Caesar Vassinger sat behind his polished obsidian desk, a thick folder open in front of him, the report, printed on the high-quality paper, stamped with a seal he hadn't seen since Palatine.
House Fitzgeralt.
The only sound in the office was the rustle of the report's pages and the soft, too-frequent breath of the woman curled defensively on the sofa in front of him.
Vanessa crossed her legs with deliberate elegance, hands folded in her lap like this was still a salon, not a tribunal. Her coat was flawless. Her expression even more so—poised, composed, the perfect victim of some imagined slight.
Caesar didn't look up as he flipped to the final page.
"You knew who he was," he said quietly.
Vanessa blinked, feigning confusion. "I—"
He closed the folder with a soft snap.
