Thirty-one minutes later, Dean entered the eastern reception room looking as though he had spent the morning preparing for the meeting rather than being forcibly removed from his bed.
His hair was immaculate, his cream winter suit fit perfectly, and the small gold pin at his collar marked him unmistakably as a member of the imperial family.
Only Arion, walking beside him, knew Dean had spent seven of those thirty-one minutes complaining while two attendants dressed him.
"You look pleased with yourself," Arion murmured.
"I escaped the blue suit."
"You threatened to dismiss the stylist."
"I threatened to review his budget."
"That was worse."
Dean smiled pleasantly as the doors opened.
The smile remained when he entered.
