Chapter 169: Chapter 169: Plausible deniability

The rest of the dinner had passed with forced civility and the kind of brittle politeness that made Dax want to disband half his cabinet.

Chris had returned to the table like nothing happened, chin high, scent calm, and posture that dared anyone to look twice. No one did. Not after Rowan escorted Draven out like expired meat.

Sahir had tried to make a speech. Cressida had shut him down with a toast. Serathine told a story about a Viscount who lost his trousers during a summit. And Chris? Chris had leaned against Dax’s shoulder halfway through dessert and whispered, “I want credit for not unleashing the drones.”

Dax hadn’t laughed then. He was too busy memorizing the curve of Chris’s mouth when he said it. But he would remember it later and laugh alone in his office like the madman people said he is.

—

A week later, the East Palace was still intact, no one had resigned, and Dax was catching up on six days’ worth of bureaucratic sabotage disguised as reports.

He sat behind his desk, half-slouched in the ridiculous leather chair someone once called “regal” and he had never replaced, hair still damp from the short rain earlier, collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled. The windows were open just enough to let in the summer heat, which seemed even more stubborn after the rain, and the distant hum of military drills from the north courtyard.

Most of the reports were dull to the point of extreme boredom.

A trade hiccup in the northern ports. Another bribe scandal in the lower judiciary. Five separate noble houses asking if Chris would be “open to hosting educational tea circles” now that he was officially filled for the consort position.

He was about to toss the last one into the “Killian will burn these later” pile when his inbox pinged.

TAILORING DEPARTMENT – Level 3 access

Location update: Christopher Malek, Duchess Serathine D’Argente, Matriarch Cressida Fitzgeralt, Prime Minister Sahir.

Time: 14:26

Status: Localized containment achieved. No threats identified.

Addendum: Room secured by Head Steward Killian at 13:58.

Dax stared at the message.

Then he stared harder, wondering if his mind was leaving him after all those reports.

The tailoring department.

Sahir and Cressida in the same room willingly? Serathine was expected; she was probably an amused harpy by the rivalry of the other two.

And Chris… his schedule was filled with gala suit fittings.

In the same room.

Under Killian’s watch.

He reached for the phone.

—

Killian picked up on the first ring. “Majesty.”

“What’s happening?” Dax said without preamble. “And why are my most dangerous civilians locked in the tailoring department with my mate?”

There was a long pause, filled with the sound of shuffling fabric and what might’ve been someone arguing about stitch length in the background.

Killian sighed. “Nothing lethal… So far.”

“Killian, you have one of the most long-lived rivalries I have ever known in the room.”

Killian made a thoughtful sound. “Yes. But I’ve also stationed Sahir under two tailors with scissors and no sense of self-preservation, so balance has been restored.”

Dax dragged a hand down his face. “Are they actually choosing fabric or plotting a coup?”

“I believe it’s both. Possibly a tactical merger. Serathine is directing the embroidery motifs like a general. Cressida vetoed anything navy. And Sahir…” Killian’s voice dropped a note, not quite pitying. “Sahir thinks he’s still in charge.”

There was a small beat of silence before Dax leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing.

“And Chris?”

A breath.

Killian’s tone turned neutral in the way that meant trouble. “He wants to tackle them all and is warning that he would wear a t-shirt and jeans.”

That gave Dax just enough pause for Killian to go on.

“You don’t want to go down there.”

“I do.”

“You think you do,” Killian corrected, “but what you actually want is plausible deniability for whatever they’re sewing. Trust me, Majesty. It’s better this way.”

Dax narrowed his eyes. “So I should just sit here and wait?”

“Like a good boy, yes.”

“I’m still your king, you know.”

Killian didn’t miss a beat. “And I’ve been coordinating armies since before you could tie your own boots. I can keep whatever this is under control. Christopher would be safe.”

Dax opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He hated when Killian said things like that. Not because they were rude, but because they were usually true.

From the other end of the call, the rustle of fabric intensified, followed by what sounded suspiciously like Cressida cursing someone in clipped High Palatinate. Then a muffled “that collar is a war crime,” and Serathine’s voice, cool and clearly delighted, responding, “It’s supposed to be.”

Killian exhaled as though witnessing divine chaos made mortal.

“I’m ending the call now,” he said smoothly. “Before you say something that’ll require apology fruit baskets. Or worse, authorization forms.”

“I’ll see it eventually,” Dax muttered, because he was still the King, and even monarchs were allowed to sulk.

“Mm,” Killian hummed. “You’ll deserve to see it eventually.”

The line went dead.

Dax leaned back in his chair, jaw tight, every instinct in his spine itching with the warning honed from years of royal surprise tactics. He stared out the open window where two hawks circled lazily overhead like they, too, were waiting for something to drop.

He could picture it too well now, Chris standing in the center of the tailoring department, surrounded by a triad of unstoppable matriarchal power, all of them discussing embroidery thread like it was ammunition. Chris would be unimpressed. Cressida would be ironclad. Serathine would be quietly six steps ahead. And Sahir…

Sahir would need a drink.

Dax glanced at the clock.

Whatever it was they were creating, it was for his birthday. Which meant it was going to be symbolic, dramatic, and designed with the express intent to weaponize sentiment.

Killian was right.

He didn’t want to see it yet.

Not until Chris wanted him to.

Dax scrubbed a hand through his hair, let his head fall back against the chair’s leather edge, and muttered to the empty room:

“This better not have tassels.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep