Chapter 50: Chapter 50: He is ruining you.

Morning came in the Fitzgeralt manor the way big days always did: too bright, too organized, and full of quiet footsteps that sounded like staff were trying not to disturb the air itself.

Dean stood still while three different people adjusted him like he was an artifact that had to survive the next twelve hours.

Gold and black.

The fabric caught the light when he moved, sharp at the shoulders, clean through the waist, tailored so precisely it felt like the suit knew his posture better than he did.

He should have hated it. He didn’t. Not entirely.

Because the collar sat against his throat.

It didn’t fight his skin. It didn’t bite. It didn’t feel like a shackle. It felt like a boundary drawn by his own consent and not another thing forced on him. It was conspicuous in the way Palatine understood: beautiful enough to be admired, meaningful enough to shut people up.

And Dean, annoyingly, liked how quiet the world became around it.

When the attendants finally stepped back, one of them murmured a respectful, “Perfect,” as if Dean’s body had passed inspection.

Dean stared at himself in the mirror and tried to locate the person he’d been a month ago.

He still looked like Dean.

Just… even more expensive than usual.

The door opened without knocking.

Sylvia walked in as if she owned the room, which was fair, considering she’d been in Dean’s life long enough to claim emotional property rights.

She was dressed for the ceremony and the party after – black, of course, because Sylvia treated black like a personal manifesto, and glittering in a way that made her look like she’d agreed to be elegant while still threatening violence. Her hair was done, her makeup so perfectly done that Dean was sure she didn’t touch a brush, and her expression held that same bright, chaotic confidence she used when she was about to be surrounded by nobles and refused to be intimidated by the entire concept of hierarchy.

She took one look at Dean and stopped.

Her mouth fell open.

Dean, already braced for insults, lifted a brow. “Say it.”

Sylvia blinked once. Then twice. Then she pointed at his throat with slow, reverent horror.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Okay. He has taste.”

Dean’s lips twitched. “He does.”

Sylvia stepped closer like she needed to confirm the collar was real and not a hallucination brought on by pre-ceremony stress. Her eyes flicked over the amber stone, the mesh, and the drop catching light like it had been designed to make people stare without giving them permission to speak.

“Disgusting,” she said softly.

Dean’s brows lifted. “Disgusting?”

“In the sense that it’s beautiful,” Sylvia clarified, offended by her own compliment. “In the sense that I hate how good it looks. In the sense that I now understand why you’re out here doing diplomacy and bad decisions like cardio.”

Dean snorted. “You already admitted you got hit with the face.”

“That was the face,” Sylvia said, narrowing her eyes at the collar. “This is… branding with aesthetics.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “The gems are removable. I can keep only the gold mesh.”

Sylvia’s head snapped up so fast Dean almost laughed again.

“Excuse me,” she said, appalled. “You can remove the gems?”

“Yes,” Dean replied, dry. “It’s modular. Apparently my fiancé believes in customization.”

Sylvia stared at him, then at the collar, then back at him like she was personally offended by the concept of optional sparkle.

“You’re telling me,” she said slowly, “that you have the ability to downgrade the drama… and you’re choosing not to.”

Dean lifted a brow. “I’m not downgrading anything on the day of my engagement.”

Sylvia put a hand to her chest, scandalized. “Dean Fitzgeralt. Are you becoming a person who enjoys being admired.”

Dean’s ears warmed. “No.”

Sylvia leaned in, squinting at the amber stone like it had personally betrayed her. “That was too fast of a no.”

Dean sighed. “It’s not about admiration. It’s about… clarity.”

Sylvia’s mouth twitched. “Clarity.”

Dean gestured vaguely toward the mirror. “People see it and stop guessing.”

Sylvia nodded once, thoughtful. “Okay. That’s valid.”

Then she immediately ruined it.

“And also,” Sylvia added, eyes gleaming, “it’s about you liking his taste.”

Dean stared at her. “I do not!”

Sylvia cut in, delighted, pointing at the amber like she’d just solved a murder. “You love it that it has his eye color.”

Dean froze.

Sylvia’s grin widened like a predator who’d finally scented blood. “Ohhh. That pause was incriminating.”

Dean’s ears warmed. “It’s not—”

“It’s literally his eyes,” Sylvia said, merciless. “Golden. Warm. Annoyingly pretty. Like someone trapped sunlight and decided to weaponize it.”

Dean cleared his throat, trying to regain dignity like it was a thing he could simply pick up off the floor. “It’s… a common color.”

Sylvia stared at him. “Dean.”

Dean tried again, voice too fast. “It’s tasteful.”

Sylvia leaned closer, stage-whispering, “You’re wearing his gaze around your throat.”

Dean’s face heated. “That is not what…”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” Sylvia said, gleeful. “He could’ve picked any stone. He picked the one that matches him. That’s possessive romance. That’s ’I want everyone to remember me when they look at you.’”

Dean’s mouth went flat. “Stop.”

Sylvia squinted at him. “Do you hate it?”

Dean hesitated a fraction too long again.

Sylvia gasped. “YOU LIKE IT!!”

Dean exhaled through his nose, defeated. “I like… the meaning.”

Sylvia nodded solemnly. “Sure. The meaning.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “The boundary.”

Sylvia’s grin returned. “The boundary that happens to match his eyes.”

Dean looked back at the mirror, annoyed at how the amber did, in fact, look like Arion’s gaze.

Sylvia patted his shoulder with exaggerated sympathy. “It’s okay. We all have weaknesses.”

Dean shot her a look. “You’re one to talk.”

Sylvia lifted her chin. “My weaknesses come with a salary and housing. Yours comes with a seven-foot-three red flag.”

Dean muttered, “He’s not a red—”

Sylvia cut him off immediately. “He is a red flag. He’s just a red flag with good jewelry.”

Dean’s mouth twitched despite himself.

Sylvia beamed. “There it is. The smile. He’s already ruining you.”

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