Chris had expected to collapse face-first into the carpet after Serathine and Cressida left, but apparently his body had other plans.
Instead of shutting down, his brain had quietly rebooted itself out of crisis mode and shoved him into something even worse:
Functionality.
He sat at his desk with his hair a disaster from where he'd dragged frustrated fingers through it, ankles crossed under the chair like a student trying to behave, and Volume One of Advanced Consort Protocol spread open before him like a medieval curse tablet sent to humble his spirit.
The title glared back at him.
Presence, Precision, Power.
Volume One.
He tried not to take it personally.
"…Why do I need this?" he muttered to himself, flipping the page as if the book might answer. "I'm already the High Consort. I'm marked. He's mine. I'm his. Social order achieved. Declare victory and go home."
The book, in its treason, disagreed.
It disagreed loudly. It disagreed with charts.
