"Conceptually, I remain threatening."

Mia lifted her wine glass. "That should go on the invitation."

"No," Lucas said at once.

Dean looked offended. "You do not know that. It could be tasteful."

"It would be memorable," Minerva allowed.

Lucas turned toward her. "Do not encourage him."

"I am not encouraging him. I am assessing public impact."

"That is how encouragement starts in royal households."

Mia’s mouth curved. "He says that because Chris once called something ’public impact’ and three ministers resigned by dinner."

Dean stared at her. "Why do I keep learning family history as legal warnings?"

"Because our family history is mostly legal warnings," Mia said.

Minerva, who had clearly decided that Palatine relatives were both useful and exhausting, shifted the screen to the next ceremonial option.

Arion appeared on it.

Not actually Arion, unfortunately, but a projected model dressed in one of the proposed formal suits. Still, the height, the shoulder line, the severe black tailoring, and the sweep of gold embroidery along one cuff were close enough that Dean’s brain stopped cooperating for a full second.

Dean cleared his throat. "The collar is wrong."

Mia leaned forward with immediate interest. "Is it?"

"Yes."

Minerva tapped the tablet. "Too high?"

"No. Too decorative." Dean pointed at the screen, now deeply invested despite every principle he had ever claimed to possess. "Arion does not need embellishment near the throat. He already looks like he might sentence someone to death if their bow is uneven. If you add too much gold there, it becomes costume instead of power."

Lucas stared at his son.

Dean turned. "What?"

Lucas took a slow sip of coffee. "Nothing."

"That was not nothing."

"You sound happy."

Dean froze.

Mia made a tiny, delighted sound.

Dean looked at his father with betrayal so profound it should have required a treaty. "You cannot ambush me with emotional observation while I am fixing tailoring."

"I did not ambush you."

"You absolutely did. You waited until I was vulnerable over collar structure."

Minerva’s mouth twitched. "A dangerous state."

"It is," Dean said. "People underestimate it."

Lucas’s expression softened. "I am glad you are thinking about the wedding."

Dean looked away too quickly.

That was the problem. He was thinking about it. More than thinking. He wanted it with an intensity that made him feel exposed. Not the ceremony, exactly. Not the cameras, or the seating maps, or the diplomatic aftermath, or the unbearable number of people who would look at him and decide what story his face told beside Arion’s.

But Arion in black and gold.

Lucas there.

Mia laughing at him.

Minerva calmly weaponizing fabric.

Boreas, hopefully not opening doors to Sahan princes during the proceedings.

The idea that he would stand beside Arion in front of everyone and not be offered, corrected, transferred, hidden, or negotiated.

Chosen.

Publicly.

The thought hurt in a way that was not pain.

Dean lowered his gaze to the fabric swatches. "The wedding matters."

Mia’s expression softened.

Dean immediately pointed at her. "Do not make that face."

"What face?"

"The face that says you are about to be kind."

"I am always kind."

"You are drinking wine before noon and threatening people with fittings."

"That is how I show love."

Lucas set his coffee down. "Dean."

Dean closed his eyes. "No."

"I am proud of you."

"Absolutely not."

Mia lifted her glass. "Too late. It landed."

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "This is why I wanted the restricted zone."

Minerva tilted her head. "Would you like to assign symbolic meanings to the floral structure instead?"

Dean opened his eyes slowly. "You are threatening me with flowers."

"I am redirecting you."

"Violently."

"Effectively."

Mia looked at Lucas. "I like her."

Lucas nodded. "She is very good."

"I am surrounded," Dean muttered.

The screen shifted again. This time, Dean’s proposed attire appeared beside Arion’s. Deep wine, muted ivory, a narrow line of imperial green, and gold at the wrist and waist, not possessive, not submissive, not swallowed by Alamina’s black.

Joined.

Dean stared at it.

The room quieted without anyone deciding to be quiet.

It should have been too much. The red, perhaps. The gold. The ivory. The shape beside Arion’s suit, standing there on the projected models like some polished version of a future Dean who had not yet learned to touch without flinching.

Minerva’s voice came softer. "We can adjust the green."

"No," Dean said.

Mia watched him.

Dean swallowed. "Keep it. It should be there."

Lucas’s gaze settled on him, warm and careful.

Dean looked at the screen instead of at his father. "If I’m marrying Arion, Alamina should be there. Just not... taking over."

"It won’t," Minerva said. "I give you my word."

Dean believed her, which was irritating because belief required trust and trust was becoming far too common in his life lately.

His phone buzzed.

Every head in the room turned toward it.

Dean snatched it up. "Stop looking like that."

Mia leaned closer. "Is it Arion?"

Dean read the message.

Not crying yet. But the Vales are publicly dead.

Dean stared at it.

For a second, the wedding palette blurred with the weight of what those words meant.

Publicly dead.

Dean breathed once.

Then typed back.

Efficient. Come back. Mia is discussing wedding suits, and I am vulnerable.

The reply came fast.

On my way.

Dean held the phone for a heartbeat too long.

Mia rested her chin on her hand. "That is a very soft face for a man allegedly furious."

Dean lowered the phone. "You are becoming a threat."

"I was born a threat. Ask Lucas."

Lucas said, "I found her like that."

Minerva turned the screen back to Arion’s ceremonial options with the cold mercy of a woman who understood distraction needed fresh ammunition. "Before Arion arrives, we should decide whether the second reception suit includes the Palatine ivory lining or keeps to Alaminan green."

Dean sat up. "Second reception?"

Mia’s eyes brightened. "Oh, we are deep now."

"No," Dean said, already leaning forward. "Show me."

Minerva showed him.

The second reception suit was more relaxed, though only by royal standards, which meant a normal person would still feel judged by its seams. Black remained the base, but the jacket had a subtle green undertone visible only when the light moved across it. The gold was nearly hidden, a line at the inner cuff and along the edge of the lapel.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

Lucas looked amused. "He likes it."

Dean did not look away from the screen. "I did not say that."

"You leaned forward."

"That is visual analysis."

Mia said, "Your pupils changed."

Dean turned to her in outrage. "Do not inspect me biologically over tailoring."

"You made it easy."

Minerva tapped another option. "This version includes ivory lining."

Dean stared.

"No."

Minerva nodded. "Agreed."

The aide deleted the option so quickly Dean almost respected him.

The door opened.

Dean did not need to turn to know that Arion entered.

His eyes found Dean first.

Dean hated how immediately his body relaxed.

Mia saw that too, because apparently her hobbies included emotional espionage.

Arion paused just inside the room, taking in the wall screen, the swatches, Minerva’s tablet, Mia’s wine, Lucas’s coffee, Boreas occupying Dean’s feet, and Dean sitting upright with the expression of a man caught committing affection in public.

"Wedding suits?" Arion asked.

Dean lifted his chin. "Security crisis required aesthetic intervention."

"I see."

"You do not."

Arion crossed the room and stopped beside the sofa. "House Vale is under public investigation. The announcement has gone live. Andrea is alive. His family is ruined enough to understand vocabulary now."

Mia raised her glass. "Productive."

Lucas’s gaze sharpened. "And Andrea?"

Arion’s expression cooled. "Still stupid."

Dean exhaled. "Expected."

"Yes." Arion’s gaze dropped briefly to the screen. "Is that me?"

Dean looked at the projected suit.

Then back at Arion.

"Yes."

Arion studied it. "The collar is wrong."

Dean froze.

Mia made a strangled sound.

Lucas closed his eyes like a man accepting destiny.

Minerva looked from Arion to Dean with dawning, dangerous satisfaction.

Dean stared at his mate. "That is exactly what I said."

Arion’s mouth curved faintly. "Then you were right."

Dean hated him.

Dean loved him.

Dean especially hated that Arion had walked out of a treason meeting, publicly killed a noble house, returned smelling faintly of violence and cold authority, and immediately agreed with him about collar structure.

Mia whispered, "Oh, this marriage is going to be unbearable."

Lucas nodded. "For everyone else, yes."

Arion sat beside Dean, close enough that their shoulders touched. "Continue."

Dean looked at him suspiciously. "You want to discuss suits?"

"You said you were vulnerable."

"That was a crisis message."

Arion’s eyes warmed. "Then I am here for the crisis."

Mia lifted her wine again. "To seven suits and treason."

"No," Dean said.

Minerva, without hesitation, said, "To seven suits and treason."

Lucas raised his coffee.

Arion, traitor, inclined his head.

Dean stared at all of them.

Then, because the day had clearly abandoned dignity hours ago, he picked up the wine-red swatch and placed it beside Arion’s black.

"Fine," he said. "But if anyone makes the floral symbolism emotional, I’m leaving."

Minerva tapped her tablet.

The floral file opened.

Dean closed his eyes.

Everyone laughed.