7

7

ANNE

Annalisa, that stubborn, headstrong chit, had defied me not once, but twice! First, that brooding bore Spencer, and now, this… this stranger who appeared out of thin air and whisked her away like a prize in some ridiculous game.

The gilded cage of my drawing-room felt like it was shrinking in on me. I tapped a manicured finger against the delicate porcelain teacup, the rhythmic clatter a counterpoint to the storm brewing inside me. The Earl Grey, usually a source of solace, tasted like bitter ash on my tongue.

“Spencer,” I hissed, the name dripping with venom.

Spencer, ever the picture of stoic control, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“You look like a kicked puppy,” I snapped. “Is that truly the best you can do? Annalisa throws herself away on some charlatan, and you sit there like a lump?”

He flinched, but his voice remained steady. “I respect Annalisa’s decision, Your Grace.”

Respect? Respect be damned! This wasn’t about respect; it was about control. An