Chapter 137: Chapter 137: Which number?

Dean just stared.

And Sylvia, because she was a beta and thus did not receive the pheromone warning system that everyone else did, picked up on Dean’s posture, the tiny recalibration in his shoulders, the way his stillness sharpened into something predatory.

The person in white took one step forward.

The heel clicked.

Up close, it was impossible to miss what Sylvia had sensed the moment the stranger’s smile landed: this wasn’t some soft socialite playing dress-up. The elegance was a costume, but the body under it was built with control.

A dominant omega male.

Dean could see it too.

The stranger’s gaze swept Dean like a hand.

Then their smile widened, satisfied.

“At last,” the stranger murmured. “You’re not hiding anymore.”

Sylvia’s stomach twisted.

Dean had been in Alamina for two weeks. Two weeks of being dragged into palace life, of being called ’fiancée’ in hallways, of being publicly attached to Arion like a fact the country had already accepted. Dean hadn’t hidden anything; in fact, the palace had pushed him so hard into the light that he probably had bruises.

Dean didn’t bother explaining that.

He didn’t even bother responding to the accusation.

Dean’s gaze had shifted to the sheer fabric across the chest, which was translucent enough to reveal the faint outline of a nipple beneath it, as if the dress had been designed with the explicit intention of being inappropriate in a private setting.

Sylvia saw Dean’s stare lock there and felt her soul leave her body for a second.

The stranger noticed it too.

Their smile softened, pleased, as if this were confirmation.

“You see?” they said quietly. “You’re not immune.”

Dean lifted his gaze back up with maddening calm.

And then, because the universe had decided Dean was not going to survive this night with dignity intact, Dean interrupted.

“You,” Dean said, voice polite, bright, and absolutely unhinged in its composure, “have a nipple out.”

Sylvia inhaled sharply.

The stranger blinked.

“My… what?”

Dean tilted his head, still staring with clinical focus, as if he were reviewing a fashion crime. “Your nipple. I can see it through the veil.”

Sylvia made a strangled sound behind him, somewhere between laughter and horror. She tried to turn it into a cough.

It didn’t work.

The stranger’s mouth parted slightly, then closed, then parted again, like they were trying to decide whether to be offended or flattered.

“That,” they managed, slowly, “is the point.”

Dean’s brows lifted. “The point is to show me your nipple.”

The stranger’s eyes narrowed. “The point is to show you what you want.”

Dean’s smile appeared small, sharp, and delighted in the worst possible way.

“Oh,” Dean said, as if he’d been offered a menu. “So you’re a trap and a performance.”

The stranger stepped closer again, heels clicking.

Sylvia moved with Dean instinctively, staying just behind his shoulder, clutch tight, heart hammering. She couldn’t smell dominance, but she could feel the tension anyway.

“You’re different from what I expected,” the stranger said, his voice low now.

“You chose the worst moment,” Dean said, eyes still on the offending outline like it had personally insulted him. “Let me guess… an ex of Arion’s?”

The stranger’s smile thinned.

“Yes,” he said, as if admitting to being a jewel in a crown. “And you can call me Andrea.”

Dean’s gaze finally lifted slow, unimpressed, and feral in its calm.

“Great,” Dean said. “Andrea. Which number?”

Andrea blinked, thrown. “What?”

Dean’s toothy grin only widened. “Which number?”

Andrea’s brows drew together. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, you do, but let me help you,” Dean said pleasantly, like he was explaining a schedule change. “Arion told me he had eight.”

Andrea’s eyes narrowed. “Eight what?”

Dean shrugged, cruelly casual. “Exes. Omegas assigned for his ruts. Whatever category makes you feel less like a line item.”

Sylvia’s hand flew to her mouth.

She did not squeal.

She did, however, vibrate with the effort of not screaming.

Andrea’s expression tightened. His pride, his poise, and the entire bridal performance all went stiff at once.

“I’m not a number,” Andrea said, his voice cold.

Dean nodded thoughtfully, like Andrea had offered an interesting opinion about traffic.

“Then why are you standing in a bridal gown in my fiancé’s palace with your nipple attempting diplomacy?” Dean asked. “Pick a lane.”

Andrea’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re jealous.”

Dean smiled again, soft and vicious. “I’m offended.”

Andrea stepped closer, trying to crowd him.

Dean didn’t move.

“Arion will regret choosing you,” Andrea said, voice sharpening, reaching for the only weapon he thought would land.

Dean’s eyes brightened like a match.

“Oh,” Dean said softly, delighted. “We’re doing threats.”

Sylvia’s heart slammed against her ribs.

Andrea held Dean’s gaze, trying to make him blink first.

Dean didn’t blink.

Dean tilted his head again, still maddeningly calm, and said, “One more question, Andrea.”

Andrea’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Dean’s gaze dropped briefly, like a final insult, before returning to Andrea’s face with total, unfiltered sincerity.

“You were a match considered before I manifested,” Dean said, voice calm and almost conversational, “and then you were removed when the compatibility test went out.”

Andrea’s mouth opened.

Dean lifted one finger.

Andrea froze, offended by the audacity of being shushed in his own trap.

Dean continued anyway, bright-eyed with that suppressed-heat energy that made him feel like a beautifully dressed hazard to society.

“I must say,” Dean went on, his tone polite enough to pass as manners, “you do look fabulous.”

Andrea’s expression softened for half a second, gratification sneaking in…

Dean ruined it immediately.

“But you’re trying to humiliate me,” Dean finished, still smiling, “and I don’t like that.”

Andrea stared at him.

Then, slowly, “Excuse me?”

Dean tilted his head. “It’s the bridal gown.”

Andrea’s jaw tightened. “It’s couture.”

Dean nodded as if conceding a point. “It’s also bridal.”

Andrea’s eyes flashed. “You don’t own the color white.”

Dean’s smile widened. “True. But wearing ’wedding-adjacent’ to an engagement gala is either a cry for help or a strategic error.”

Sylvia pressed her lips together so hard her cheeks hurt. She was going to explode.

Andrea’s voice went colder. “You’re threatened.”

Dean blinked slowly, like Andrea had said something deeply confusing.

“By your nipple?” Dean asked.

Sylvia made a strangled noise into her fist.

Andrea’s face went crimson. “Stop saying that.”

Dean’s brows lifted. Why? It’s there.”

Andrea looked like he was about to lunge.

Dean leaned in slightly, his voice dropping into something gentle and devastating.

“Do you know what’s really humiliating?” Dean asked.

Andrea’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Dean’s smile turned sweet. “That you walked into this room expecting me to cry.”

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