Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 170: Passive resistance

There was a particular sort of chaos that could only be born from locking two matriarchs, the Prime Minister, and one very accomplished but currently overwhelmed fashion designer in a room filled with bolts of rare fabric, mood boards, jeweled accessories, and the mounting pressure of a deadline that had become more myth than milestone.

Chris stood at the center of the tailoring suite with his arms slightly raised, the weight of the half-draped robe cascading from his shoulders like poured ink. He didn’t flinch when the assistants circled him with pins and measuring tape; he’d survived foundation inspections in a sandstorm. This was easier. Quieter, even, if you didn’t count the overlapping arguments happening just behind him.

"The robe needs tapering at the hem," Serathine said, her tone indulgent but firm, like someone who had once restructured a bloodline with a raised eyebrow. "The current weight drags the silhouette down. Let the embroidery rise, not drown him."

"Then increase the density near the knees and cut it off clean," Sahir countered, arms folded, immaculate in silver. "It will balance the trousers and echo the sleeve taper. And don’t forget, he has to move in this, not trip over it."

"He’ll move just fine," Cressida said crisply, her voice as refined as the cut-glass flute in her hand. "What concerns me is the neckline. It’s indecent. Who approved that dip?"

The designer made a sound between a prayer and a whimper.

Chris exhaled through his nose but said nothing. It wasn’t his place to argue about neckline design with two war-seasoned political titans and a head of government. Not when they were, by some twisted miracle, united in the belief that his robe should make a statement strong enough to match the gala where he’d stand at Dax’s side. The robe, after all, wasn’t just clothing. It was symbolism made wearable. Somehow everyone but Chris forgot that it was supposed to be Dax’s gift.

"Leave the neckline," Sahir said finally, with the reluctant air of someone granting a national pardon. "It elongates the chest line and balances the visual anchor of the collar."

Everyone glanced at the collar.

Attached and shining like a warning, the jeweled torque wrapped Chris’s neck in a lattice of locked diamonds.

"If you want the collar removed," Chris said mildly, meeting Cressida’s gaze, "you’ll have to pry it off with a crowbar or speak to Dax. I recommend neither."

That earned him a low laugh from Serathine and a hum of approval from Sahir, who motioned at the assistant nearest to the embroidery swatches.

"Bronze," he said. "No gold."

"Obviously," Cressida replied, flicking a hand. "He can’t wear gold until he’s crowned."

Chris said nothing; he was praying that the fitting would end. Not end well, just end.

Serathine leaned forward, voice slow, because she was clearly enjoying the chaos. "Keep the floral motifs. The curling vines along the robe’s hem should end at mid-thigh, like the murals in the West Wing. No more than that."

"And add pearls to the collar," Cressida added. "The collar alone is beautiful, but he has to be majestic. It should say ’I’m owned,’ not ’I’m accessorized.’"

Chris gave her a look. "I’m in the room."

"Yes, and very cooperative today," she replied without blinking.

The designer, who had survived the entire discussion with a trembling stylus and the haunted eyes of someone who once tried to coordinate a wedding for seven nobles and a tiger, finally stepped forward. "Highness, if I may confirm the final details before I’m consumed by fabric diplomacy?"

Chris tilted his head slightly, the robe shifting like liquid shadow around his form. "Go ahead."

The designer nodded, checking his tablet.

"Base: black velvet. Undershirt: ivory silk, deep plunge neckline. Trousers: tailored, high-waisted, sharp taper. Embroidery: bronze floral, ending mid-thigh and fading toward sleeves. Robe: floor-length with a weightless train. Collar: preserved as is, with added pearl lattice detailing. Shoes: obsidian leather, no pattern."

He looked up. "Approved?"

Chris glanced in the mirror one last time. His reflection stared back, quiet and composed. Elegant. Intentionally so. The deep plunge was a calculated vulnerability, the embroidery a nod to legacy, and the collar an undeniable claim. Every element rested where it should, load-bearing lines invisible to anyone who hadn’t studied structure.

Dax would understand it the moment he saw it.

Chris nodded once. "Approved."

Outside the suite, the palace hummed with quiet anticipation.

Inside, the future queen of Saha stood still in his final fitting, unmistakably chosen, unapologetically locked, and absolutely ready.

—

Chris sat curled sideways on one of the long couches in the East Wing sitting room, dressed in the loose shirt and pajama short pants. His legs were bare beneath the bathrobe now, tucked loosely under him, one hand resting lazily around a glass of cold tea he had no interest in finishing.

The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and citrus. He liked this room. It was one of the few places in the palace not overwhelmed by politics or history, and the tall windows were left open just enough for the breeze to pull through the sheer curtains like breath.

Dax entered without warning, which was to say, completely on purpose.

The king’s presence filled the room with pheromones and smug. He crossed the threshold, eyes landing on Chris like he was still assessing the threat level of his future consort lounging barefoot in state-issued silk.

His gaze lingered a little too long.

Then: "Why do you look like you’re waiting to start a war?"

Chris raised a brow without turning. "I’ve finished one. The gala suit was chosen and I’m alive."

Dax arched a brow, letting the door close behind him with a soft click. "You let them decide?"

Chris didn’t answer right away. He stretched out his legs instead, the robe slipping slightly to reveal the faint shimmer of his collar in the low light, still locked, still humming with Dax’s pheromones like a private signature.

"I let them argue," he corrected. "Then I let them believe they won. It was faster."

Dax laughed under his breath. "You’re learning."

Chris tipped his glass in mock salute. "I had excellent teachers in manipulation and passive resistance."

Dax moved closer, his gaze slid over Chris, over the loose folds of silk and the bare skin between them, and something flickered behind his eyes. Possessive. Pleased. Slightly suspicious.

"You’re not going to tell me what it looks like, are you?"

"No."

"Is that because you’re ashamed or because you want to kill me with suspense?"

Chris smirked. "Yes."

Before Dax could push further, a knock interrupted, three soft taps on the wood of the side entrance.

Chris didn’t bother sitting up. "Come in."