CHAPTER 190: CHAPTER 190: CITY DATE (2)

"Dax..." he said slowly, tilting his head upward. "What is that?"

Dax followed his gaze.

High above the plaza, mounted on the side of an old finance building, was a massive curved digital screen. It wasn’t advertising perfume or a government program. It was him.

Chris, in full consort regalia from the gala with the dark robe, ivory shirt with that criminal neckline, bronze-thread embroidery, and the collar. The image was striking; the lighting softened just enough to make him look like a modern myth. And just beneath it, in bold, backlit Sahan lettering:

CHRISTOPHER ALTERA, CONSORT OF SAHA

"Magnificent photo," Dax said appreciatively.

Chris didn’t respond.

He tilted his head slightly further, his gaze tracking the screen like he expected it to vanish if he stared long enough.

It didn’t; the image had the audacity of being looped. The soft sweep of fabric. The slight turn of his body. The glint of diamonds at his throat.

It was a video, not just an image. Animated. Edited. Framed like a reverent portrait and projected five stories high across the city skyline.

And then...

Another screen came into view on the next block.

And another across the street.

A full bus passed behind them with the same image stretched across its length, tinted windows barely disrupting the immaculate shot of his collarbone and scathing gaze.

Chris slowly turned his head back toward Dax.

"It’s everywhere."

"It’s patriotic."

"It’s mortifying."

"You’re welcome."

"Dax!"

People were already stopping, pulling out their phones. Someone actually waved shyly and asked if he could sign a poster.

Chris stared at it, at his own face, stylized and regal, the robe immortalized in high-definition glory.

He turned slowly toward Dax. "You knew."

Dax didn’t even try to deny it. "Of course. I wanted you to see how much they love you."

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. "You could’ve told me."

"And missed this face?" Dax asked, utterly delighted.

"You are..." Chris cut himself off, aware of the crowd, the cameras, and the way Dax’s hand had casually brushed his lower back again, protective, claiming, and subtle only to people who didn’t know what that gesture meant.

The sound of camera shutters grew louder.

"Smile," Dax murmured, his voice brushing the shell of his ear. "You’re their favorite now."

Chris exhaled, straightened, and managed a perfect, diplomatic smile. "If I smile, it’s because I’m imagining killing you later."

"Romantic," Dax said softly. "I’ll take it."

Rowan, walking twenty paces behind, muttered into his comm, "They’re in public. Again. It’s chaos."

Killian’s voice replied, unamused, "Let them. The approval ratings are spiking."

By the time they reached the café Dax had promised, Chris was somewhere between exhaustion, disbelief, and reluctant amusement.

He sat down across from Dax, watching the man stir his espresso like none of this was happening. "This is your revenge for that neckline? To plaster it everywhere?"

Dax wisely said nothing.

"I want a divorce."

Dax took a slow sip of his espresso.

"I’m afraid that’s above your clearance level," he said calmly.

Chris narrowed his eyes. "Now everyone knows my face."

Dax raised a brow and dared to smile brighter. "Well, they have to know their king consort and mate." He ignored Chris’s glare behind the sunglasses. "Also, you would have known about it if you didn’t ignore Mia and Lucas."

Chris scoffed. "I had one group with them, Serathine and Cressida, but now somehow, Trevor is involved, the two princes of palatine, two other persons, and... you."

"Well, the other two are Benjamin and Alistair; one is a jeweler with a fondness for my alcohol collection, and the second is Trevor’s cousin." Dax took another sip of his coffee. "And Lucas added me to it only because that would make the others panic."

Chris stared at him, deadpan. "So what you’re telling me is that I’m being publicly deified across an entire country, and meanwhile, there’s a group chat out there with more political weight than a summit."

Dax didn’t blink. "Correct."

Chris narrowed his eyes. "And I’m not in it?"

"You were," Dax said, calm as ever. "You muted it. Twice."

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. "I muted one group with Mia and Lucas and somehow ended up being monitored by six complete strangers and my prosecutor brother."

"Well, the strangers are mostly aristocrats," Dax offered helpfully. "One of them owns a sapphire mine. One throws balls. One is..."

"My brother," Chris cut in, "is still furious I never told him about being a dominant omega. And now you’ve given him ammo."

"Your brother is busy for a while with the rest of the Maleks, but he will visit soon." Dax placed his cup on the saucer. "Now, should we do something else or are you going to sulk here until we have to go back?"

Chris didn’t answer right away.

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, expression unreadable behind his sunglasses. The café was half-shaded by the trees lining the avenue, the clink of glass and soft murmur of conversation wrapping around them like ambient armor. Somewhere across the plaza, his own face smiled back at him from a tram stop advertisement.

"Do something else?" Chris echoed eventually. "Like what? Pose for another campaign? Approve a cologne line based on my pheromones? Sign off on national anthem lyrics with my name rhyming with ’Saha’?"

Dax’s lips twitched. "The anthem thing was a joke. Mostly."

Chris stared at him.

Dax tilted his head, utterly unrepentant. "I’m just saying, your name has a strong cadence."

A long pause. Chris picked up his glass of iced tea, took a single sip, and then set it down slowly.

"I swear to every living god in this country, if you commissioned a scent called Consort Storm, I will make your generals cry."

Dax rose with his usual grace and straightened his already perfect clothes and reached for Chris. "Why would I give to the public something that is only mine?"

Chris’s eyes didn’t leave him.

Not for a second.

Not while Dax stood there in the gold-dipped sunlight like temptation weaponized, suit pressed sharp enough to draw blood, voice rich with that easy arrogance that somehow always landed just shy of unbearable.

Not while he extended his hand and especially not while half the café watched, pretending not to.

Chris set down his glass without looking. He reached up and took Dax’s hand without a word; he rose on his toes and kissed Dax.