His mother was insufferable, coming all the way from Paris just to visit. If Leo wanted to see her (which he didn't because Delphine Maxime was insufferable) then he would take a portkey home more often, but she seemed determined to remind him of his neglect. And to figure out why he hadn’t taken a wife now that he was very much settled into his career and had made a name for himself. (She had no idea who Estelle was, and Leo was going to keep it that way.)

The invitations had been sent without his knowledge and he hadn’t had a choice but to show up after receiving one. The estate was decked out in mirrors and gilded nonsense as a way to show off the Maxime wealth; she even had the gall to bring her staff over from Paris, because apparently the Wixeldorf ones weren’t up to her standards. Of course the French were better at everything, so Leo couldn’t fault her there.

He stood at the edge of it all, an untouched glass of champagne in his hand, his expression a polite indifference. Having already done his duty – dancing with the right debutantes and rubbing elbows with others at the ministry – Leo was counting down the seconds until he could go home.

He heard someone start to come up to his side and he could only assume it was his mother, ready for another round of introductions. Ready to spend however long up saddled up next to him until he could escape her. She was grating on his last nerve. “Don’t even start.” Leo snapped, not bothering to even spare a glance.

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