Chapter 12: Chapter 12: Before the event
Can’t drink?" Ethan chuckled on the other end, the sound warm and needling. "What, you suddenly turned into a saint overnight? Since when do you pass up free booze?"
"Since I need to keep my head straight for this, apparently," Chris muttered.
"Please. You could down a bottle of cheap whiskey and still outperform half the staff there. You’re just scared she’ll corner you." Ethan’s voice softened a touch, teasing but not cruel. "You know, the way she used to when you were both pretending that disaster counted as a relationship."
Chris groaned and pressed his forehead against the edge of the cabinet. "Don’t remind me."
"Hey, someone’s gotta keep you humble," Ethan said brightly. "Think of it this way: if she’s too busy drooling over Fitzgeralt, you’re free. Hell, maybe you’ll even get to enjoy yourself. Or," he added slyly, "at least sneak something decent from the catering trays before the vultures descend."
Chris huffed out a reluctant laugh, the first crack of humor through his annoyance. "You’re an ass."
"Yeah, but I’m your ass. Call me if you survive."
Chris thumbed the call closed and tossed the phone onto the couch, letting it land face down. For a moment he just stood there, jaw tight, trying to shake off the thought of Clara’s shrill laugh echoing around the Fitzgeralt manor. When the irritation started pressing too close to his ribs, he did what he always did... moved.
He dragged the half-empty mugs from his desk to the sink, stacked the stray plates, and swept a hand over the clutter of papers until they were in neat piles again. The rhythm of it settled him, a little. Wipe down the counter. Dump the trash. Fold the blanket he’d left twisted at the end of the bed. Each small order he imposed on the room chipped away at the noise in his head.
By the time the place looked almost respectable, the sharpest edge of his frustration had dulled. He showered again quickly, more for the reset than the necessity, and pulled on clothes chosen with his usual caution: dark slacks, a soft grey shirt, and a jacket that had seen better days but didn’t draw the eye. Nothing fit enough to outline him, nothing loud enough to make him memorable.
At the manor they’d shove him into a uniform anyway, but he knew better than to give anyone a reason to look twice before that.
He checked his wallet, keys, and the pill bottle he kept tucked in the kitchen drawer, slipping one tablet into his pocket just in case. Then he exhaled, long and sharp, and headed for the door.
The day wasn’t going to get easier, but at least he’d meet it clean, quiet, and controlled.
—
The small city had transformed overnight. Banners in cream and gold hung from office towers and apartment balconies, florists hauled buckets of lilies and roses to street corners, and the sidewalks overflowed with people angling for a glimpse of history. Street vendors had pivoted fast, selling everything from plastic pins stamped with the Fitzgeralt crest to mass-printed paper masks of the imperial family. Digital billboards looped slick wedding promos like it was the launch of a new tech product, complete with a countdown clock and sponsor logos scrolling along the bottom.
Chris shoved his hands into his pockets and kept his head down, weaving through the press of bodies. All this chaos for a wedding. He supposed it made sense, Grand Duke Trevor Fitzgeralt wasn’t just marrying anyone. A dominant alpha binding himself to a dominant omega was historic, but more than that, it was marketable. Entire magazines were calling it the merger of the century. Even the Emperor and foreign heads of state were rumored to attend.
The bus stop was jammed with people. Most were staff pulled in from Fitzgeralt subsidiaries, clutching folded slips with assignments. Some checked their reflections in the dark glass of the timetable board; others nervously practiced greetings under their breath. One guy joked that it felt like onboarding day at a new company. No one disagreed.
Chris lingered at the edge, pulling out his phone to double-check Mia’s text. The bus would go straight from the city center to the manor with no stops or detours. He supposed when you ran an empire like Fitzgeralt’s, you learned to make logistics behave.
When the bus rolled up, brand new, paint gleaming, windows tinted, the line moved forward in a shuffle of nerves and chatter. Chris waited until the last moment to join, sliding into a seat near the back, expression neutral, already slipping into the role Mia accused him of: easy to overlook, easy to forget.
The ride was filled with low voices.
"If they keep me on after this, it’s basically a golden ticket. Fitzgeralt contracts never end early."
"My cousin works in one of their logistics branches and says they pay above government scale and adjust for inflation every quarter. Who does that?"
"They even have internal health coverage. Private, no state paperwork. My dad’s been on a waiting list for years; he says if Fitzgeralt ran the hospitals, no one would complain about taxes again."
Chris leaned back against the window, letting their chatter wash over him. They weren’t wrong. He’d worked for Fitzgeralt subsidiaries before, remote admin jobs, subcontracted plans, and endless spreadsheets. The deadlines were brutal, but the contracts were airtight and the pay always hit his account exactly when promised. Hard, but fair. Ruthless, but reliable.
Outside the glass, the city looked like a launch event. Balconies packed with onlookers, news drones buzzing above intersections, and cafés spilling customers who craned to see the motorcades expected later that day. A wedding, yes, but also a demonstration of power: Fitzgeralt could make an entire city rearrange itself overnight, and people thanked them for it.
Chris exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching with something close to amusement. Respect wasn’t trust. And trust sure as hell wasn’t safety.
Still, as the bus left the city limits and the skyline gave way to open roads, a chill pressed at the back of his neck, the image of violet eyes behind glass, the faint curve of a smile that hadn’t been meant for him.