained perfectly still, the epitome of calm. After all, a queen never needed to rise for those beneath her.