Chapter 97: Chapter 97: The cursed fitting
Chris had managed two hours of sleep, barely, before someone started knocking like the building was on fire.
He groaned, dragging the blanket over his head. The sheets still smelled faintly like spice and heat from the call that should not have happened. He’d told himself it was nothing. Just Dax being Dax. The king probably called all his subordinates at ungodly hours from the bathtub while discussing near-assassinations and child marriages. Totally normal behavior. Entirely professional.
The knocking came again, sharper this time.
"Christopher Malek, if you don’t open this door in the next ten seconds, I will personally drag you out by your hair!"
He groaned louder. "Hanna, it’s six in the morning."
"Six-oh-three," came the reply, crisp and merciless. "And I’ve been waiting for this fitting since Tuesday."
Chris peeked out from under the blanket. "Tuesday was three days ago."
"Exactly."
He considered pretending to be dead. It would’ve been easier.
The door flew open anyway. Hanna stormed in like a force of nature, tape measure around her neck, pins clenched between her teeth, and hair pulled back with military precision. Behind her followed two assistants and a rack of garments so pristine it looked like a diplomatic mission of its own.
Rowan trailed after them, coffee in hand, wearing the expression of a man who had lost every internal argument about getting involved. "Good morning," he said flatly. "Or whatever this is."
Chris squinted at him. "You were supposed to postpone this."
"I did. Twice. Nadia threatened to sedate me if I tried a third time." He shrugged.
Right on cue, Nadia, his nurse, general warden of health, and occasional executioner, appeared in the doorway with a tablet and that patient smile that hid no mercy. "He’s not supposed to skip meals, not fittings, Mr. Stone. His vitals are normal now."
Hanna crossed her arms. "See? Even the nurse agrees. Now, up."
Chris sat up reluctantly, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. "Can I at least pretend to be unconscious?"
"No," all three of them said in unison.
He sighed. "Tyrants."
Rowan sipped his coffee. "We learned from the best."
That earned him a glare sharp enough to cut steel.
Hanna ignored both of them, sweeping toward the window and yanking open the curtains. The sudden light hit Chris like a physical attack. He flinched. "You’re committing crimes," he muttered.
"I’m doing my job," Hanna replied. "Which, for the record, is making sure you don’t show up next to His Majesty looking like you’ve been resurrected from an academic graveyard."
"Can’t we delay the public appearance?" Chris asked, voice muffled by the blanket.
"No," Hanna said. "The press already has the schedule, and Dax specifically requested your attendance."
That made Chris pause. "He what?"
Rowan looked at him over the rim of his cup. "Don’t act surprised. He likes having you around; you make him look human."
Chris gave him a flat stare. "Remind me to trip you later."
"Promises, promises," Rowan murmured, utterly amused by the omega’s suffering.
Nadia set her tablet on the nightstand, her tone all business. "Breakfast first, then measurements. And for once, eat something solid. No coffee until I say so."
"I hate this regime," Chris muttered under his breath, but he took the tray Hanna thrust at him: oatmeal, fruit, and something green he didn’t want to identify.
He ate because arguing was pointless and because Rowan was watching like a patient executioner. Hanna and her assistants began laying out fabrics and jackets, talking in brisk tones about color palettes and formal posture. Every so often, they’d pause to glance at him like he was a particularly uncooperative mannequin.
When he finished eating, Hanna swooped back in. "Good. Now stand."
Chris stood. Slowly. Grudgingly.
Hanna tugged the blanket off his shoulders with a theatrical move and began circling him with her tape measure. "You’ve lost weight."
"Occupational hazard."
"Of what? Avoiding sunlight?"
"Your king’s orders."
She muttered something in a language that sounded like an insult. Rowan chuckled.
As Hanna adjusted the collar of a dark suit against his shoulders, she stepped back, assessing. "You clean up well," she said finally.
"I’m flattered," Chris said dryly. "Does this mean I can go back to bed?"
"No," Hanna replied, handing him something that looked like a robe. "Try this one. You’re supposed to look like someone who belongs beside a king, not someone who wandered in by mistake."
Chris caught the garment midair, blinking down at it. It shimmered in the morning light, soft cream silk overlaid with black panels embroidered in gold so intricate they almost seemed alive. It was heavy in his hands, absurdly luxurious, and unmistakably not something meant for him.
He frowned. "Hanna... this looks like a dress."
"It’s not a dress," Hanna said, too quickly.
"It has a skirt part," he countered, holding it up by the shoulders. "A very elaborate, very expensive skirt."
"It’s traditional omega formalwear," Hanna said with the clipped patience of someone who had rehearsed that line for this exact argument. "Sahan design. His Majesty’s order."
Chris stared at her, deadpan. "His Majesty can wear it, then."
Hanna didn’t flinch. "He already does wear traditional Sahan clothes all the time. And so will you."
"No."
"Yes."
"Absolutely not."
"Yes, Christopher," she said, her tone sharpening with every syllable. "It’s symbolic unity. You’re to appear beside him in Sahan tradition, which means the royal omega robes. This is not a suggestion." Her cadence now matched a teacher exasperated by an especially slow student.
Chris set the garment back on the rack calmly. "You’re saying the King of Saha sent you here to make me wear something that belongs in a museum?"
"I’m saying he ordered it because it’s part of the ceremony," Hanna snapped, exasperation breaking through her usual composure. "And you, as his partner, will respect that."
"Partner?" Chris repeated, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. "I didn’t sign up to be dressed like a historical artifact."
Nadia had been quietly pretending to review her tablet, but at that, she looked up. Rowan, who had been leaning against the wall, raised an eyebrow over the rim of his cup.
"Maybe," Rowan said mildly, "we should wait until His Majesty returns from Rohan before finalizing wardrobe diplomacy."
Hanna shot him a glare. "He gave direct instruction..."
"Which might have been... open to interpretation," Nadia interrupted smoothly, stepping forward. "Christopher hasn’t been publicly introduced in this role yet."
Rowan nodded. "Best to get Dax’s final approval in person. He might not want this particular look leaked before the event."
For a heartbeat, Hanna looked like she was calculating the odds of surviving a war against all three of them. Then she exhaled sharply, snapping the measuring tape around her wrist. "Fine. You can discuss it with His Majesty when he returns."
She gestured sharply to her assistants, who began gathering up the fabrics. "We’re ending the fitting here. For now."
"Wonderful," Chris said under his breath, tugging the blanket back over his shoulders like armor.
Hanna ignored him entirely, her heels clicking in rapid succession as she stormed toward the door. "When he agrees with me," she said over her shoulder, "and he will, I expect you to be ready."
The door slammed shut behind her.
Silence settled. Rowan took a slow sip of coffee, smirking. "You handled that with impressive restraint."
Chris shot him a look. "I almost set the thing on fire."
"I know," Rowan said cheerfully. "That’s why I intervened."
Nadia shook her head, half amused, half weary. "Try not to antagonize the tailoring staff before breakfast. They’re the only ones keeping you from looking like a scandal."
Chris stared at the closed door for a long moment, then glanced at the robe still hanging on the rack, the black and gold gleaming like a challenge.
He sighed. "He better have one hell of an explanation when he gets back."
Rowan chuckled softly. "You mean Dax?"
"No," Chris said flatly. "God."
He cursed under his breath. "I’m not wearing it."
"Of course not," Rowan said, entirely unconvincing.