Rowan stared at him. At Chris. At the universe.
"…Payment," he repeated slowly, as if trying to confirm reality wasn't folding in on itself.
"Yes," Chris said, already rising from his chair and brushing at his sleeves like he was preparing for a diplomatic confrontation rather than a meltdown-fueled impulse. "A stipend. A salary. A royal consort compensation package. I don't care what he calls it, but I want one."
Rowan's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "Chris… you don't need money."
"I know."
"You don't even like money."
"I know."
"You have a wardrobe budget bigger than a research grant, a personal staff, catered meals, an education allowance, a collar worth more than a small nation's GDP, and unrestricted access to the palace vault."
Chris nodded with perfect calm. "Still want payment."
Rowan dragged a hand down his face. "Why?"
