Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 227 - 222: A Trial in Silk (BONUS)

They returned to the salon with measured steps, re-entering the shimmering light of the Winter Wing just as a new tray of refreshments was being circulated among the nobles.

Conversations faltered as soon as Christian and Irina crossed the threshold—eyes cutting toward them, fans fluttering, the inevitable stitching of new rumors beginning before their footsteps even faded.

They had almost reached their table again when it happened.

Rafael Roseroth, lingering awkwardly near the dessert table with a glass of deep red wine in his hand, turned—too sharply, too eager to intercept Christian again—and collided squarely with Irina.

The collision wasn’t violent, just clumsy enough to be noticeable.

A splash of red arced through the air and landed across Irina’s pale silk gown—the delicate fabric blooming with a sharp stain.

The room gasped.

The kind of sound that ripples like a stone dropped into still water.

Rafael recoiled instantly, eyes wide with horror, bowing without thinking. "Lady Irina—! I—I didn’t see—"

Christian’s hand snapped out, steadying her by the elbow before she could sway from the impact. His other hand twitched toward Rafael, but he caught himself, folding the motion into a slow, cold step forward.

"My apologies, Lady Irina," Rafael stammered, bowing so quickly it bordered on absurdity. "I—I didn’t see—"

Irina took a single breath.

And then—she smiled.

"It’s nothing," she said, with such disarming ease that it silenced even the sharpest gossips halfway through their inhale. "Accidents happen."

Rafael froze, clearly expecting fury, or at least public embarrassment. None came.

Irina gently pinched the edge of her skirt, lifting it slightly to avoid further staining, her movements elegant rather than panicked.

"Please," she said, voice low and even. "Don’t trouble yourself."

She gave him the smallest, most gracious nod—the kind that forgives without forgetting—and turned back toward Christian.

Gabriel, still seated across the salon, caught the scene immediately.

And smiled.

Not kindly.

Not sympathetically.

Just a slow, almost lazy curl of his mouth that promised two things: he had seen, and he would remember.

At Gabriel’s table, Alexandra covered her mouth with her fan, laughing silently behind the folds of embroidered silk.

Lady Meredale whispered furiously to Countess Myrenne.

Max, returning from some minor errand, caught sight of the stain and muttered, "Oh, Rafael. You just buried yourself."

Damian remained still, unreadable, one gloved hand resting against his knee, but the temperature of the room seemed to drop by several degrees.

Gabriel, meanwhile, shifted ever so slightly in his seat.

A signal.

Christian, catching it instantly, guided Irina toward their side of the room, weaving through the stunned and muttering crowd as if the scandal hadn’t already cemented itself into the day’s history.

Irina walked gracefully despite the dark stain blossoming against her skirts, her chin lifted, her steps deliberate. She didn’t hide it. She didn’t flinch.

And when they reached Gabriel’s table, he didn’t rise immediately.

He leaned back in the armchair, one leg crossed neatly over the other, his chin resting lightly against his hand, the rings on his fingers catching the light like tiny, deliberate weapons.

The picture of cold amusement.

Of a man who ruled without needing to raise his voice or move at all.

The court watched, breathless, the silence sharpening around them like glass about to shatter.

Gabriel’s gaze slid lazily over Irina—taking in the ruined silk, the steady spine, and the refusal to bow to humiliation.

His lips curved, slow and deliberate.

"Well," he said lightly, voice rich with amusement, "we can’t have you wandering around like some tragic heroine from a bad play."

There was a ripple of barely contained laughter from the few bold enough to find it funny.

Gabriel tilted his head slightly, turning to Edward, who was already standing attentively behind him. freewebnøvel.coɱ

"Have the imperial tailor prepare a new gown," Gabriel said casually, as if discussing the weather. "And since they’re at it, they might as well fit her for the whole season. Winter colors. She’ll need at least five ready by the end of the week."

The room froze again, harder this time.

The imperial tailor.

Not just a replacement dress—an entire wardrobe, sanctioned and commissioned by the Consort himself.

And before the shock could even ripple fully through the gathered nobles, Gabriel added, voice light, almost teasing, as he shifted lazily against the arm of the chair:

"Oh, and—you passed your month of trial earlier. Congratulations."

Irina, despite herself, blinked.

Not visibly enough for most to catch it—but Gabriel did.

Across the room, Alexandra choked briefly into her fan, eyes glittering.

The nobles scrambled to catch up—a month of trial? What trial? When?—but none of them dared to speak.

Because the meaning was clear:

Irina Blake was no longer simply a guest of the court, nor merely the sister of a trusted secretary.

She had been tested.

And she had been chosen.

Irina lowered herself again into a graceful curtsy, the faintest ghost of a real smile flickering at the corners of her mouth.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she said smoothly.

The court could barely breathe.

Max, slouching back against a velvet-cushioned chair, muttered to Christian under his breath, "He’s going to give half the noble houses a collective aneurysm before noon."

Christian just smirked, silver eyes flicking toward Astana across the room—who for once had dropped his mask just enough to show a flicker of raw, quiet relief.

At the center of it all, Gabriel leaned back fully now, draping one arm across the back of his chair, utterly unbothered, the gleam of the chandelier catching against the gold of his ring and the pale color of his robe.

He looked like he had been born there—crafted from winter light and silk—an unmovable force wrapped in courtly civility.

Across the salon, noblewomen fluttered their fans harder, husbands whispered tightly behind napkins, younger heirs adjusted their plans in real time. The hierarchy, so carefully cultivated over years, cracked a little more with every beat of silence that followed Gabriel’s command.

Irina sat near Alexandra now, her stained dress forgotten by all but the bitter and the envious. She kept her back straight, her expression composed, wearing the stain like a battle medal rather than a shame.

Because they all knew: the Consort had intervened.

And when Gabriel von Jaunez chose to intervene, he didn’t do it halfway.

Damian said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

He leaned slightly toward Gabriel, the shift of his massive frame quiet but intentional, the glint in his golden eyes clear:

Mine.

Gabriel caught the movement from the corner of his eye and allowed the faintest curve of his lips—a smile made not for the court, but for the man who ruled it beside him.

Edward approached with the precision of a man accustomed to delivering miracles under impossible deadlines. He bent slightly at Gabriel’s side.

"Eight dresses for the season," Edward murmured.

"Winter palette," Gabriel said, twirling his ring idly with one gloved hand. "And something lighter for spring. She’ll need to attend a few of the early salons."

"As you wish, Your Grace."