Frieda greeted with polished grace, her smile steady though her eyes quickly sized up Marcus and Rylie. “Good evening, Mr. Owen. And these must be your grandchildren? Such charming looks, and such presence.”

Her words sounded polite, yet practiced, devoid of genuine warmth.

Frank stepped in smoothly, shaking Marcus’s hand. “I’ve long admired you,” he said kindly.

Beside him, Kristen reached toward Rylie. “Hello. I am Frank’s girlfriend, Kristen Fowler. From Morkina.”

Rylie shook her hand lightly. “Hello, pleasure to meet you.”

After a round of pleasantries, the hall carried them apart. Marcus was soon surrounded by young admirers eager to talk music, while Kendrick was swept into conversation with old friends. He motioned for Rylie to join, but she shook her head. “I’m a bit hungry. I’ll grab something to eat.”

She wandered to the dessert table. By the champagne tower, Cillian turned to Frank. “Where’s your brother? Why isn’t he here yet?”

“Maybe something came up,” Frank answered.

Kristen muttered in a foreign tongue with disdain, “Something came up? Please. He simply doesn’t want to come. Since our return, he avoids every gathering. How can a dying man still be so arrogant?”

Rylie’s eyes narrowed. She circled the dessert table and walked up to them. “What did you just say?”

Frank quickly drew Kristen close, answering gently, “Kristen’s from Morkina. She doesn’t speak fluently in our language, so she’s using her own country’s.”

She only suggested I call my brother to ask when he’ll arrive.”

Rylie arched a brow. “Is that so?”

Turning and speaking in the same foreign language, Frank warned Kristen, “Don’t speak so harshly. Too many ears are listening here.”

Kristen scoffed in reply, “So what? That girl’s from the slums. She probably doesn’t understand a word. There’s no need to pretend.” She then smiled sweetly at Rylie, as though she had just spoken something kind.

Frank quickly smoothed things over. “Kristen says she likes you and hopes you can be friends.”

Rylie suddenly smiled and replied in fluent, clear foreign speech, “Yes, I am from the slums. Perhaps that makes me unfit to be her friend.”

Both Frank and Kristen froze. Rylie calmly picked up a small cake, but then she paused. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Frank’s wrist as his sleeve slipped back. The skin beneath was rotting, poorly concealed by the fabric.

Her gaze sharpened. She spoke coldly to him, “Brad is not a dying man. But perhaps you are.”

Frank’s smile cracked. “Miss Owen, your tongue is sharper than a knife.”

Rylie’s lips curled. “Time will tell.”

As she walked away, Frank’s eyes darkened, his gentle mask completely broken. Kristen scowled. “She speaks our language? Isn’t she just some slum girl? How insolent! If my father saw her belittle me like that, she’d live to regret it.”

Frank tried to comfort her. “Don’t be angry. She is the Old Man’s granddaughter. Pride runs in her blood.”

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