Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 149: Death in heels

Chris looked to the next swatch, which was a deep, regal violet. "And that one’s for his inner circle, right?"

Cressida inclined her head. "Yes. The House Mantle. Only those directly bound to the King, his personal council, chief officers, and select family members may wear violet in an official capacity. It represents loyalty to the person, not the state."

"Like Killian," Chris murmured, recalling the familiar color draped across the man’s shoulder.

"Precisely," Serathine confirmed. "It means proximity to power and trust."

Chris’ gaze shifted to the next color, a cool, sharp silver. "Then silver must be the Prime Minister."

"Correct again," Cressida said approvingly. "Silver marks the Executive Office and its affiliated ministers. It symbolizes structure, diplomacy, and state continuity, the government’s balancing weight to the throne."

"So the King in gold, his people in violet, the Prime Minister in silver," Chris said, ticking them off like a list. "Who’s navy?"

"Ambassadors and foreign dignitaries," Serathine explained. "Navy stands for neutrality, a declaration that they act on behalf of their sovereigns, not ours."

"And emerald?"

"Trade and economic council," Cressida said, flipping another tab open on her file. "Those are the merchants and financial representatives. Never trust someone in emerald, they’re smiling while they calculate."

Chris huffed a quiet laugh. "Noted."

Serathine smiled, pleased. "You’re catching on quickly. You’ll wear black, neutral but authoritative. It secures the King’s gold while reminding everyone that you’re not part of the cabinet or the inner circle. You’re an axis between them, but not in submission."

Chris blinked. "So, to summarize: everyone at that table will be wearing very expensive political signage, and I’ll be sitting there hoping not to trigger a diplomatic crisis with my outfit."

Cressida gave him a serene look. "Exactly. You’re learning."

He exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You people call this a dinner, but it sounds more like a hostage negotiation with better tableware."

Serathine’s laughter was low and melodic. "Welcome to the Empire’s politics, Christopher."

Cressida checked the time on her watch and closed her folder. "You have six days to memorize every title, affiliation, and mantle order. The tailors will bring your attire for fitting this afternoon."

Chris tapped his finger on the table and asked the question he really didn’t want to ask. "What color would I wear... as consort or queen?"

Serathine and Cressida looked at each other for a moment.

Serathine’s voice was softer now, though her expression remained composed. "White and ivory are reserved for the future consort or reigning queen. They symbolize balance beside the crown, purity of judgment, not necessarily innocence."

Cressida nodded, folding her arms as she added, "Gold and black are overwhelming alone; the white tempers them. When seen together, the court recognizes that one rules while the other maintains stability."

Chris went still. His finger stopped tapping. "So... white for control. Gold for chaos."

"Precisely," Serathine said, the faintest hint of amusement in her voice. "Which is why those colors are only worn together when the crown and its consort appear as one authority. You’d be the only person permitted to mirror His Majesty’s palette."

He glanced down at his hands, suddenly very aware of the collar at his throat catching the light. "Right. Because nothing says ’balance’ like dressing to complement a man who once stabbed someone with a pen."

Cressida’s lips curved, but only faintly. "Then you understand the assignment perfectly."

"I was being sarcastic," he said flatly.

"I wasn’t," Cressida replied.

Serathine leaned forward slightly, her tone dipping into something that almost sounded kind. "Don’t underestimate the message of color, Christopher. The court has long memories and sharper tongues. When you stand beside Dax, you’ll be rewriting half a century of tradition simply by existing in that space."

Chris frowned. "That sounds... dramatic."

"It is," Cressida said simply. "That’s the point. Tradition exists to be challenged, and you are the first male consort in three generations."

He tilted his head, studying them both. "And what happens if I mess up? Wear the wrong shade or something?"

Cressida looked unamused. "Then the Empire assumes internal division, the press prints it as a crisis, and His Majesty likely kills the tailor."

"Lovely," Chris muttered. "Truly a comforting work environment."

Serathine laughed quietly. "You’ll survive, dear. You’ve handled worse. And in time, you’ll learn that the court’s fear of misinterpretation is the leash that keeps them civil."

Chris exhaled, slumping slightly. "And what keeps Dax civil?"

"Currently?" Cressida said dryly. "You."

He blinked, unsure whether to feel flattered or deeply concerned. "That’s... not reassuring."

"It wasn’t meant to be," she said. "Now finish your coffee. The tailors arrive at three, and I expect you to remember at least half of today’s lesson before you start complaining again."

Serathine smiled over her teacup, amber eyes gleaming. "Try not to glare too much during the fitting, dear. The designers are easily terrified."

Chris lifted his cup in a mock salute. "No promises."

—

By the time the clock hit three, Chris had lost the ability to tell whether he’d survived the day or just stopped resisting it.

The lessons had run straight through from 8:30: etiquette, rhetoric, postural alignment, political geography, and a two-hour drill with Cressida that could have qualified as psychological warfare. Serathine had called it "polishing." Chris called Cressida "death in heels."

Now, standing in front of a full-length mirror in the fitting room, he couldn’t decide which was worse: exhaustion or the unnervingly good final result.

The tailors had worked in near silence, circling him like meticulous vultures as they pinned, adjusted, and corrected every fold of fabric. The black three-piece suit was understated perfection: slim-cut and tailored to his frame. The waistcoat hugged close and the shirt didn’t need a tie. On his throat, the silver collar gleamed, a faint metallic pulse that caught the light and refused to be ignored.

Serathine stood a few paces away, arms crossed as she studied him like a painting being appraised for auction. "Better," she said finally. "Much better. The structure suits you. Authority without arrogance."

Cressida adjusted one of the cufflinks herself, her gaze sharp. "You’ll need the jacket open at dinner. Closed is too formal for this context; it comes across as defensive. Open says comfort in power."

Chris stared at her reflection in the mirror. "You hear yourself, right?"

"I do," she said. "And you’d do well to start."

Serathine’s smile was faint and approving. "You’ve held your posture well. Shoulders straight, gaze level. You look like someone the King would listen to."

"Bold of you to assume he ever listens," Chris said dryly, though the compliment, or perhaps the truth in it, made the edge of his mouth twitch.

Cressida ignored him. "Walk."

He did, one lap down the length of the polished floor and back. The fabric moved with him, silent and fluid, the sheen subtle. The weight of the collar made itself known when he turned his head, cool against his skin. The tailors murmured to each other in satisfaction.

Serathine tilted her head. "The color is perfect. Black anchors the King’s gold. Together, it will read as intentional balance."

Chris met her gaze through the mirror. "You mean it won’t look like I was dragged here under threat?"

"That depends on how you behave at dinner," Cressida said, her tone smooth as ever.

He sighed and adjusted the shirt, his reflection glaring back at him. "Remind me why I agreed to this again?"

Serathine’s answer was soft but unflinching. "Because you care about him, even if you haven’t said it yet."

The air went still for half a second. Chris’s hand froze on his collar.

He looked away. "That’s a generous interpretation."

"Not mine," she said. "Just an observation."

Cressida checked her watch, apparently immune to the sudden tension. "You have two hours before dinner with His Majesty. The car will take you to the private suite at seven sharp. You’ll get another suit; try not to wrinkle the jacket while undressing; it’s bespoke silk blend, and I don’t want to see another tailor cry.

Chris exhaled, nodding. "Yes, ma’am."