Chapter 22: Chapter 22: Lace is war

Rafael Rosenroth had long since stopped arguing. It wasn’t worth it.

Not when Gloria had already pulled out the third swatch book. Not when Alexandra was sitting on the arm of the studio chaise like some smug patron saint of fashion emergencies, sipping elderflower tonic like it was a battlefield stimulant.

“Not the dove grey,” Alexandra said, lazily flipping the page back. “He’ll wear it. But it’ll look like he’s surrendering.”

“I wasn’t aware I was going to war,” Rafael muttered, half-dressed in tailored trousers and a pinned shirt with one cuff still unfinished.

Gloria, red-haired, green-eyed, and absolutely unamused, clucked her tongue. “You’re not. But you are meeting Augustus Ravenstone. And the last time someone went unarmored to a meeting with a Ravenstone, they ended up signing over three ports and half a trade route.”

“That was Max,” Rafael said dryly. “And he was drunk.”

“He was also wearing beige,” Gloria snapped, stabbing a pin into the side seam. “Coincidence? I don’t think so.”

Alexandra looked delighted. “See? She gets it.”

Rafael sighed, long-suffering. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes,” both women answered in unison.

The studio smelled faintly of lavender and steam, with bolts of enchanted fabric hovering mid-air, shifting shades as Gloria adjusted lighting spells overhead. A mirrored panel along the wall displayed his reflection in motion with front, back, side alongside tactical annotations like ’shoulder line: refined, assertive’ and ’nape exposure: suggestive, non-desperate.’

Rafael glared at the last one. “Can we not?”

“It’s for your own good,” Alexandra chimed in sweetly. “You’ll thank me later. Maybe not tonight, but after the date with Gregoris…”

Gloria froze.

The room didn’t.

The bolts of fabric kept humming, the rune-glass mirror continued its diligent annotation, “lower back taper: predatory bait,” and Alexandra, blissfully unaware of the live grenade she had just lobbed, sipped her elderflower tonic like it was a celebration toast.

“…Gregoris?” Gloria asked, slowly turning her head, voice pitched with the calm of someone sharpening a knife behind her back.

Rafael blinked once. “It’s just a dinner.”

“With Gregoris Frasner?” Gloria said, in the same tone one might use with a basilisk in heat.

Alexandra perked up, lips curling. “Didn’t I tell you? Oh, my mistake. I assumed you’d know. You do everything else.”

Rafael adjusted the collar of the half-pinned shirt and didn’t look at either of them. “It’s not that serious.”

“Not that serious?” Gloria’s voice leapt an octave, hands flinging the measuring tape into the air. It floated there, trembling with the same energy as her left eyelid. “You’re walking into the bloodhound’s personal hunting grounds in my outfit, and you weren’t going to tell me it’s not Augustus you’re meeting first?!”

“I was,” Rafael said carefully, “but then you started pinning military-grade lace to my spine, and I got distracted.”

Gloria looked ready to throw him out the window. “Do you have any idea what that man does to fashion? To clothes? To collars? To fabric integrity?!”

Alexandra was cackling now, eyes gleaming. “He once sliced through a cufflink with a fingernail.”

Rafael ran a hand through his hair. “Are you two done dramatizing?”

“No,” Gloria snapped. “We need to rethink this, I have a grudge with that man.”

“You and everyone else.” Rafael said, sighing.

“I need more lace and more black silk, you are going to get him feral.”

“Gloria,” Rafael said, his tone teetering between warning and resignation, “this was supposed to be subtle.”

“I don’t do subtle when the opponent is a genetically enhanced murder dog with emotional constipation and a preference for monochrome!” She snapped, already summoning two fabric bolts like summoned weapons. “Do you want to look forgettable? Do you want to look passable? Because Gregoris Frasner eats passable for breakfast, and he doesn’t even taste it!”

Alexandra’s legs swung lazily off the chaise, and she sipped from her tonic like a judge watching a particularly satisfying duel. “Technically, he doesn’t eat breakfast. He does morning combat drills shirtless, then reads security reports while upside down.”

Rafael turned to her slowly. “Why do you know that?”

“Because I’m not blind,” she said serenely. “And neither are the palace windows.”

Gloria hissed something in another language and flicked her wrist, casting a stabilizing charm over the pattern draft. The air shimmered. “We’re going with open-back lace over hex-thread lining. Exposed spine, dual clasp at the lower lumbar for strategic tension, scent containment collar, damn it, we’re adding shimmer runes.”

“Shimmer what…?”

“To make the embroidery catch light when you move. He won’t blink, and if he does, it’ll be on purpose. He’ll look and choose to stare.” Gloria stabbed a pin into the mannequin next to her with unnecessary force. “We’re playing his game now.”

“Gloria, my plan was to be boring to the point of tears so he will lose interest, not get him feral with embroidery.”

Gloria spun on her heel, eyes wide with the kind of fury normally reserved for fashion week sabotage and nobles who dared say “beige is timeless.”

“Boring? Boring?” She hissed, like the word had personally insulted her lineage. “You think you can bore Gregoris Frasner into disinterest? He’s a bloodhound, not a debutante at her fifth garden party. He likes pain. And puzzles. And lace.”

“I don’t think he likes lace,” Rafael said, attempting reason. A mistake.

“He will,” Gloria growled. “He will like this lace. Because this lace is war.”

Alexandra clapped, delighted. “Gloria, I think I just fell in love with you a little.”

“You’re too late,” Gloria snapped, threading a spell-stabilized shimmer line into the embroidery. “I’m already married to vengeance.”

Rafael dragged a hand down his face. “Is this about the collar incident?”

“It’s about every incident,” Gloria said darkly. “He tore my triple-stitched hem with a glance. He rewired an entire ceremonial robe with a single compliment and a frown. He has personally insulted more of my designs than I have relatives, and I have cousins in seven provinces.”

Alexandra tilted her head. “Is this revenge or foreplay?”

“Can’t it be both?” Gloria muttered, eyes locked on the shimmering sketch now wrapping around Rafael’s shoulders like midnight smoke. “He wants a challenge? Fine. I’ll give him one so sharp it’ll cut him just looking at you.”

Rafael opened his mouth, then closed it.

Then sighed.

Deeply.

“Is this going to be another ’statement piece’ that ends up in a museum vault because it’s technically classified as a weapon?”

“Yes,” Gloria said without shame. “You’re welcome.”

Alexandra leaned forward, eyes bright. “Do you think he’ll growl?”

“I hope he chokes,” Gloria hissed. “On his own restraint.”

Rafael stared at himself in the mirror at the high collar, the sheer back panel blooming into aggressive embroidery, and the glint of black silk around his waist like it had signed a nondisclosure agreement and knew two things with absolute certainty: one, this outfit would not make him boring, and two, Gregoris Frasner would absolutely stare.

Possibly in public. Possibly in silence. Possibly while plotting thirty-seven contingencies.

“…Fine,” Rafael muttered. “I’ll wear the lace.”

Gloria looked triumphant.

Alexandra lifted her glass. “To war.”

“And may Gregoris suffer,” Gloria added.

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