Chapter 197: Chapter 197: Articles and drama

Chris had tried. He really had.

He had gotten out of bed, dressed himself, picked a shirt that didn’t scream ’freshly claimed,’ and sat down at his desk with the noble intention of reviewing his lectures like a functioning adult.

Instead, he was now folded forward over his arms, forehead pressed to the wood, muttering something that sounded like a muffled plea for divine intervention.

Across from him, in a guest chair he had not been invited to occupy, Rowan lounged like he had paid for premium front-row seats to this meltdown. He was still reading aloud from the tabloids, his voice far too cheerful for someone whose job included security.

“’King of the Wild Alpha Rut—Who’s Taming Who?’ Oh, here’s the best part: ’Insiders claim the Consort’s shirt was cut low enough to destabilize foreign economies.’ They even included a financial chart.”

Chris’s groan vibrated across the desk. “I’m going to burn your phone.”

“It’s palace property,” Rowan chirped. “They’ll just give me another one and then I’ll read twice as fast.”

He kept scrolling. “Ah. And the Collar Seen ’Round the World: Dax’s Diamond Gift and What It Means for Bonding Rights. There’s a diagram. A diagram, Chris.”

Chris didn’t lift his head. “Why are you like this?”

Rowan grinned. “Because I didn’t kiss the king in front of half the capital with fourteen press drones enhancing the lighting.”

Chris sat up sharply, flushing. “He kissed me.”

Rowan raised a brow. “You kissed him because it was the only way to make him shut up. Then he grabbed you like a prize, from the hip no less.”

Chris opened his mouth to argue, failed to locate a single valid counterpoint, and shut it again with the helpless fury of someone being confronted by the truth in 4K resolution.

“That’s not… I wasn’t… you weren’t even there!” he sputtered weakly.

Rowan tapped his screen. “I was on the rotation, Christopher. Plus, there are angles. Multiple. From every direction. Including one from above that I’m pretty sure was taken by a satellite.”

Chris made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying kettle. “Why is this happening to me?”

“Because your husband is seven feet tall, photogenic, violently possessive, and apparently incapable of kissing discreetly,” Rowan replied, leaning back like a man sipping tea in the ruins of someone else’s dignity.

Chris buried his face in his hands. “I kissed him once. One time. To distract him. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“’Distract him,’” Rowan echoed, amused. “Chris, you initiated a public kiss with a dominant alpha who treats you like a miracle and a challenge simultaneously. That wasn’t a distraction. That was like lighting a match next to a gas leak.”

Chris groaned again, louder this time. “He picked me up.”

“Yes,” Rowan said cheerfully. “He lifted you like you were made of silk and sin. Very cinematic.”

“Stop.”

“And then,” Rowan continued because Rowan had no self-preservation instincts, “you wrapped your arms around his neck, tilted your head, and kissed him back so hard three people fainted.”

Chris slapped both hands on the desk, horrified. “THREE?!”

Rowan nodded solemnly. “An elderly couple and a visiting diplomat. Don’t worry, the medical staff said they regained consciousness quickly.”

Chris stared at him like he was reading the obituary of his own peace of mind. “This is a nightmare.”

“Oh, it gets better.”

“No.”

“Yes.” Rowan grinned like he had been waiting for this moment all morning. “Would you like to hear what the foreign press is saying?”

Chris’s soul left his body. “Absolutely not.”

Rowan read aloud anyway.

“’Sahan King Claims His Mate in Broad Daylight—What This Means for Border Stability.’ And here’s my favorite from the Northern bureaus: ’Alphas Worldwide Take Notes: How to Secure Your Omega in Under Five Seconds.’”

Chris slammed his forehead on the desk again. “I want to disappear.”

“You can’t,” Rowan said kindly, patting the back of his head like a mildly cursed pet. “You’re a public figure now. A glamorous one.”

Chris lifted his face just enough to glare weakly. “Rowan.”

“Yes, High Consort?”

“If you ever repeat any of this…”

Rowan raised a hand. “I won’t. Probably. Unless it’s really funny.”

Chris dropped his forehead back onto the desk with a thud.

Rowan leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee. “Look on the bright side. At least the matriarchs haven’t weighed in yet.”

Chris shot upright in immediate panic. “WHAT?”

Rowan checked his phone.

“Oh,” he said softly.

“Oh no,” Chris whispered.

A notification flashed.

CRESSIDA (VIP COUNCIL):

’Christopher, darling, I would like a private word about your public posture and its… geopolitical implications.’

Chris grabbed a pillow off the nearby sofa and screamed into it.

Rowan nodded sympathetically.

“Yeah. That’s fair.”

Chris’s scream was long, muffled, and deeply unroyal. When he finally resurfaced from the pillow, hair a mess, eyes wide with existential dread, Rowan was watching him with the sympathetic fascination of a man observing a majestic creature self-destruct in its natural habitat.

“Do you want to scream again?” Rowan asked gently.

“Yes,” Chris wheezed. “But I think my soul already left, so it would just echo.”

Rowan nodded like this was a perfectly reasonable diagnosis.

Chris grabbed his phone with trembling hands, unlocked it, and stared at the message from Cressida as though it were a summons to the afterlife.

Before he could overthink further, another notification exploded onto the screen.

MIA—Glass Crackers:

CHRIS WHAT DID YOU DO?! WHY IS EVERY FEED I OPEN A COLLAR EDIT?! WHY IS YOUR FACE ON MY NEWS TAB?! WHY IS MY BROTHER TRENDING WITH THE TAG #ROYALOBSESSION…

Chris made a sound so small and hopeless it barely counted as a vowel.

Rowan winced. “Ah. She found the edits.”

Chris didn’t breathe. “Edits?”

Rowan exhaled, already scrolling. “Oh yes. There’s fan art. Multiple. Also animations. And a video compiling the moment Dax grabbed your hip from seven different angles to dramatic music.”

Chris looked like someone had unplugged his brain.

Rowan kept going because he had no mercy.

“Oh, this one has slow motion. And atmospheric lighting. The fans call it The Claim Shot. Very poetic.”

“I hate this country.”

“You say that,” Rowan murmured, “but you kissed the king where half the country could see it.”

Chris’s phone buzzed again, violently this time.

LUCAS—Glass Crackers:

Chris, darling. Why didn’t you tell me you single-handedly shifted omega–alpha optics nationwide? I could have prepared popcorn.

MIA:

STOP ENCOURAGING HIM LUCAS.

LUCAS:

No.

MIA:

Chris please respond I need to know you’re alive because the comments under these edits are feral.

LUCAS:

Mia fainted fifteen minutes ago at brunch when she refreshed her feed. She’s lying on the floor like a Victorian widow.

MIA:

LUCAS, YOU RAT I WAS BREATHING INTO A PAPER BAG!

Chris put his phone down, face pale. “Why is this happening to me?”

Rowan shrugged. “Celebrity life.”

Then, as if the universe wanted to prove him wrong, another message arrived.

CRESSIDA—VIP COUNCIL:

Christopher, I will not repeat myself. Please meet me in the west sitting room within the hour. Bring tea. I need it more than you.

Chris stared.

“Rowan,” he whispered, hollowed out, “she wants tea. Cressida only wants tea when she’s preparing to destroy someone gently.”

Rowan whistled low. “Well. Better you than me.”

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