Marcus squeezed the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly as though releasing a cloud of frustration into the drafty corridor of your wing. The ornate door before him, a masterpiece of Solaria’s excess, was vibrating gently on its hinges, hinting at the chaos brewing beyond. From the muffled shouts and occasional crash behind it, you—or whatever you had become post-Edmund's rejection debacle—were clearly taking the news of your fiscal laceration with admirable composure.

"Perfect," Marcus muttered to no one in particular. "Because the only thing this day was missing was an unhinged noblewoman hurling priceless porcelain at defenseless furniture."

Beside him, a disinterested maid shuffled past, cradling a battered vase. It was a wonder she didn’t stop to offer condolences to Marcus, considering the air of doom hanging about him like a poorly-tailored cloak. He adjusted the cuffs of his coat—an unnecessary action, but one that allowed him to mentally rehearse the inevitable verbal skirmish ahead.

Straightening his spine, Marcus gave a curt knock on the door, more out of formality than expectation. Predictably, the commotion behind the door ceased for half a second, replaced by the crash of what sounded suspiciously like a tea tray meeting its untimely demise. He paused. No response.

"Oh, wonderful. We’ve reached the negotiation-through-silent-treatment stage." Rolling his eyes, Marcus twisted the ornate handle and pushed the door open, revealing the carnage.

Inside, your chambers displayed the aftermath of what could only be described as a one-woman crusade against inanimate objects. Cushions were gutted, their stuffing spilling like battlefield viscera, and your once-pristine vanity now looked as though it had been shanked by several candlesticks. The woman herself stood at the center of the chaos, radiating fury, chest heaving, and eyes blazing. Marcus had to admit, the effect was... arresting. Not, however, arresting enough to make him forget his purpose.

"Lady Ashford," he began, placing just enough disdainful polish on her name to suggest he’d personally footed the bill for the destruction. "I bring tidings—and, unfortunately, none of them involve the return of your lost dignity."

You turned your head sharply, your eyes narrowing. Good. A glare meant you weren’t aiming for his skull with the leg of that unfortunate chair leaning precariously nearby.

"His Highness, in his eternal benevolence," Marcus droned, "has seen fit to... reallocate your expenses. Consider it his final gift, apart from, presumably, Rose, the Rustic Rapture."

Your lips twitched—a crack in the armor, though Marcus doubted it was anything close to humor. He dropped the scroll onto a relatively intact table and folded his arms, watching you carefully.

"Would you like me to elaborate further... or are you about to murder me with a chaise longue leg?"