Chapter 237: You need new clothes.

The silence that followed the stamp was almost ceremonial.

There were no trumpets. No applause. Just the simple weight of a signature transforming something intimate into a public structure.

Elizabeth closed the book delicately, as if closing an invisible Chapter.

Damon was still staring at his own signature.

Damon Wykes.

It sounded different when it was written. Permanent.

She tilted her face toward him, analyzing his expression with a curious glint in her eyes.

“Having a mild or deep existential crisis?” she asked softly.

“Moderate,” he replied. “I’m still processing the fact that I came in here as… me… and left officially married to the most dangerous woman in town.”

“Only in town?” she raised an eyebrow.

He smiled slightly.

“Let’s keep it modest for now.”

Elizabeth seemed satisfied with the answer.

She then released his hand only to adjust her gloves with elegant movements and, as if speaking of something trivial, said:

“We need to do a few things now.”

Damon frowned slightly.

“What kind of things?”

She turned, already walking towards the exit.

“The first is to buy clothes.”

He winked.

“…Excuse me?”

She stopped in the middle of the hall and looked at him as if she were explaining basic math to a very intelligent, yet stubborn child.

“Clothes.”

“I have clothes.”

She examined his coat from head to toe.

“You have fabric covering your body. That’s not the same thing.”

He crossed his arms.

“Is that really necessary?”

She walked to him again, stopping close enough that only he could hear the slightly amused tone in her voice.

“Damon… you just stopped being “a random individual living in my mansion.””

He tilted his head.

“And what did I become?”

She smiled.

“My officially registered husband.”

Pause.

“And, more importantly… a nobleman.”

He let out a low sound, almost a laugh.

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.”

She started walking again, pushing the registry office door open. The sunlight illuminated her face with that almost theatrical glow that always seemed to accompany her.

“I am the Countess of Mirath” she said casually as she descended the steps.

He followed her.

“I know that.”

She turned her face over her shoulder.

“And now you are the Earl.”

He almost lost his footing.

“What?”

“Earl.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“That’s exactly how it works.”

She started crossing the square, completely ignoring the wary glances that still lingered after the previous minor incident.

Damon slowed down for a second.

“Are you telling me my social status just went from “suspicious incubus” to “local aristocracy”?”

“Precisely.”

“That’s absurd.”

“It’s not. It’s politics.”

He ran a hand through his hair, incredulous.

“I did nothing to deserve this.”

She stopped abruptly and turned to him.

“You outlived my bloodline.”

Silence.

“You shared blood with me.”

Another step toward him.

“You endured the bond.”

Closer.

“And you signed.”

She touched his chest with two fingers.

“That’s more than half the nobles here have done to justify their title.”

He held her gaze for a few seconds.

Then he sighed.

“Still… clothes?”

She rolled her eyes elegantly.

“Yes, clothes.”

She started walking again, now towards the more sophisticated wing of the city center.

“You can’t walk around dressed like a casual adventurer.”

“I like casual adventurer.”

“You’re not casual anymore.”

He let out a short laugh.

“You’re really taking this seriously.”

She stopped in front of a shop window displaying fine fabrics—velvet, refined linen, impeccable cuts.

“Of course I am.”

She looked at their reflection in the glass.

“Appearance is influence. Influence is power.”

He recognized the phrase.

“You’ve said that before.”

“Because it’s true.”

She turned to face him completely.

“Now, when people look at you, they shouldn’t just see ’the man next to the Countess’.”

She brought her hand close to his face, discreetly adjusting the collar of his shirt.

“They should see the Count of Mirath.”

The bond between them vibrated slightly.

It wasn’t vanity.

It was strategy.

He took a deep breath.

“And what exactly changes now?”

She smiled softly.

“Invitations.”

“What?”

“Political meetings. Formal dinners. Administrative councils. Joint signatures.”

He closed his eyes for a second.

“I should have asked for more details before going into that registry office.”

She chuckled softly.

“Probably.”

He opened his eyes again.

“You did that on purpose.”

“I did.”

She didn’t deny it.

“But you could have refused.”

He was silent for a few seconds.

“Could I?”

“Yes.”

“Would you have refused?”

“No.”

He let out a small, resigned sigh.

“So now I’m an Earl.”

“Yes.”

“Do I have lands?”

“Many.”

“Responsibilities?”

“Countless.”

“Enemies?”

She tilted her head slightly.

“Always.”

He observed her face for a moment.

Then a slow smile appeared.

“Great.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Great?”

“If I was going to have enemies anyway… at least now I have a title.”

She laughed.

The sound was light, genuine.

She took his hand again.

“Come on, Earl Wykes.”

He made an exaggerated face. “—It’s going to take me a while to get used to this.”

“I’m in no hurry.”

She began to pull him toward the shop door.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

He looked at her suspiciously.

“What?”

She smiled with elegant malice.

“You’ll need formal clothes for when we’re officially presented as a couple before the council.”

He froze.

“Council?”

She opened the door.

“One step at a time, Damon.”

He murmured as he was pulled inside:

“I should have just stuck with the mystical ritual…”

She leaned close to his ear and whispered:

“Too late, Count.”

The door closed behind them with the soft tinkle of a discreet bell.

The interior of the shop was silent, spacious, and illuminated by tall windows that let in the morning light filtered through thin curtains. Mannequins displayed formal attire in deep shades—navy blue, dark green, wine, pure black. Fine fabrics hung, arranged by texture and season.

The scent was of new linen, polished leather, and something slightly sweet—probably cedar.

A lean man, with gray hair perfectly combed back, approached with measured steps. He recognized Elizabeth immediately.

There was no exaggeration in his reaction. Just visible respect.

“Countess,” he said, inclining his head.

Elizabeth responded with a minimal, elegant nod.

“Mr. Valerius. We need formal clothes for my husband.”

The tailor’s gaze slid to Damon.

There was a split second of professional assessment—posture, shoulder width, torso proportion, head tilt.

Damon held his gaze.

Valerius seemed too experienced to show surprise, but there was a slight adjustment in his expression.

“I understand,” he replied calmly. “Anything specific?”

Elizabeth answered without hesitation:

“Attire befitting the title of Earl of Mirath.”

The silence that followed was microscopic, but perceptible.

Valerius leaned forward again.

“Of course.”

Damon let out a small sigh beside her.

“Couldn’t you have warned me before saying that out loud?”

She didn’t look at him.

“Warn me what?”

“That I now need to look like someone who participates in administrative councils.”

She finally turned her face away.

“You participate in administrative councils.”

He closed his eyes for a second.

“I’m still trying to accept that.”

Valerius was already circling Damon with a measuring tape.

“Arms, please.”

Damon obeyed automatically.

Elizabeth watched with an overly satisfied expression.

“Broad shoulders,” the tailor commented, almost to himself. “Good build. Posture helps.”

“He trains,” Elizabeth said casually.

“I run in the forest,” Damon corrected.

“He trains,” she repeated.

Valerius noted measurements with silent efficiency.

“We need three main suits,” Elizabeth continued. “One formal for council meetings. One social for dinners and receptions. And one in between.”

Damon turned his face slowly to her.

“Three?”

“Minimum.”

“Minimum?”

She ignored him.

“High-quality fabrics. Nothing too flashy. He doesn’t need to look like a peacock.”

“Thank you,” Damon murmured.

Valerius interrupted politely:

“Color preference, Count?”

The word still sounded strange.

Damon hesitated.

Elizabeth answered before he could.

“Dark tones. Deep blue, graphite, perhaps a discreet wine color.”

She tilted her head, analyzing him.

“Colors that reinforce presence, not that compete with it.”

Damon sighed.

“Can’t I choose anything?”

She looked at him with feigned surprise.

“Of course you can.”

“Then I want something comfortable.”

Valerius sketched an almost invisible smile.

“Comfort can coexist with authority, sir.”

“See?” Damon said.

“As long as the cut is appropriate” Elizabeth added.

The tailor asked Damon to turn slightly. He adjusted the tape measure at the waist. He marked the length of the legs.

The cold touch of the measuring tape contrasted with the new sensitivity of his body. He noticed too many details — the texture of the fabric of his own coat, the tailor’s controlled breathing, the slight displacement of air when Elizabeth moved.

She walked through the store while he was being measured, running her fingers over the fabrics.

The bond between them vibrated with something curious.

Pride.

Not exaggerated.

But present.

He felt it.

“You’re enjoying this,” he murmured.

She didn’t turn around.

“Very much.”

“Turning me into an aristocratic project?”

“Seeing you occupy the space you should occupy.”

He was silent for a second.

Valerius finished his notes.

“I’ll need a few days to finalize everything.”

“Two,” said Elizabeth.

The tailor hesitated slightly.

“Two days is… tight.”

She just looked at him.

There was no explicit threat.

But the atmosphere changed.

“Two days,” she repeated softly.

Valerius inclined his head.

“Two days.”

Damon raised an eyebrow as the tailor walked away.

“Do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“This thing of looking and the world adjusting.”

She finally turned back to him.

“I don’t force anything.”

“It doesn’t seem like it.”

She stopped in front of him, a short distance away.

“The world adjusts itself, Damon. I just… remind it of that.”

He observed her face for a few seconds.

Her energy was stable today. There was no trace of the instability that had arisen in the square.

But there was intensity.

She raised her hand and adjusted his collar again, as if she were already mentally testing how the new clothes would look.

“You’ll look very handsome in deep blue” she commented.

“I’m already handsome.”

She tilted her head.

“Conceited.”

“Realistic.”

She laughed softly.

Valerius returned with fabric samples.

Elizabeth held a piece of dark velvet against Damon’s chest, assessing the contrast.

Her touch was longer than necessary.

He felt it.

It wasn’t just aesthetic analysis. There was something possessive there.

Subtle.

She pushed the fabric aside and chose another.

“This one.”

Damon leaned slightly toward her.

“Are you doing this for political reasons… or because you like the idea of ​​dressing me as your Earl?”

She held his gaze.

“Both.”

Too honest.

He smiled slightly.

“At least you admit it.”

“Always.”

Valerius began discussing technical details—lapels, inner linings, discreet embroidery on the cuff to indicate lineage.

Elizabeth approved or rejected with quick decisions.

Damon listened, half attentive, half reflecting.

Earl.

Noble.

Husband of the Countess of Mirath.

Everything happened too fast.

But strangely… it didn’t seem wrong.

It seemed… aligned.

The bond pulsed again.

She felt the thought.

“You’re not sorry,” she said, almost in a scientifically observant tone.

He looked at her.

“No.”

“Scared?”

“A little.”

She smiled.

“I was too.”

He blinked.

“You?”

“When I accepted that you would stay.”

That silenced him for a moment.

Valerius announced that the measures were complete and that he would begin immediately.

Elizabeth thanked him with a minimal gesture.

When they left the store, the sun was already higher.

The city remained vibrant, but the space around them always seemed to maintain a small, respectful distance.

Damon walked beside her.

“So what’s the next step in the aristocratic plan?”

She intertwined her fingers with his.

“Now we’re going to officially inform the city administrator.”

He almost stopped.

“Today?” — Of course.

“Don’t you ever rest?”

She looked at him with a genuinely confused expression.

“Why would I rest?”

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