But saying it and doing it were two completely different things.
Julian could force his mind to accept the cold reality, he could practice his nonchalant expressions in the mirror, and he could sign his name with a perfectly steady hand—but he couldn't control his heart. Every time he tried to take a deep breath, a sharp, suffocating ache flared up in his chest. His heart didn't care about political logic or Clause Twelve; it only cared that the one woman he had looked to for a shred of security in this freezing, foreign court belonged entirely to someone else.
And the absolute worst part—the thing that made him want to rip his hair out in sheer frustration—was that he couldn't even blame Elara.
