The sitting room smelled faintly of cardamom tea and cooling tech; whatever air purifier Dax had commissioned hummed quietly in the wall like a polite ghost, and the low light from the corner lamp threw soft amber shadows across the dark tiles.
Chris sat in the corner of the couch, one leg folded under him, the other half-draped in loose pajama pants. His robe, thin cotton and dark grey, hung open down the front. He'd kicked off his slippers an hour ago. The tablet on the coffee table still showed a paused design mock-up of the gala robes, half-shadowed by a water ring and a barely touched drink.
He didn't care.
He was scrolling through his phone with the kind of passive defiance reserved for people who knew they were ignoring something important.
Mia: Did you pass out or die? Pick one. I need to know how many seats to reserve.
Lucas: We said no disappearing. Are you sulking or working?
Mia again: Chris. I swear to God.
