Fiorensia stood at the grand entrance of the council chamber, her emerald eyes glinting with restrained fury. The moment the heavy wooden doors swung open, she was met with the sight of her husband standing beside that woman.
Lotisia, the low-born harlot, had dared to step where she did not belong. Her delicate hands clutched Ricardo's arm, and her gaze lowered in what seemed like a well-rehearsed act of meekness, yet Fiorensia could see through the facade.
She had been raised among the nobles in the Higher Order and knew how commoners who tasted power carried themselves. With an air of absolute authority, Fiorensia strode forward, the intricate embroidery of her deep green gown shimmering under the chamber's light.
She came to a halt just before them, lifting her chin. Her voice, cold and laced with unwavering command, cut through the air like a blade.
