He had chosen that dress.

The rest of his argument died on the spot.

Ace pressed his lips together, his confidence collapsing into a simmering frustration he could neither voice nor deny. Admitting it outright would only prove Aunt Lavinia right, but staying silent felt no better, especially with the creeping suspicion that she had been referring to him all along.

Worse still, a fleeting thought crossed his mind, sharp and unwelcome: if Ashley realized he had been the one to pick that dress, would she look down on him? Would she quietly agree with Aunt Lavinia’s assessment?

The possibility alone was enough to make him swallow the rest of his protest and retreat into silence, his earlier certainty replaced by an uneasy, reluctant doubt.

"Ehem..."

Gage cleared his throat, disguising the laughter he had to force down. It was hard not to suspect that Aunt Lavinia’s remark had been aimed, very precisely, at Ace. Still, he had no intention of saying it out loud.

He wasn’t exactly in a position to criticize anyone’s sense of fashion. Most of his wardrobe consisted of military uniforms or plain, unremarkable black clothing, simple shirts, dark trousers, nothing that required any real thought.

One of the reasons he favored black, almost to the point of habit, was practicality. There were times when duty did not wait, when he had to move without warning, even in the middle of civilian life. In those moments, appearances mattered. Blood, after all, had a way of drawing attention, and attention was the last thing he needed.

Dark clothing concealed what lighter fabrics would betray, masking blood stains well enough that, at a glance, nothing seemed out of place. Only those who came too close might catch the faint, metallic scent clinging to him, and even then, it was easy to dismiss.

For operations that unfolded abruptly, often in crowded spaces, that subtle advantage made all the difference.

And yet, it had never really been a problem for him to only have these kinds of clothes.

With his broad frame, well-defined muscles, and strikingly sharp features, even the most basic attire seemed to fall into place on him effortlessly. He carried it the way a perfectly built mannequin might, except far more alive, and far more imposing.

Whether it was a fitted uniform or a plain black ensemble, it clung to him in a way that made simplicity look deliberate rather than lacking.

So while he might not know what suited women best, he knew enough to keep quiet and let Ace suffer through the moment alone.

The others fell silent as well, none of them any better off. Their wardrobes leaned toward muted, unremarkable tones, and with most of their clothing bespoke and custom-made, especially in Apollo’s case, they had never needed to think much about style in the first place.

All they ever did was stand still, let the tailors take their measurements, and approve whatever was presented to them. If it looked decent and felt comfortable, that was enough.

The same logic had followed when it came to Ophelia. The things they chose for her were based on vague assumptions, what they thought girls might like, what looked ornate, and what carried a certain price tag.

And each time, Ophelia had received their gifts with bright smiles, wearing them eagerly in front of them as if they had chosen perfectly. That had been enough reassurance. They had never questioned it, never considered that their sense of fashion might be lacking.

But now, with Aunt Lavinia voicing it so plainly, doubt began to creep in where there had been none before.

Watching their expressions shift, subtle at first, then increasingly uncertain, Ashley followed their line of thought and let her gaze drift toward Ophelia. The dress said everything. Frilled, overly delicate, almost princess-like... it didn’t take much to connect the dots. Understanding dawned, and for a brief, dangerous moment, she nearly laughed.

But luckily, she managed to hold it in.

To be fair, Ophelia could carry it. With her looks, the style didn’t completely betray her; if anything, she resembled a living doll, polished and picture-perfect. But Ashley knew that wasn’t the point. On anyone else, it would have been a complete disaster, so Ophelia’s beauty played the most part.

If she were going shopping, she would much rather go with Aunt Lavinia. The older woman was right; women understood these things far better. Still, more than that, the light absurdity of the moment had done something unexpected.

The darker thoughts that had been circling her earlier quietly lost their hold. And for now, she let them stay buried at the back of her mind.

’Maybe... I can try to get along with them. With my brothers... and even with her.’

The thought came quietly, almost hesitantly, but it settled in Ashley’s mind with surprising steadiness. It wasn’t acceptance, not yet, but it was a beginning.

Ophelia, however, felt none of that lightness. Watching the others struggle to suppress their laughter, seeing the ease that had settled over them, only sharpened the irritation in her chest.

She knew, she was certain, that it was all because of Ashley. And that realization sat bitterly on her tongue. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she forced herself to stay composed, holding her temper in check just enough to avoid drawing attention.

Then Apollo spoke.

"Alright. If that’s the case... take this."

Before anyone could react, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and drew out a sleek black card, extending it toward Ashley without hesitation.

For the first time since she had taken her seat, Ashley’s composure cracked.

Surprise flickered openly across her face, genuine and unguarded. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. For a brief moment, she simply stared.

Because what Apollo held out wasn’t just any card.

It was a Black Dragon card.

Among those who understood its significance, the name alone carried weight. It wasn’t something one could apply for, nor purchase, nor obtain through influence alone. The issuing institution extended invitations only to individuals who stood at the very pinnacle of power and wealth, which was no more than one hundred across the entire world.

To hold such a card wasn’t merely a convenience; it was a declaration. A symbol of status recognized in every corner where power mattered.

And its function went far beyond that of an ordinary credit card.

It wasn’t a line of borrowed funds; it was a direct extension of its owner’s entire financial empire. Every asset, every account, every measure of wealth tied seamlessly into a single instrument.

In essence, it was less a card and more a mobile vault, a condensed access point to everything its holder possessed. Naturally, something of that magnitude came with protections just as formidable, layered encryption, and safeguards designed to prevent even the slightest unauthorized access.

Ashley knew all of that.

Which was exactly why her reaction, for once, slipped beyond her control.

Ashley had never even seen one of these cards in person. In her previous family, the idea of owning one wasn’t just out of reach; it was unimaginable.

They were a rising pack at best, still climbing, still establishing themselves. Even Nathan, with all his influence and accumulated wealth, had never received an invitation. The Black Dragon card existed, to people like them, as little more than a legend whispered within elite circles.

And yet, it was a legend everyone knew.

Among the younger generation, especially, gossip about it spread like wildfire. There were even official images released by the institution itself, just enough for high-end brands and exclusive establishments to recognize the card on sight.

It required specialized systems to process, dedicated payment terminals, and authorization from upper management just to complete a transaction. It wasn’t something that could be casually swiped across a counter.

For less formal settings, there were alternatives, which were secure digital payments, bank transfers, and QR-linked systems, but even those demanded strict verification. Facial recognition, personal authentication, layered security measures... nothing about it was simple.

And that was precisely what made it so fascinating.

It wasn’t just a tool; it was a symbol. A marker of status so far removed from ordinary wealth that even the rich could only talk about it from a distance. That was how Ashley had come to know of it, through fragments of conversation, hushed admiration, and secondhand glimpses into a world far above her own.

And now... she was looking at the real thing.

For the first time, the scale of her newfound family’s wealth truly settled in her mind, and it was staggering enough to leave her momentarily speechless.

For Apollo to offer it so casually, as if it were nothing more than an ordinary card, left Ashley momentarily at a loss. She lifted her gaze to him, searching his expression for hesitation, for doubt, for any sign that he understood the weight of what he was placing in her hands. But there was none. If anything, he only nudged the card forward, urging her to take it.