Chapter 239: Chapter 239: Expectations

A discreet knock at the edge of the royal box broke through the metallic shriek currently passing for music.

Chris straightened instinctively, his posture snapping into consort-perfect alignment despite his lower back protesting the movement. Dax glanced over, and a moment later Rowan slipped inside with the silent efficiency of someone who had spent years navigating kings, crises, and the occasional scandal.

Rowan’s face was expressionless, professionally blank, the way only a man who had seen far too much could manage. In one hand, he carried a folded program. In the other… nothing visible.

Which meant the “nothing” was important.

He bowed slightly. “Your Majesty. Your Highness.”

Dax gave a faint nod, granting him permission to speak.

Rowan stepped forward just enough to reach Chris, leaning in as though pointing out something on the stage. His voice was soft, pitched for them alone.

“Per your request, sire,” he murmured, “a mild analgesic, non-drowsy with quick absorption. No visible packaging.” As he said it, he slipped a small, discreet capsule into Chris’s hand, hidden between the pages of the opera program.

To anyone watching, it looked like Rowan had simply pointed out a line of text.

Chris let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Bless you,” he whispered.

Rowan did not react, though the corner of his mouth may have twitched. “Take with water,” he advised, “though given His Highness’s enthusiasm for lemon, that should not be an issue.”

Chris shot him a glare that was only half-serious. “My enthusiasm is survival.”

“Yes, sir.”

Before Chris could retort, Rowan straightened. “One more matter. The Prime Minister requests permission to approach.”

Dax’s expression cooled a degree. “Sahir wants to enter the box?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. He insists it is brief.” Rowan paused. “He also insists it is important.”

Chris gave Dax a sideways look. “Is anything ever brief with Sahir?”

“No,” Dax replied. “But he is aware you’re recovering. He’ll be concise.”

Chris swallowed the pill with a sip of lemon water and muttered, “He’d better be. I cannot relocate my spine for a political update.”

Rowan bowed again. “Shall I let him in?”

Dax considered, gaze drifting to Chris as if silently asking for permission, a gesture Chris didn’t take lightly. He nodded once.

“Yes,” Dax said. “Allow him.”

Rowan stepped back toward the door. Before slipping out, he added dryly, “Also… the director is staring at you both again. He believes you’re deeply moved by the performance.”

Chris snorted softly. “Let him dream.”

Rowan vanished the same way he entered, leaving Chris with one pill settling warmly in his system and the faint dread of Sahir approaching.

Dax leaned slightly closer. “You will survive this.”

“The opera or Sahir?”

“Both.”

The gold-covered performer began a new round of wailing.

Chris sighed. “I want a refund.”

Dax rested their joined hands more firmly between the seats. “You’re doing well,” he murmured.

Chris let his shoulder rest against Dax’s again.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m absolutely done pretending I understand any of this.”

Rowan slipped out, and a moment later the door opened again with the quiet authority of someone who never needed to announce himself.

Sahir entered.

Silver hair pulled back, mantle crisp, posture immaculate, a man who could silence a parliament chamber just by raising one eyebrow. He bowed, not deeply, but with the delicate angle reserved for kings and… consorts.

Your Majesty. Your Highness.”

Dax acknowledged him with a slight nod. Chris mirrored it, painfully aware of every noble eye trained their way.

Sahir stepped closer, lowering his voice to a level only the three of them could hear. “My apology for interrupting… whatever this performance is attempting to be.”

Chris let out a strained whisper. “Therapy would be cheaper.”

A hint of amusement flickered in Sahir’s eyes, then vanished beneath professionalism.

“I’ll be brief. The parliament reached out this afternoon with requests regarding your public timeline.”

Chris tensed. “Timeline?”

“Yes,” Sahir said. “Specifically: the wedding and the coronation.”

Chris blinked. “Wedding? What wedding? We signed the papers already.”

“Yes,” Sahir acknowledged, “but the public wedding ceremony must still take place. Legally you are married. Culturally, you are not.”

Chris stared at him as if Sahir had suggested he perform onstage with the gold-dusted man crawling across the floor. “A public wedding. Again.”

“They consider it essential,” Sahir replied. “Especially after the… confirmation of compatibility.”

Chris prayed silently for the floor to open.

Dax, however, remained calm. “And the coronation?”

Sahir inclined his head. “They wish it to follow the wedding. Preferably within the same fiscal year. They were hoping for both events to take place soon.”

“How soon?” Dax asked, already unimpressed.

“Three months for the wedding. Three to four months after that for the coronation.”

Chris choked on air. “Six months? Total? That’s… I still can’t climb stairs without thinking about my will.”

“They are eager,” Sahir said diplomatically. “Public sentiment is high. Foreign powers are shifting. And the parliament is… optimistic.”

Dax’s voice cooled. “Optimistic about what?”

Sahir hesitated for only a breath. “Heirs.”

Chris nearly dropped his lemon water.

Dax’s expression flattened. “No.”

“It is not an order,” Sahir clarified. “Merely an expectation. They believe establishing the consort’s position and securing the lineage early would reinforce stability. Also, the last rut being synchronized with the consort’s heat had given them high hopes.”

“I didn’t inseminate Christopher.”

Sahir’s gaze sharpened, not in challenge but in recalibration. “I am aware, Your Majesty. The medical briefing was… explicit.” His tone remained neutral, but there was no missing the emphasis. “The parliament’s expectations are based more on optics than fact.”

Chris let out a slow breath. “That’s reassuring. Disturbing, but reassuring.”

Dax did not look at him. “Hope is not policy.”

“No,” Sahir agreed. “But it is often mistaken for one.” He folded his hands. “To be clear: there is no accusation nor implication of negligence. The visibility of your bond, combined with the public heat, has accelerated assumptions and the pressure of them.”

“Assumptions are their problem,” Dax said flatly. “Timelines are mine.”

Sahir inclined his head. “As expected. For the record, I advised against anything earlier than six months.”

Chris glanced at him. “You did?”

“I enjoy sleeping,” Sahir replied calmly.

Dax’s expression did not soften, but something in the air eased. “Then convey this clearly. There will be a public wedding first. Not because we need legitimacy, but because they insist on spectacle.”

“And the coronation?” Sahir prompted.

“After,” Dax said. “No less than six months from now. I will not rush him into a crown to satisfy nervous committees.”

Chris swallowed, then frowned slightly. “Won’t two events strain the budget? I know they like appearances, but…”

Sahir cut in smoothly. “Your Highness, His Majesty’s ceremonial expenditures are… minimal. The people are aware of this, but there are more than adequate budgets for it.”

Dax finally looked at Chris. “Stability costs less than panic.”

Chris exhaled. “I suppose that’s fair.”

“The push for heirs,” Sahir continued, “will remain, but without deadlines for a while at least.”

“Good,” Chris muttered. “Because I am not a fiscal quarter.”

Dax’s hand tightened briefly over his. “You are not a schedule.”

Sahir bowed his head again. “Then I will return with your terms. Wedding first. Coronation later. No announcements until you approve the language.”

“And remind them,” Dax added, “that the kingdom is stable because it is governed, not because it produces heirs on demand.”

Sahir’s lips curved faintly. “I will choose my wording carefully.”

He bowed once more and stepped back. “Rest, Your Highness. You’ve done enough politics for one evening.”

Chris didn’t argue.

When the door closed, the stage erupted into another wave of metallic sound and anguished singing. Chris stared at it for a second, then leaned fully into Dax’s side.

“I survived parliament,” he murmured. “I might not survive this aria.”

Dax huffed quietly. “I’ll have Rowan pull the curtain if it comes to that.”

Chris smiled, tired but genuine, and took another sip of water as the medication finally settled properly in his system.

“Next time,” he said, eyes half-lidded, “we attend something with normal lighting and no symbolism.”

Dax’s thumb brushed his hand. “Agreed.”

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