Time moved differently when an event had been named.
Once the date existed, once it had been written and publicly anounced, it stopped being a future and became a countdown. Dean could feel it in the way the manor staff walked a little faster, in the way his phone lit up with reminders and confirmations and 'final checks,' and in the way Lucas's presence in the house stood out like a silent boundary to the outside world.
His birthday and the engagement ceremony were approaching with alarming speed, like two trains on the same track pretending they weren't headed for impact.
Dean stood in his rooms at the Fitzgeralt manor in the capital, staring at the suit as if it had personally offended him.
It hung on the wardrobe door, perfectly displayed, perfectly pressed, tailored to an inch of his life, possibly even less, because the tailor had looked at him like Dean's body was a national project. The fabric was dark, expensive, and dramatic in a way that made Dean want to argue with it. The lines were clean enough to make him look like he belonged in a palace, even if he walked in barefoot.
It was beautiful.
It was also… pretentious.
And right beside it hung the backup suit.
Slightly simpler. Slightly less theatrical. Still expensive, still fitted, still formal enough to make the staff nod approvingly as if Dean had made the correct noble choice and not simply picked the option that made him want to crawl out of his skin less.
Dean stared at the two suits like they were competing versions of himself.
He didn't know which one felt truer.
He didn't know if he wanted to be true.
He just wanted to get through it without becoming a story people told at dinners for the next ten years.
He reached out and brushed his fingers against the sleeve of the first suit, testing the fabric like it might reveal its intentions if he pressed hard enough.
His reflection in the mirror looked back with that same careful neutrality he'd perfected over the years, a calm face, cool eyes, and a posture built to keep people from noticing how much he was thinking.
Dean exhaled and turned away from the mirror before he could get caught in it.
The last time he'd seen Arion—after Sylvia, after lemonade diplomacy and threats disguised as jokes—something had changed for the better.
Arion had been calmer. Less inclined to descend into violence. Less like a man constantly fighting his own body. He had spoken with fewer blades hidden in the words. He had listened. He had even, Dean still couldn't quite wrap his mind around it, looked amused without it feeling like mockery.
He hadn't been as bad as people said.
When he wasn't being dragged by the throat through his own flare-ups.
Dean's mouth tightened.
Those flare-ups were the part nobody joked about. The part that didn't get turned into edits on social media or gossip in salons. The part that sat under all the politics like a biological threat: a dominant alpha's body pushing toward that berserk edge when there was no mate to stabilize it. Arion hid it well, but Dean had seen glimpses, seconds where Arion's control looked less like confidence and more like sheer discipline holding a storm behind his ribs.
Dean didn't like thinking about it.
Not because it made Arion look weak, but because it made him look… human.
And that complicated everything.
Dean leaned back against the edge of the wardrobe and closed his eyes for a second.
Maybe Arion wasn't as bad as people said.
Or maybe Dean was just blinded by that damn face.
He opened his eyes again and stared at the suit as if it could answer him.
"You know," Sylvia said from the doorway, like she'd been summoned by the word 'face' itself, "it's the face."
Dean didn't startle, because he had long ago accepted that Sylvia Croft moved through locked spaces and private moods like she owned them.
He turned his head slowly. "Why are you here?"
Sylvia stood with one shoulder against the open doorframe, coat half on, hair slightly messy, expression bright with the kind of vindictive satisfaction that meant she'd just ruined someone's day on purpose. Her eyes flicked to the suits, then back to Dean, and her mouth quirked.
"Nice," she said. "Very 'I'm about to become international property.'"
Dean groaned. "Sylvia."
She waved a hand. "Relax. I'm here to deliver news and commit emotional support violence."
Dean narrowed his eyes. "That's not a service."
"It absolutely is," Sylvia replied. "And you're welcome."
Dean crossed his arms. "Why are you here?"
Sylvia sighed dramatically, stepping fully into the room like the concept of privacy was optional. "Well. Professors found out about your fiancé's sweet offer for me."
Dean's stomach tightened. "How?"
Sylvia's expression turned viciously pleased. "Because people have mouths and Palatine has boredom. Someone heard 'university accommodations' and immediately experienced religious awakening."
Dean exhaled through his nose. "Of course they did."
"And now," Sylvia continued, strolling toward the wardrobe like she had business with it, "they've started trying to climb."
Dean watched her with a bad feeling. "Climb what?"
Sylvia turned, beaming. "The ladder."
Dean blinked utterly confused. "What ladder?"
Sylvia pointed at herself with both hands. "Me. I'm the fucking ladder."
Dean stared at her for a beat, then burst out laughing, sharp and involuntary. "Oh my god."
Sylvia nodded solemnly. "Yes. Exactly. So I used it as an excuse to come here."
Dean's smile faded into a grimace. "Syl, you cannot be…"
"A conduit for academic ambition?" Sylvia finished cheerfully. "Too late. They've already decided I'm a career opportunity with legs."
Dean dragged a hand down his face. "What are they doing?"
Sylvia's expression shifted into a perfect imitation of an earnest academic who had never met shame. "'Sylvia, dear, we heard you might be relocating to Alamina, and we just wanted to say that if you need any… letters… recommendations… introductions… research projects…'" She widened her eyes innocently. "One of them called me 'dear.' Dean. I almost committed a homicide."
Dean's brows lifted. "In the hallway."
"Yes," Sylvia said, proud. "Verbally."
Dean tried to look stern. He failed. "So you came here to hide."
"I came here to recover," Sylvia corrected. "And to remind you that your fiancé is accidentally a menace to Palatine's academic ecosystem."
Dean's mouth twitched. "Accidentally."
"He offered me stability," Sylvia said, as if reciting a sacred text, "and the entire capital heard 'stability' and started foaming at the mouth."
Dean exhaled slowly. "You're enjoying this."
Sylvia's eyes gleamed. "No. I'm thriving."
Dean gestured at the suits. "Do you want to make yourself useful and help me pick?"
Sylvia walked up and examined the first suit with exaggerated seriousness, pinching the lapel like she was evaluating evidence. "This one says, 'I'm marrying into a foreign empire and I will ruin your bloodline with paperwork.'"
Dean blinked. "That's… specific."
Sylvia moved to the second suit, thoughtful. "This one says, 'I'm still myself, but now with a treaty attached.'"
Dean stared at her. "You're making it worse."
Sylvia smiled brightly. "That's my job."
Dean sighed, then glanced toward the mirror again, the knot in his chest tightening. "I just… don't want to be ridiculous."
Sylvia turned to him, expression softening for half a second, so brief it was almost a mistake. "Dean. You're going to be ridiculous no matter what you wear."
Dean narrowed his eyes. "Thank you."
"I mean it kindly," Sylvia insisted. "Because you're you. And because he's… him." She pointed vaguely toward the capital, as if Arion's existence was a direction. "You could show up in a potato sack, and he'd still look at you like you're the most important thing in the room."
Dean's throat tightened. "Stop."
Sylvia lifted her hands. "Fine. I'll stop."
She paused, then added, unable to help herself, "But it's still the face."