Chapter 33: Chapter 33: Revenge (2)

Sylvia’s brows lifted. “A knife?”

Dean squinted at her like she’d just suggested bringing a spoon to a duel. “What, so he can take it from you and make it an embarrassing life lesson?”

Sylvia blinked. “Okay, rude.”

“It’s not rude,” Dean said, leaning back. “It’s reality. He was trained in a military court from the time he could spell his own name. You’d get disarmed before you finished the dramatic inhale.”

Sylvia considered that, then narrowed her eyes. “A gun.”

Dean made a face. “Also no.”

Sylvia’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“A gun is loud,” Dean said patiently, like this was a lecture and Sylvia was failing it on purpose. “A gun is traceable. And if you’re in a room with a Crown Prince who grew up around soldiers, he’s going to see the outline, smell the oil, clock your heartbeat spike, and then you’ll be on the floor wondering why your dignity left first. Assuming you can pass the security first.”

Sylvia stared. “He can’t smell gun oil.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “He can smell you thinking about it.”

Sylvia scoffed. “Okay. Fine. Poison.”

Dean’s eyes lit with genuine interest for half a second, pure reflex, and then he ruined it immediately. “Too slow.”

Sylvia’s lips parted. “Too slow.”

“Yes,” Dean said, warming to the topic in a way that suggested he should never be allowed near military planning meetings without supervision. “Also you’d have to get it past palace security. Which means you’d have to be subtle. Which means you’d be suspicious because you’re not subtle. You’re Sylvia.”

Sylvia pressed a hand to her chest, offended. “I can be subtle.”

Dean raised a brow. “You once walked into a fundraiser and announced you were ’here to judge everyone’s outfits.’”

“That was your fault,” Sylvia argued immediately, like the concept of responsibility was a foreign language she refused to learn. “I’m a simple civilian who got dragged there because her best friend is the equivalent of walking money. They started it. They did the nose scrunch first.”

Dean blinked. “The… nose scrunch.”

“Yes,” Sylvia said, deadly serious. “That specific expression wealthy people do when they smell a poor person’s audacity. Like they’re offended by oxygen.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “You were wearing a dress that cost more than my monthly allowance at the time. I had to use my savings to buy it.”

“And they could tell it wasn’t mine,” Sylvia snapped. “It didn’t have my energy.”

Dean’s brow lifted. “Your energy.”

“My energy is ’I will fight you in a parking lot,’” Sylvia said, pointing at herself. “That dress had ’I will cry if someone raises their voice.’ So yes. They scrunched. I snapped.”

Dean leaned back, unimpressed. “So your defense is… you were bullied into committing social arson.”

Sylvia nodded once, like this was a perfectly reasonable legal argument. “Exactly.”

Dean sighed. “Sylvia, you introduced yourself to the donor table by saying, and I quote, ’Hello, I’m here to judge everyone’s outfits and I brought emotional support sarcasm.’”

Sylvia’s eyes widened. “Because nobody else was bringing anything useful.”

Dean stared at her for a beat, then shook his head. “And then you asked the Countess of – whatever – if her hat was a personal choice or a cry for help.”

Sylvia pointed at him triumphantly. “She needed to hear it.”

“She needed a therapist,” Dean corrected. “Not you.”

Sylvia leaned forward, her voice dropping like she was sharing state secrets. “Dean, if those people want subtle, they can purchase it. I’m free-range.”

Dean snorted. “Free-range chaos.”

“Ethically sourced,” Sylvia agreed, smiling sweetly. “And if they don’t like it, they can stop doing the nose scrunch at civilians.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You are not a civilian.”

Sylvia’s expression turned offended again. “I am absolutely a civilian. I don’t have a title. I don’t have guards. I don’t have a pheromone profile that makes entire rooms behave.”

Dean pointed at her. “You have a mouth.”

Sylvia smiled, pleased. “Exactly. It’s my weapon. And unlike your fiancé, I don’t need military training. I just need five minutes and a target who deserves it.”

Dean groaned, but he was smiling now, because this… this was normal. Sylvia being impossible. Dean pretending he wasn’t entertained. The world not ending for five whole seconds.

“And,” Sylvia added, leaning back with a sigh of satisfaction, “if you don’t want me to commit verbal homicide in public, stop taking me places where rich people scrunch their noses at me.”

Dean lifted a brow. “So the solution is never take you anywhere.”

Sylvia grinned. “Correct.”

Dean pointed toward the door. “Get out of my house.”

Sylvia didn’t move. “No.” She waved her phone like a banner. “I still need a plan to get at your fiancé.”

Dean stared at her. “You mean… talk to him.”

Sylvia squinted. “I mean evaluate him.”

Dean sighed, long-suffering. “He’s not a used car.”

Sylvia’s grin sharpened. “He is absolutely a used car. A terrifying one. Imported. Probably illegal in several countries. I need to check the mileage and whether he comes with… undisclosed arson history.”

Dean dragged a hand down his face. “Sylvia.”

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, phone still in hand, eyes bright with the kind of determination that made Dean understand why dictators invented exile. “I want ten minutes.”

“No.”

“Five.”

“No.”

“Two.”

Dean paused. Sylvia smiled like she’d just smelled weakness.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Two minutes for what?”

Sylvia’s voice softened into something deceptively sweet. “Two minutes where I get to look him in the eyes and decide whether he’s going to ruin your life.”

Dean blinked. “He’s not going to ruin my life.”

Sylvia nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. Then two minutes where I decide whether he’s going to ruin my life by making you insufferable.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “That’s my default, he didn’t do anything about it.”

Sylvia gasped. Ignoring the argument, she had a narrative in her head and was dead set on getting to the prince. “See? It’s already happening.”

Dean pointed at her again. “You are not meeting him alone.”

“I don’t want to meet him alone,” Sylvia said quickly. “I want witnesses. I want accountability. I want Lucas within sprinting distance. Preferably with Trevor in the background looking like a judge.”

Dean stared. “That’s the opposite of subtle.”

Sylvia waved a hand. “Subtle is overrated. Subtle is how people end up with villains in their family group chat.”

Dean exhaled. “What is the plan, then?”

Sylvia’s smile turned feral. “I’m going to ’accidentally’ be there when you two are together. I will be polite. Charming. Harmless.”

Dean’s brow lifted. “You don’t do harmless.”

“I can,” Sylvia insisted. “I have performed harmlessly before.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “When?”

Sylvia hesitated, then said, with dignity, “At the dentist.”

Dean stared. “That doesn’t count.”

“It does,” Sylvia argued. “I didn’t bite anyone.”

Dean’s mouth went flat. “Congratulations. The bar is in hell.”

Sylvia ignored him and continued, fully committed to her manifesto. “I will ask him one question.”

Dean squinted. “One.”

“One,” Sylvia promised. “A simple question, nothing suspicious or murderous.”

Dean crossed his arms. “What question?”

Sylvia smiled brightly. “Why did you use my name?”

Dean’s expression tightened, because that was a real question. A fair one. One Dean hadn’t managed to ask without turning it into a fight.

Sylvia’s smile faded just a little, enough for Dean to see the seriousness under her chaos. “If he answers like a man who understands boundaries,” she said quietly, “fine. I’ll back off. I’ll even stop calling him a walking red flag to his face.”

Dean blinked. “That’s generous.”

“If he answers like a man who thinks intimidation is cute,” Sylvia continued, voice sharpening again, “then I will become a problem.”

Dean stared at her. “Sylvia.”

She lifted her hands. “Verbally. A verbal problem.”

Dean exhaled slowly. “Fine. You can ask him that. With me there. With Lucas nearby. With security aware you exist.”

Sylvia beamed. “Perfect. I’ll wear something respectable.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”

Sylvia tilted her head. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t wear something that says ’I’m going to start a war’ in fabric form.”

Sylvia’s grin widened. “Dean, I will have a t-shirt with that printed on it.”

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