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.
