Georgia's eyes swept the carnage one more time, cataloguing each detail. The shattered nightstand. The deep claw marks gouged into the floorboards. The unconscious white tiger that was the Imperium's most decorated Marshal. And the bruise on her wrist-angry, purple, unmistakable.
Outside, the hushed voices grew closer. Hurried footsteps. The click of a camera being readied.
"Right this way," Meredith's voice came again, louder now, dripping with false concern. "I'm so worried about my sister. She's been acting so... erratic lately."
The doorknob rattled. A pause. Then the sound of an electronic override being activated.
Georgia didn't move. She let her shoulders slump, let her hair fall across her face in tangled disarray. She didn't have to fake the trembling.
The door burst open.
A blaze of camera flashes seared her eyes. She flinched-genuinely-and curled in on herself, making herself small.
"Oh my god, Georgia!" Meredith's voice cut through the chaos, sharp with theatrical horror. "What have you done?"
Georgia lifted her head just enough to see her stepsister's face. The perfect mask of shock. The glint of triumph barely hidden in her eyes. And behind her, a pack of journalists from The Imperial Tribune, their cameras already capturing every damning detail of the scene.
"It wasn't-I didn't-" Georgia's voice came out as a broken whisper. She let the sentence die, let the silence do the work.
A journalist pushed forward, his recorder extended like a weapon. "Princess Shields, is it true you drugged Marshal Kensington?"
Georgia's eyes went wide-not with guilt, but with a carefully calibrated terror. She shook her head mutely, her gaze darting to the unconscious tiger and back to the reporters as if she couldn't comprehend what she was seeing.
"Look at the state of this room," another reporter muttered, his camera clicking rapidly. "There was clearly a struggle."
"A struggle she caused," Meredith interjected quickly, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Georgia has been... obsessed with Marshal Kensington for years. I never thought she'd go this far."
Georgia heard the words, and something cold and hard crystallized in her chest. There it was. The knife, slipped neatly between her ribs while wrapped in sisterly concern.
She pressed herself further into the corner, hugging her knees to her chest. Let them spin their narrative. She would bide her time.
That was when the heavy tread of military boots echoed in the hallway.
Preston Kensington—Landis's nephew —appeared at the door, his face dark as a storm. His gaze swept across the room—wreckage, reporters, a crying girl in the corner—then settled on the huge white tiger.
His pupils contracted.
"Clear the room," he said, his voice low and lethal. "Now."
"Lord Preston," Meredith began, her voice honeyed, "surely the public has a right to-"
"I said get out."
The command was backed by a wave of oppressive pheromones. The reporters scrambled backward as if pushed by an invisible hand. Meredith's face went pale, then flushed with fury, but she had no choice. She retreated with the others, though her eyes promised this wasn't over.
The door slammed shut. The room fell silent save for Georgia's ragged breathing and the deep, steady respiration of the unconscious tiger.
Preston's cold gaze fixed on Georgia. "What did you do to him?"
Georgia didn't answer immediately. She let the silence stretch, let him see the bruises forming on her arms, the scratch on her cheek, the utter devastation of the room.
"I survived," she whispered finally. "That's what I did."
She lifted her wrist, showing him the darkening bruise-the unmistakable imprint of a large hand.
Preston stared at it. The silence between them was a living thing, coiled and waiting.
---
