CHAPTER 212: CHAPTER 212: NEWS...

He stood near the tall windows of the east sitting room, autumn light pooling around him in soft gold, catching on the crisp white shirt he’d rolled to the elbows and the dark trousers he’d barely had time to choose before Rowan dragged him here. The binder in his hands felt heavy in that special, soul-draining way only royal paperwork could achieve.

A binder prepared by Dax himself, labeled ’CONSORT: EXECUTIVE EXPECTATIONS, YEAR ONE’ in gold print.

Every so often, a gust of warm late-autumn air slipped in through the barely open window, carrying the smell of dry leaves and the faint hum of life beyond the palace walls. It should have relaxed him.

It did not.

Behind him on the velvet chaise, Cressida lounged like a satisfied general after a victorious campaign, her tea steaming gently beside her. She had the smug serenity of someone who’d spent a week breaking an omega into proper form and now got to admire the results.

"Your shoulders aren’t collapsing anymore," she observed, absolutely glowing with pride.

Chris didn’t respond. Not because he didn’t hear her, but because acknowledging her might give her strength.

"And look at the way you’re holding that binder," she continued. "Like a consort, not a grad student."

He flipped a page just to make a point. "I had a good form since the gala and... I completed the university too long ago to be considered a grad student."

Chris turned another page loudly, like maybe if he abused the paper enough, the universe would take pity on him and erase half its contents.

Cressida did not take the hint.

"I’m just saying," she went on, swirling her tea with the air of a woman who believed she had personally sculpted him from marble, "your posture has finally stopped offending me. Progress."

"I’m ignoring you," Chris said again, without looking up.

"Yes, yes. Beautifully, even. With dignity."

He squeezed the binder a little too hard.

He wasn’t sure what irritated him more: the fact that Cressida was proud of him or the fact that she genuinely had reason to be.

He shifted his weight, letting the sunlight wash over his back as he scanned the next section:

EXECUTIVE DUTIES OF THE CONSORT

Delegation Protocols

Political Interference Guidelines

Emergency Oversight Authority

"Emergency oversight authority," he muttered. "Great. So if Dax decides to jump out a window, I’m legally responsible."

"Correct," Cressida chirped.

"You are not helping."

"You wanted a mate with a kingdom. This is what comes with the accessories."

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. "He kidnapped me and convinced me with patience and seven feet three of smug."

Cressida didn’t even look offended. If anything, she looked amused. "And yet here you are," she said, lifting her cup with both hands, pinky elegantly out. "Rolled sleeves, crisp shirt, posture acceptable to the gods, reading your executive duties like a man who belongs here."

"I belong in bed," Chris muttered. "Preferably unconscious."

"Not after last night," she replied smoothly. "Your mate would follow."

Chris shut his mouth very hard, because she wasn’t wrong, and the last thing he needed was to give her noise-based encouragement.

He flipped to the next page of the binder, a page Dax had personally bookmarked with a ribbon, because of course he did.

"Public interference clause..." Chris read under his breath. "If the king is incapacitated or unreachable, the consort may act as interim authority in, oh for the love of..."

"Isn’t it wonderful?" Cressida sighed dramatically. "You get to boss around half the palace if Dax sneezes too hard."

Chris shot her a look. "That is not comforting."

"It should be. It means you’re already trusted."

"It means Dax made this binder at two in the morning with unearned optimism."

Cressida laughed under her breath, that quiet little sound she made when she was trying, failing, not to show affection. "You underestimate how rare you are," she said gently. "Even the palace staff reads your schedule now like it’s a saint’s feast day."

Chris stared harder at the page to avoid reacting to that.

He was halfway through pretending to study the section on diplomatic emergencies when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He froze.

Cressida’s brows lifted. "Expecting someone?"

Chris sighed. "It’s either Mia, your grandson-in-law, Lucas, or Andrew. If it is the latter, it is bad."

"Oh," Cressida smiled. "It’s Andrew."

Chris didn’t even look; he already knew. The universe had that particular sense of humor lately.

He pulled out his phone anyway, thumb hovering over the screen for half a second before he swiped to answer. He didn’t get to speak.

Andrew’s voice hit him immediately, brisk and all business, like someone halfway between a prosecutor and an older brother actively preventing cardiac arrest.

"They’re on their way to Saha."

Chris blinked. "I... what... who?"

"The Maleks," Andrew said, not even softening the blow. "The extended family. The nobles. The ones who didn’t bother showing their faces when we were burying our parents because they were too busy calculating inheritance patterns."

Chris’s spine straightened on instinct. "Oh great," he muttered. "Of course they are."

Cressida’s smile widened like she was watching live theater.

Andrew continued, still clipped, still controlled. "They’ve arranged a diplomatic visit through the Sahan embassy. They’ll land in Saha within seventy-two hours."

"Fantastic," Chris said, shifting his weight and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Truly fantastic. Do they want tea or a blood sacrifice?"

"They haven’t said," Andrew replied dryly. "But considering their timing, I’m leaning toward sacrifice."

Chris huffed a quiet laugh. "Why now?"

"There are two reasons," Andrew said, his voice shifting into something heavier. "First, they know you’re Dax’s consort now. The palace used your name as Christopher Altera, but the Maleks finally connected it to you."

Chris shut his eyes. "And the second?"

Andrew exhaled once, quietly.

"...I became the heir of the Black family this morning."

Chris’s brain stopped, like his nervous system just blue-screened.

He didn’t even breathe for a second.

Behind him, Cressida actually lowered her teacup mid-air, eyebrows rising in delighted alarm, like someone watching a horse spontaneously learn quantum physics.

"You... what?" Chris finally managed, voice thin and frayed like he was losing an arm wrestle with the universe.

"I signed the papers," Andrew said, tone steady, almost bored, which was his prosecutor voice for this is happening, accept it. "I’m the Black heir now. Denise and Milo Black finalized the documents this morning."

Chris blinked once. Very slowly. "Finalized?"

"Retroactively," Andrew clarified. "They’re forging the adoption as if it happened years ago. With imperial approval. And Fitzgeralt’s signatures. And D’Argente’s backing."

Chris stared at the wall like maybe the paint would peel itself out of sympathy.

"They’re rewriting history."

"Yes. Efficiently."

Cressida sipped her tea, smug. "About time," she murmured.

Chris turned. "You knew?"

She gave him a look that said, ’I know everything worth knowing and several things I shouldn’t.’

"My dear, I edited the adoption documents."

Chris let out a choking noise that might have been a laugh or a nervous breakdown warming up.

Andrew continued, unbothered, "The public announcement is scheduled in forty-eight hours. I’m flying with the Blacks to Saha tomorrow morning."

Chris blinked. "You’re coming with Denise and Milo Black?"

"Yes."

"And Mia?"

"Of course, Mia," Andrew said. "Do you think I’d leave her with the Maleks? I’m trying to keep her out of jail, not deposit her into it."

Chris made a soft, horrified sound. "So you’re all coming. Together."

"That’s correct."

"And the Maleks?"

"They will arrive roughly two days after us."

"Fuck."