Sylvia had learned that imperial wedding preparations did not look like romance from the outside.

They looked like war.

Soft war, perhaps. Expensive war. War fought with color palettes, guest protocols, security corridors, diplomatic seating, floral logistics, ceremonial wardrobe approvals, and a terrifying number of women who could look at fabric and somehow discuss national stability.

Half a year ago, Sylvia had been a civilian with a university schedule, a small room in the dorms when she wanted to be away from her parents, several opinions about fried food, and Dean as her impossible best friend.

Now she was still attending university, still trying to remember that assignments existed, and also training to become the personal secretary of a future consort.

No.

Not just consort.

Future crown prince consort of Alamina.

And because Dean had the personal survival instinct of a knife thrown at a wall, possibly one of the most politically watched omegas in the world.

Sylvia lay on her sofa in the apartment Arion had bought and put in her name with the same terrifying casualness other people used to buy coffee.

Her phone rested above her face now, scrolling through the restricted social feed used by the royal and imperial families.

It was absurd that she had access.

It was more absurd that she used it mostly to look at wedding chaos.

Minerva had posted a private planning update labeled: Preliminary ceremonial palette approved.

Dean had commented: "That gold was still too yellow."

Arion had replied: "Correct."

Mia had added: "This marriage will be unbearable."

Lucas had liked only Mia’s comment.

Sylvia laughed quietly into the empty apartment.

Then she scrolled again.

A picture appeared from one of the internal Alaminan palace accounts. Dean stood beside Arion in one of the fitting rooms, half annoyed, half fascinated, holding a strip of wine-red fabric, while Arion looked down at him with the kind of expression that made Sylvia feel like she was intruding on something, despite the fact that both of them were fully dressed and surrounded by four tailors.

Dean’s caption was: "I am being oppressed by embroidery."

Arion had commented: "You approved the embroidery."

Dean replied: "Under emotional pressure."

Arion: "You threatened the tailor."

Dean: "That was constructive feedback."

Sylvia smiled until it hurt.

Then the smile softened.

Because there he was too.

Thomas Lancaster existed in her messages as a name she had not opened for twelve minutes and had absolutely not been checking every thirty seconds.

He had sent her one message after arriving in Rohan.

I survived the first conversation with Mother. Heather was worse.

Sylvia had replied: Did anyone die?

Thomas: Not physically.

Sylvia: Progress.

Thomas: I thought so too.

And then, several hours later:

Thank you for the wine.

She had stared at that sentence for an embarrassing amount of time.

She was in love with a man she had no business being in love with.

A dominant alpha.

A military commander.

Seven feet of calm, honorable disaster with soft brown eyes and the emotional damage of someone who had spent months waiting for a person who never reached back.

Sylvia was a beta.

She knew what that meant.

She knew what he needed.

She knew what she was not.

Emotions existed without consent most of the time, yes, but biology still existed after emotions finished their dramatic entrance.

Her phone buzzed.

For one wild, stupid second, her heart jumped.

Then she saw the name.

Nero.

Sylvia blinked in disappointment.

Nero: Do you want to get wings?

She stared at the message.

Then at the ceiling.

Then back at the message.

Sylvia: Why?

Nero: Because it is my last day in Palatine before returning to Saha.

Sylvia: That explains your location, not the wings.

Nero: Dean and Arion are busy.

Sylvia: And I am your replacement entertainment?

Nero: You are more fun than palace staff and less likely to start an international incident than Dean.

Sylvia: That is rude.

Nero: It is also accurate.

Sylvia sat up slowly.

Her apartment suddenly felt too quiet.

The wedding feed was still open behind the notification, Dean still glaring at embroidery, Arion still looking at him like he had chosen the entire world and found it acceptable only because Dean was standing inside it.

Sylvia looked toward the window.

Alamina’s evening lights spread beyond the glass, golden and white and restless. Somewhere across the city, people were discussing the wedding. Somewhere else, news feeds were still chewing through House Vale’s public collapse. Somewhere in Rohan, Thomas Lancaster was probably facing his mother, his queen, and every consequence he had chosen not to avoid.

And here was Nero, crown prince of Saha, asking for wings, like that was not an insane thing to receive from a restricted royal messaging app.

Sylvia: Do you always invite people to eat fried food through secure channels?

Nero: Only people with appropriate clearance.

Sylvia laughed.

Then regretted it, because laughing alone in an apartment bought by a prince while being messaged by another prince about wings made her life feel like a fever dream with good lighting.

Sylvia: Are you allowed to leave without Hale?

Nero: Hale is coming.

Sylvia: Good. I feel safer.

Nero: From me?

Sylvia: From your decision-making.

Nero: Fair.

A pause.

Then:

Nero: Also, I think you need air.

Sylvia stopped smiling.

The words sat there, unexpectedly gentle.

She frowned at the screen.

Sylvia: Did Dean tell you to check on me?

Nero: No.

Sylvia: Arion?

Nero: Arion would have sent someone more emotionally repressed.

Sylvia: Lucas?

Nero: Lucas scares even me slightly.

Sylvia snorted.

Nero: You looked sad in the garden.

Sylvia went still.

She had forgotten Nero had been there for part of the afternoon. Quiet, half-hidden behind his own charm, watching everyone like he always did. Nero noticed too much. That was becoming a theme among dangerous royals.

Sylvia: That is a rude thing to notice.

Nero: Yes.

Sylvia: And wings fix sadness?

Nero: Maybe not. But they give it something to do with its hands, and last time you helped me.

Sylvia looked at the message for a long moment.

Then she got up.

She changed out of her loose home clothes into jeans, boots, and a dark jacket that made her look slightly less like a university student kidnapped by aristocracy and slightly more like a woman capable of surviving dinner with Nero of Saha.

Her phone buzzed again.

Nero: I am downstairs.

Sylvia froze.

Sylvia: You asked before arriving?

Nero: Technically.

Sylvia: Nero.

Nero: Hale says I should mention there is no pressure.

Sylvia looked toward the door.

Then toward the apartment.

The beautiful, safe, impossible apartment.

The future waiting for her was terrifying. Dean’s wedding. Secretary training. Imperial protocols. Thomas Lancaster’s sad eyes. The knowledge that loving someone did not mean life would become convenient enough to allow it.

But outside, there were wings.

And Nero.

And Hale, apparently, which made the situation at least thirty percent less likely to become a diplomatic incident.

Sylvia grabbed her keys.

Sylvia: Fine. But I choose the sauces.

Nero: Acceptable.

A second later:

Nero: Hale says thank you.

Sylvia smiled despite herself.

When she opened the apartment door, she paused once and looked back.

The sofa. The kitchen. The view. The life she had not expected.

Then she stepped out.

Downstairs, Nero waited beside a dark car in a long coat, white-blond hair loose, looking far too princely for someone who had suggested wings as emotional management. Hale stood beside him with the expression of a man who had already apologized internally to several governments.

Nero smiled when he saw her.

"Ready?"

Sylvia looked at him, then at Hale, then at the car.

"No," she said. "But apparently that no longer stops anyone in this social circle."

Nero’s smile widened. "Excellent. That means you’re adapting."

Sylvia sighed and got in the car.