Dean had survived the meeting with Minerva.
Physically.
Emotionally, there were still questions.
He stood in the private fitting room of the Crown Prince's residence in Roslew and stared at the suit displayed before him under museum-grade lighting, as if it were not fabric and thread but an accusation made in black silk.
The wedding suit was beautiful.
That was the problem.
Black on black, with silver embroidery so fine it looks carved and not sewn. A fitted jacket with sharp shoulders and delicate metallic patterns along the lapels. A high-necked inner layer, severe and elegant. A waist wrap that pulled the entire silhouette together with ceremonial elegance. Long black fabric fell behind it like a modern cape, sheer in movement but dark enough to look like night had agreed to serve the empire for one afternoon.
Dean swallowed.
"Absolutely unbearable," he muttered.
Behind him, one of the stylists made a quiet sound of distress.
