Dean did not look at him yet. "For Arion."

The room went quiet.

Arion’s hand at Dean’s waist tightened once.

Dean felt it, turned his head slowly, and immediately regretted it.

Arion was looking at the tiepin as if Dean had not chosen a small piece of blackened silver from a catalogue but had reached inside him, found something carefully hidden, and placed it on the table for both of them to see.

Dean’s face warmed.

"No," he said at once.

Arion blinked. "No?"

"No looking like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I handed you a province."

Arion’s voice was quieter than before. "You chose something for me."

"It is a tie pin."

"Yes."

"You own buildings."

"Yes."

"You can buy this entire maison, probably."

"Yes."

"And somehow the tie pin is the emotional damage?"

Arion’s mouth curved, but his eyes remained too soft. "Yes."

Dean stared at him.

Then looked away because that was intolerable.

The jeweler, proving she was a woman of survival and intelligence, pretended to make a note on her tablet with great seriousness.

Dean cleared his throat. "It matches the collar. If I have to be overdesigned, so do you."

Arion leaned closer, his mouth near Dean’s temple. "Choose anything else you want."

Dean’s eyes narrowed. "That sentence is how empires fall."

"It is how husbands show appreciation."

"No, it is how billionaires commit emotional terrorism with accessories."

Arion looked unbothered. "Choose."

Dean looked down at the catalogue again.

The catalogue was worse now that he was actually looking. There were collar designs that were too ceremonial, too obvious, and too heavy with old omega traditions Dean had no patience for. He dismissed those immediately. But then there were others, modern bands, private pieces, layered fabrics, flexible structures, discreet clasps, and black and silver and dark violet details subtle enough to be dangerous.

And worse, there were matching pieces.

Tie pins.

Cuff details.

Lapel pins.

Small things Arion could wear that would say nothing to most people and everything to Dean.

Dean hated the entire system.

He turned a page. "This one."

Arion looked.

A second collar. More formal than the first. A black layered band with a hidden clasp and a narrow silver line that sat slightly higher at the front, sharp enough for public appearances without looking like a relic from some ancestral omega archive.

"And this," Dean said, pointing to the matching tie pin below it.

Arion did not speak.

Dean glanced at him. "You are doing the face again."

"I like your taste."

"You like that I am participating in your insanity."

"That too."

Dean turned the page harder than necessary.

The jeweler made another note.

A third collar appeared in the archive, narrower and softer, meant for private wear, apparently. Dean nearly skipped it, then paused because the material description included black silk mesh, light support, and a clasp that could be hidden completely under the side of the throat.

Dean pointed. "That one is acceptable."

Arion’s eyes sharpened.

Dean immediately added, "Private. Only private."

"Yes."

"And do not say yes like you just won a war."

"I would never."

"You would. You are doing it silently."

The jeweler’s mouth twitched.

Dean looked at her. "You are laughing spiritually."

"That seems difficult to prove in court, Your Highness."

Dean froze.

Then turned toward Arion.

"You infected her."

Arion looked deeply pleased with himself. "She has excellent instincts."

"She has betrayal instincts."

"With respect," the jeweler said, "I have commission instincts."

Dean pointed at her. "That is worse."

By the time the fourth design was discussed, Dean had given up pretending he was not interested.

The fourth collar was almost plain, clean black fabric with a thin angled piece of silver at the side, designed to sit slightly lower than the others. Not quite formal, not quite private. Something for dinner, perhaps. Or travel. Or all the ridiculous modern royal situations Dean was apparently going to survive for the rest of his life.

Arion liked it too much.

Dean narrowed his eyes at him. "No visible Dax influence."

Arion paused.

Dean pointed at the pause. "That. That is the problem."

"It has dramatic balance."

"It has Sahan provocation disguised as Alaminian restraint."

"It suits you."

The jeweler made another note.

The fifth collar happened because Dean saw a tie pin first.

He was looking for something for Arion. That had become, unfortunately, the most dangerous part of the appointment. It was easier to choose for Arion than for himself until it was not. Until Arion went still every time Dean selected something and looked at him like being chosen was more important than price, rank, or tradition.

The fifth tie pin was blackened silver with a nearly invisible thread of dark violet enamel set through the center.

Dean stared at it.

Arion followed his gaze.

Dean said nothing.

Arion said nothing.

The jeweler, who had clearly become too competent to be trusted, quietly turned the catalogue to show the matching collar.

Dean closed his eyes. "Of course."

The fifth collar was not loud. That was why it was dangerous. A slim black band with the same hidden violet thread woven into the lower edge, almost invisible unless light touched it. It would match Dean’s eyes only if someone stood close enough to notice.

Arion would notice.

Arion would always notice.

Dean rubbed at his brow. "This is your fault."

Arion sounded far too content. "Yes."

"At least pretend to deny it."

"No."

Dean looked at the jeweler. "Five collars. Five matching pins. Write that down before he multiplies again."

The jeweler’s fingers moved over the tablet. "Already noted, Your Highness."

Arion’s hand moved from Dean’s waist to his fingers, brushing over his wedding ring with a gentleness that made Dean’s pulse misbehave. "I am happy."

The words came out of nowhere.

Rain tapped against the windows. Outside, the convoy waited in the deepening gray of Ylico’s October evening. Inside, five collar designs and five matching tie pins sat on the table like evidence of a honeymoon gone completely off route.

Dean swallowed.

Then reached for the pastry because there were emotional emergencies only butter could solve.

The jeweler reviewed the final notes with terrifying efficiency. Materials, fittings, clasp preferences, weight limits, flexibility, inner lining, no rigid metal, no visible Dax influence, no diamonds large enough to become declarations, no discomfort under any circumstances.

Arion added that last condition twice.

Dean pretended not to notice.

By the time the jeweler closed her tablet, the light outside had shifted from rainy afternoon to early evening. Street lamps glowed through the mist. The atelier’s gold interior had become warmer, softer, and more intimate, which Dean considered manipulative architecture.

"All five sets can be completed this week," the jeweler said.

Dean blinked. "This week?"

Arion did not react.

That meant he had expected it.

Dean turned to him slowly. "Arion."

"They are efficient."

Dean didn’t believed him, but there was no point in fighting him anymore.