Days passed the way they always did in Palatine when the palace decided to stop pretending it was indecisive and finally commit to a direction, with a flurry of signatures that made entire lives feel like they'd been moved two squares on a board overnight.
The engagement contract arrived in layers. First the drafts, then the 'small adjustments,' then the version that was apparently final until someone panicked and 'realized' a clause needed to be clarified, and then, at last, the final-final document that came with seals so heavy they felt like threats. Lucas and Trevor's legal team tore it apart with the precision reserved for men who'd survived too many courts to be impressed by ceremonial ink.
Alamina's envoy sent back corrections that were polite in wording and brutal in implication. Palatine tried to stall once more, out of habit, and Arion, apparently deciding he'd suffered enough of their marble diplomacy, made it very clear that time was not an infinite resource and that he did not do 'indefinite.'
In the end, all parties accepted it. No one got everything. Everyone got enough.
Dean got the one clause he hadn't compromised on: his autonomy.
He would continue his studies in Alamina after his birthday, with his education recognized in both empires, with the ability to return to Palatine whenever he wanted, and with the ability for his family to visit Alamina without needing to beg for permission like they were tourists. There was no point in wasting more time pretending that reluctance was the same as refusal; if this alliance was happening, then it would happen cleanly.
His birthday became the center point.
The engagement ceremony would be held on that date as well, because Palatine loved anniversaries and Alamina loved efficiency, and neither side wanted to give the other the satisfaction of choosing alone. It was, in theory, an elegant solution.
In practice, it meant Dean lay awake one night staring at his ceiling, counting the days until his name would be spoken in a hall full of people who would either congratulate him or quietly calculate how to exploit him.
He did not go back on the decision. Not once.
He just… swallowed around it, like he did everything that mattered.
By the time he ended up at the Fitzgeralt mansion with Sylvia, it almost felt strange to be somewhere that didn't smell like polished marble and old power. The mansion smelled like lived-in money: coffee, citrus cleaner, expensive wood, and the faintest trace of Lucas's and Trevor's pheromones lingering in the air like a warning label that said, 'behave, or you'll be removed from existence politely.'
Sylvia Croft had never cared about warning labels.
She was on Dean's couch in one of the sunlit sitting rooms, legs tucked under her, hair thrown into a messy knot, phone held with both hands like it was a weapon she intended to use correctly. She'd been quiet for five full minutes, which meant something was wrong, because Sylvia's default state was audible.
Dean was at the other end of the couch pretending to read. He wasn't reading. He was watching her expression tighten in small increments, the way it did when she was trying very hard to be rational and was failing.
Finally, Sylvia inhaled sharply through her nose and said, "Okay."
Dean didn't look up. "That tone is never good."
"This tone is responsible," Sylvia informed him, eyes still on her phone. "This tone is me trying to gather information before I commit crimes."
Dean turned a page he hadn't absorbed. "Which crime are we hovering over?"
Sylvia angled the phone slightly toward him without moving closer, like she didn't want her rage to contaminate him. "Social media has… feelings about your fiancé."
Dean's jaw tightened. "He's not my—"
Sylvia's gaze snapped up, bright and lethal. "Do not do that thing where you pretend the contract doesn't exist because your feelings are offended. The contract exists. The ceremony date exists. And I, unfortunately, exist in a world where I have a name that apparently someone thought was convenient to use."
Dean's stomach tightened. 'That. Right. The name.'
He set the book down carefully, because there were some conversations that should not be had while pretending to be calm. "Syl."
She held up a finger. "No. Let me finish my investigation first. Because I want to be very sure before I decide whether to set something on fire."
Dean stared at her. "You can't set an empire on fire."
Sylvia looked back down at her phone, scrolling with grim determination. "Watch me."
Dean leaned back, exhaling slowly, trying to make his body unclench. "What are you looking at?"
Sylvia lifted her phone again, and this time she did show him.
It was a thread. An entire thread. Photos, videos, edits, and captions with too many emojis and too much faith. Arion of Alamina, Crown Prince, "most dangerous man alive," "walking red flag," "actually kind of hot though," "he could ruin me," "he would ruin anyone who looked at his omega," and other variations that made Dean's soul leave his body for brief, peaceful moments before returning out of obligation.
There was a clip from a diplomatic event- the angle bad, the audio worse - where Arion had turned his head slightly, eyes catching the light, expression unreadable in that irritating way that made people project whatever fantasy they wanted onto him. The caption read: HE SMELLED HIM. HE KNEW. IT'S OVER.
Dean stared at it for a second too long.
Sylvia saw it. Sylvia always saw it. "Do not," she said flatly, "make that face."
Dean's voice came out too fast. "What face?"
"The one where you're thinking, 'Yes, he does have a stupid face,' and then immediately want to fight everyone for saying it out loud."
Dean blinked once. Twice. "I hate you."
"No, you don't," Sylvia said, scrolling again. "You love me. That's why you brought me here. You know your family will behave like adults. I will not."
Dean's throat tightened. "I didn't bring you here. You invited yourself."
"I invited myself because I'm your best friend and someone used my name to manipulate you," Sylvia snapped, and the warmth vanished entirely from her tone, leaving only something sharp. "So I'm going to find out whether your future husband is the kind of man who threatens random civilians to prove a point."
Dean's blood ran cold from guilt.
"Sylvia," he said quietly. "You're not random."
She stared at him. "That's not comforting."
Dean's hands curled around the edge of the cushion. He'd told Lucas and Trevor the truth. He'd told Sebastian. He'd told them because it had been necessary, because rules were being set and lines were being drawn, and Arion's way of caring looked too much like arson disguised as romance.
He hadn't told Sylvia everything. Not at first.
He'd told her enough to keep her safe, enough to keep her from walking into something blind, but not enough to make her feel like a pawn.
And now her eyes were bright, angry, and hurt in a way that made his chest ache.
"I didn't want you dragged into it," Dean said, low.
Sylvia's laugh was short and sharp. "Dean, I've been dragged into your life since we were thirteen. I just prefer when I'm given a heads-up before a foreign crown prince uses my name as a pressure point."
Dean swallowed. "He didn't hurt you."
Sylvia leaned forward, phone still in hand. "He didn't hurt me because you didn't let him. That's the point. He would have tried. He picked my name on purpose. He didn't say 'a friend.' He didn't say 'someone you care about.' He said Sylvia Croft." Her voice went dangerously soft. "That's not accidental."
Dean's jaw tightened. "No."
Sylvia watched him for a long moment, then looked back down at her phone like she needed something concrete to hold onto. "Okay. So. Let's talk about Arion's reputation."
Dean exhaled slowly. "Please don't."
"I'm going to," Sylvia said, and scrolled to a different post, an article with a headline that tried to sound neutral and failed: ALAMINA'S CROWN PRINCE: DIPLOMATIC ASSET OR DOMINANCE LIABILITY?
Dean's eyes narrowed. "This is propaganda."
"Everything is propaganda," Sylvia replied, and tapped. "But propaganda usually contains a kernel of truth wrapped in glitter. Let's find the kernel."
Dean read enough to feel his bones itch. Arion was described as disciplined. Controlled. Uncompromising. "Dominance incidents" were mentioned in polite phrasing that translated into: he is dangerous when provoked, and his restraint is the only reason people survive.
Then the comment section, which was worse, because comment sections were always where intelligence went to die.
He reached over and gently lowered Sylvia's phone a few inches. "Syl. Don't do this."
Her eyes snapped to him. "Don't do what? Make sure you're not legally tying yourself to a man who thinks intimidation is foreplay?"
Dean's cheeks warmed. "That is not what this is."
Sylvia's gaze flicked to his face, and she smiled slowly, cruelly. "Oh. So it's paperwork and foreplay."
Dean's throat tightened. "You're enjoying this."
"I am coping," Sylvia corrected. "With humor. And also with the knowledge that I will, at some point, be in a room with him, and I need to decide whether I'm allowed to stab him with a dessert fork."
Dean stared. "No."