Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 225 - 220: The Art of Being Ignored (BONUS)

"I’m sure you’ll tell me about it later," he said, voice pitched low enough that only Gabriel could truly hear the weight behind it.

Across the salon, chairs shifted, and fans fluttered uselessly. Lady Serathine delicately adjusted her bracelet. Countess Myrenne reached for her tea with a hand that wasn’t as steady as she wanted it to be.

Prince Christian, arriving at a pace more relaxed than any of the others, caught the final exchange and snorted under his breath. He passed by Max, who arched a brow at the display, entirely unsurprised.

Caelan Lancaster moved toward Alexandra without hesitation, while Theo lingered near the entrance for a beat longer than necessary, eyes tight as he scanned Gabriel, Julian, and then the Emperor, reading the room like a man measuring the distance between what was expected and what was already lost.

Gabriel, meanwhile, let his hand fall casually back to the armrest, the faintest hum of amusement in his posture.

The seating shifted around them, a ripple beneath the surface of courtly manners. Without formal announcement or discussion, the room adjusted as if guided by invisible threads.

Christian took the seat to Gabriel’s left, all easy charm and loose-limbed grace, though the gleam in his silver eyes suggested he hadn’t missed a single detail of the earlier exchange. He lounged back, a little too comfortably, the posture of a prince who knew when to look harmless.

Across from them, Rafael and his mother settled into place—front row seats to whatever was about to unfold.

Rafael Roseroth decided to act.

He rose gracefully from his seat beside his mother, smoothing the front of his pale lemon doublet, his smile warm and practiced. Delphina didn’t stop him. She watched with the sharp-eyed approval of someone who believed timing was everything.

Rafael crossed the salon slowly, carrying a glass of wine with perfect posture. First, toward Damian.

He bowed deeply.

"Your Majesty," he said, his voice smooth and precise. "Might I offer my congratulations on the elegance of today’s event. I believe your consort has just set a new standard for court presentation."

Damian didn’t look up.

He simply said, "Yes. He does that."

A pause.

Rafael held the smile.

"I would be honored to contribute to future salons—House Roseroth has recently acquired some winter varietals that might suit an early frost gathering. If there is interest."

Damian’s golden eyes lifted, finally settling on Rafael with all the warmth of a glacier.

"That won’t be necessary," Damian said simply.

It wasn’t cruel.

It was worse.

It was dismissal without even the courtesy of contempt.

Across the room, Alexandra’s fan snapped shut with a satisfying click, hiding her smirk behind a sip of tea. Max leaned back in his chair, looking vaguely entertained. Caelan didn’t even bother hiding the curve of amusement at his mouth.

Christian was already watching.

Reclined in his chair, silver eyes half-lidded, he looked every inch the lazy younger prince—the one the court always underestimated.

But underneath the easy posture, he was tracking every movement. Every word. Every misstep.

When Rafael bowed again and pivoted toward him, Christian’s lips curved—not in welcome, but in warning.

He knew what was coming.

He let Rafael approach, let him deliver his polished line about wanting to "understand the vision of the younger court," about "valuing dialogue between houses."

And then, with timing so effortless it bordered on cruel, Christian turned—not to Rafael, but toward the imperial table, his silver eyes bright with deliberate mischief.

"Excuse me, Your Majesty, Your Grace," Christian said lightly, inclining his head toward Damian and Gabriel. "I have something to discuss with Lord Maximilian."

He didn’t even glance at Rafael, who was still standing there, wine glass in hand, caught between a bow and a retreat.

Gabriel, without missing a beat, offered Christian a faint, almost lazy nod—the kind that said permission granted without needing to lift his voice.

Damian didn’t speak, but his expression said, carry on. ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

Christian turned on his heel and crossed the room with his easy, fluid grace, every movement broadcasting irrelevance toward the boy he’d just brushed aside.

Max, who had been steadily draining a second stolen glass of wine and eyeing the dessert table like a man weighing battle tactics, caught Christian’s approach and sighed theatrically.

"You," Max said under his breath. "Always rescuing me from the serious conversations."

Christian just clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the edge of the salon with the casual dominance of a man who had absolutely no intention of returning to polite society anytime soon.

Behind them, Rafael stood frozen for a fraction too long—before Delphine’s soft, sharp murmur from their table snapped him back into motion. He bowed shallowly and retreated, slipping back among the noble offspring who had witnessed his failed rise.

Gabriel leaned back lazily in his chair, resting his chin on two fingers, utterly unbothered.

Damian shifted closer in his seat, so slight that only Gabriel noticed, the brush of their sleeves touching like the quiet promise that no one in the room could reach him.

—

Max, still chewing a stolen tart, caught sight of one of the Emperor’s attendants at the far entrance, signaling him with a tilt of the head.

With an exaggerated sigh, he rose from his seat, brushing crumbs from his fingers onto his coat without shame, and left the table, weaving casually through the murmuring nobles.

Irina watched him go, half-expecting the table to fall quiet.

It didn’t.

If anything, the conversations grew softer, stickier, and spun out in familiar loops.

Prince Christian.

Lady Irina Blake.

Charming together, aren’t they?

So sudden, so young, so very likely...

Irina sipped her tea, her face perfectly neutral.

She had been expecting something like this the moment she entered the palace—the moment her name was added to the endless lists of suitable matches.

Prince Christian, now free from the engagement with Anya, was the next greatest catch after the Emperor himself.

Every ambitious house, every courtier with a daughter—or son—was already rethinking their strategies, imagining crowns, titles, and convenient love stories.

Irina knew the game. She had grown up hearing its rules whispered beneath layers of etiquette and perfumed smiles.

But she also knew how to watch.

She saw how Christian was looking at Astana—not boldly, not foolishly, but with that strange, careful softness a man uses when he knows he shouldn’t feel what he does and does anyway.

And she noticed that Astana, despite himself, had become quieter with each course. How he hadn’t spoken since Christian arrived. Every time someone laughed too loudly or turned in their direction, his gaze flicked back and forth between the prince and them.

Irina sighed.

It wasn’t irritation. It was the sigh of the youngest child—the one who watches everyone, who listens when the adults forget they’re in the room, who knows far more than anyone bothers to ask.

Then, without a word, she shifted her chair slightly.

Graceful. Natural.

Enough to place herself like a screen between them and the table behind, where two ladies from House Estrelen were already whispering behind the wide curve of a fan.

She didn’t meet Christian’s eyes.

But he felt it.

His attention snapped to her—just for a moment. And when she remained composed, eyes fixed on her cup, he smiled quietly to himself.

He leaned in a little, his voice low and light. "Would you mind taking a walk with me, Lady Irina?"