Mirielle wiped the corners of her eyes delicately, voice trembling with vulnerability.
"You're not… deceiving me, right? You're not playing with me?"
Kael froze.
Not because he was caught.
But because how dare she question his performance.
He had poured emotional nuance into that fake confession.
Perfect posture.
Quivering voice.
The exact right amount of eye moisture.
Oscar-worthy.
And now this woman—this amateur stage flirt—was accusing him of faking?
He was the fake.
Professionally.
Kael's smile faltered.
His voice dropped, cool and low.
"You… doubt my love?"
There was a soft, almost imperceptible edge in his tone—a quiet threat wrapped in velvet.
Mirielle blinked, startled. A cold chill crept down her spine.
"No, no! Of course not, my lord!" she rushed out.
"It's just… it all happened so fast—"
Kael turned his gaze back to her, expression wounded, like a fallen angel nursing a broken wing.
"Miri," he said softly, "We were fated to meet. Don't you feel it?"
