After a whole night of running back and forth, Christopher was moments away from collapsing into bed when a sharp realization jolted him upright.
The wedding.
He groaned, burying his face into his palms. In the chaos of rebellion and politics, he had forgotten the one thing that mattered most right now—his wedding arrangements.
He had originally wanted to plan everything himself—to surprise Wellesley, to create something magical and intimate. But reality wasn't giving him the time or freedom to pull off a quiet miracle. Still, the opportunity hadn't vanished completely. If he acted now, there was a chance. A messy, rushed, chaotic chance.
Without wasting a second, he summoned Arslan.
The knight arrived groggy, shirt wrinkled, hair tousled from sleep. "What now?" he muttered, expecting an emergency strategy meeting.
Instead, Christopher handed him a scroll and launched into orders.
"Arslan, listen carefully. Go to the market and get everything on this list. Make sure it's all top-tier—nothing less. I want the finest fabrics, the best jewels, the most talented tailors. And find a venue—someplace breathtaking. Think mountaintop, private beach, hidden palace, something with soul. The kind of place people write stories about. You get me?"
Arslan blinked at him, stunned into silence. His mind was already unraveling.
Oh merciful Akrat… what sin have I committed to deserve this? My lord, asking me… a battle-hardened warrior… to shop for lace and floral arrangements? I, Arslan—son of Duke Ornaland, Slayer of Dourmoor, the Unbreakable Shield—have been reduced to a glorified wedding planner.
Christopher raised an eyebrow. "Is your brain malfunctioning? Or do you need a second list?"
"I… no, no," Arslan muttered, shaking himself. "I heard you. All of it. Just… processing."
"Good. Process faster."
Despite the mental agony, a part of Arslan was oddly pleased. His lord—once cold and indifferent—was changing. Caring. Softening. This wasn't weakness. It was something closer to… hope.
Fine. I'll do this. If my lord is trying, then so will I. Even if I die buried under flower petals.
He gave a deep bow. "It shall be done."
Less than an hour later, Arslan returned with impressive speed, handing over a compiled list of elite boutiques, master jewelers, and venues of legendary repute. Christopher scanned the parchment quickly and circled three names.
First on his list: the dress.
Wellesley wouldn't wear just anything. She would wear something otherworldly—something that made the gods themselves jealous.
He set out for The Rosa Boutique, an exclusive establishment owned by high nobility. It was well-known across the Empire for catering only to the elite, and even they had to wait months for their orders to be completed.
Christopher, of course, had no intention of waiting.
He reached the grand boutique and turned to Arslan. "Handle the guards."
"With pleasure," Arslan muttered, already cracking his knuckles as he strolled toward the front entrance, preparing for his own brand of 'negotiation.'
Christopher entered with purposeful strides, storming past the clerks and assistants without hesitation. The boutique's manager was seated behind a mahogany desk, sipping tea—until he looked up and nearly dropped the cup in his lap.
Before the man could shout for security, Christopher slammed his imperial crest on the desk.
"Save the lecture," he said sharply. "I'm not in the mood. I need a wedding dress—and not just any dress. I want the dress. Something legendary. You will drop everything and make it happen. Don't try to bargain. Don't try to sweet-talk. And definitely don't try to delay. You'll do it, or you'll be out of business by morning. Simple?"
The manager gulped and nodded frantically.
As Christopher turned to leave the office, a familiar voice echoed inside his head.
> Prince: "You. Absolute. Maniac. You're using my name and crest to barge into a boutique—for a wedding dress?!"
Christopher didn't break stride. Here we go again.
> Prince: "You swore she was a tool. A pawn in the game. And now you're out here picking lace and pearls like a lovesick poet! Make it make sense!"
Christopher sighed, rubbing his temple. "Prince, not now."
> Prince: "No. Now. Explain yourself. How can you claim to be using her and at the same time plan something this elaborate? You've lost it."
He stopped briefly in the corridor, quieting his thoughts.
"I'm not contradicting myself," he muttered aloud to no one. "I said we need her. And we do. But she's not a pawn anymore. She's… more. She needs to feel wanted. Chosen. If we're going to keep her on our side, she has to believe in us. This dress, this wedding, every detail—it's how I prove that to her."
> Prince: "And you think a dress will do that?"
"I think effort will," Christopher said. "Let me handle it. Just… go to sleep and let me work."
The Prince grumbled but went quiet, leaving Christopher to his own thoughts.
.And far away, unaware of the chaos swirling in her name…
Wellesley remained completely in the dark—about the wedding, the preparations, and the man planning to shatter every rule of war and love just to see her smile.