[Lavinia's POV]
The grand ballroom sparkled like someone spilled a basket of diamonds, glitter, and overly enthusiastic fairy dust all over the place. Nobles twirled in silk and velvet, flapping like confused peacocks trying to remember the dance steps.
And where was Papa?
Oh, he was pissed, or should I say...sulking.
Why, you ask?
Because Theon had suggested that maybe, just maybe, I should sit in my rightful seat instead of on Papa's lap.
Apparently, "She's the imperial heir; she should sit like one," blah blah, something about posture and royal dignity, blah blah, Don't cuddle her like a plush toy in front of the entire nobility."
And so now, here I was. On a small golden throne, perched right next to Papa's enormous, emperor-sized seat. Mine was smaller, shinier, and had better cushions—obviously, because I have taste.
