Chapter 66: Chapter 66: No drama.

Dean woke up like someone had left him in the wrong museum overnight.

For a few seconds he didn’t move. He just stared at the ceiling, blinking slowly, waiting for his brain to accept what his eyes were seeing: the gilded molding so intricate it looked hand-drawn, painted panels that were either original or so perfectly restored they might as well have been, and a chandelier above him that could have been classified as a small national treasure.

Then he remembered.

Alamina. Arion. Otto and Minerva. The wing. His wing.

Dean let out a quiet breath and sat up, the sheets sliding off him with a softness that felt offensive. The bed was too wide. Too heavy. Too comfortable. It felt like it had been engineered to keep him captive through sheer luxury.

He swung his legs off the side, bare feet sinking into a carpet that didn’t feel like fabric as much as it felt like someone had domesticated a cloud. He stared at it for a second, like it might explain itself.

The room was bright with winter light spilling in through tall windows. Beyond the glass, the gardens were white and still. Inside, everything was warm without visible effort. The temperature was perfect in that maddening way that meant it had been controlled by systems he couldn’t see.

Dean stood and walked toward the window, half expecting to find a radiator the size of a coffin hiding under the sill.

There was nothing.

No bulky vents. No ugly modern attachments. No visible wires. No obvious thermostat.

And yet, the place was alive with modern necessity, tucked under layers of history like a secret the palace refused to be embarrassed about.

He found it the moment he started paying attention.

The wall panel that looked like carved wood was actually a touchscreen disguised with absurd artistry. The ’decorative’

brass fixture near the door wasn’t decorative at all – it was a secure biometric lock, elegant enough to fool a noble and functional enough to stop someone armed. The mirror in the dressing area had the faintest interface embedded along the edge, the one you only noticed if you stared too long. Even the lighting shifted subtly when he moved, responding to his presence.

Dean stood there, barefoot in an imperial bedroom, and felt his mind do the same thing it had done when he first stepped into Dax and Chris’s palace.

That same layered extravagance. That same obscene wealth dressed up as tradition, with modern systems hidden underneath like a second skeleton.

He exhaled, half amused, half horrified.

Of course it reminded him of Saha.

Of course it did. Dax and Otto were relatives. The same imperial blood, the same taste for ’we don’t do drama’ while living inside a building that screamed ’you are beneath us’ in twelve different languages.

Dean walked out into the sitting room, still in the sleep shirt the staff had left for him, and paused when he saw the table.

Breakfast was already set.

Tea steaming in a pot that looked antique enough to belong in a display case. Fresh fruit already sliced. Warm bread. A small plate of something savory that smelled like herbs and butter and the care Dean didn’t know what to do with.

And next to it, casually placed like it wasn’t a security measure, a small, discreet device the size of a coin, embedded into the table’s edge.

A panic button.

Dean stared at it for a long second.

Then he sat down slowly, like if he moved too fast he’d ruin the spell.

He hadn’t even taken his first sip of tea when the doorbell chimed.

Dean blinked at it. The sound wasn’t loud enough to be alarming. It was just… there.

He hesitated, then got up and crossed the room.

When he opened the door, Sylvia Croft stood in the hallway like she’d been delivered by chaos itself.

She was bundled in a winter coat that was stylish enough to be expensive but worn like she didn’t care if it got ruined. Her brown hair was slightly messy, like she’d run her hands through it three times out of impatience. Her eyes were bright and delighted in a way that meant she’d already decided this morning was going to be entertaining.

And behind her, at a respectful distance, a palace staff member hovered with the strained expression of someone who had just been told, with absolute confidence, that the Crown Prince promised favors.

Sylvia leaned in, peering past Dean’s shoulder into the sitting room.

Then she froze.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Dean didn’t even get a greeting. Not a ’hi.’ Not a ’you’re alive.’ Just Sylvia’s stare going wide as she took in the space like it was an offense.

“You live here,” Sylvia said finally, her voice reverent with disgust.

Dean blinked. “Apparently.”

Sylvia stepped past him without waiting for permission. She moved like she owned the air, walking into the sitting room and turning in a slow circle, eyes scanning the walls, the furniture, the view, the breakfast, and the hidden tech.

Dean shut the door and watched her, already bracing for whatever commentary she was about to commit.

Sylvia stopped in front of the window, stared out at the snow-covered gardens, then turned toward him slowly, her expression lit with a kind of holy outrage.

“Dean,” she said, as if she was speaking to someone who had lied to her for years. “They told the world they don’t do drama.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “They did.”

Sylvia jabbed a finger toward the chandelier. “That chandelier alone is drama.”

Dean’s shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. “Apparently it’s ’history.’”

Sylvia stared at him. “That’s the same thing.”

Dean pointed at her. “Thank you.”

Sylvia walked to the wall panel, eyes narrowing. “And it’s not even just old-money obscene,” she said, her voice dropping like she was discussing a crime scene. “It’s modern, too. Hidden. Like they’re ashamed of being comfortable.”

Dean exhaled through his nose. “Yes. Exactly.”

Sylvia turned and looked at the breakfast spread. Her eyebrows lifted. Then she looked back at Dean, eyes sparkling.

“Okay,” she said slowly, “this is either the safest place you’ve ever been in your life or the most expensive trap in human history.”

Dean’s mouth twisted. “I’m leaning toward safe.”

Sylvia’s gaze sharpened. “Because of Arion?”

Dean didn’t answer.

Sylvia’s expression softened for half a second, just long enough to prove she wasn’t only chaos. Then it snapped back into amused disbelief.

“So,” Sylvia said brightly, already settling onto the couch like she lived here too, “tell me everything. Starting with why your new home looks like Dax’s palace had an affair with a museum and decided to keep the child.”

Dean stared at her, then sighed, because he’d missed her, and that was annoying.

“You’re not even going to ask how I am,” he accused.

Sylvia waved a hand. “You’re alive and you’re hydrated, and you’re currently being protected by a dominant Crown Prince who thinks you’re his omega. You’re fine.”

Dean’s ears warmed instantly. “That is not—”

Sylvia’s grin sharpened. “Oh, it absolutely is.”

Dean glared.

Sylvia leaned forward, delighted. “Now,” she said, eyes glittering with anticipation, “tell me what they’re hiding under all this ’no drama,’ because I refuse to believe any empire can afford this much gold and not have at least one scandalous ghost.”

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