By the next morning, things were worse.
The wardrobe was almost empty except for those damned robes. Every shade of violet and gold known to Saha had been crammed inside, pressed and perfumed like a personal insult. His shirts, slacks, and jackets were gone… again. Only his pajamas and the ceremonial "gifts" remained.
He'd told her once, very clearly, that he wouldn't wear them.
And yet, there she was. Hanna stood by the dressing table, tablet in hand, all composure and self-importance.
"I already told you," Chris said, tugging open the wardrobe doors for emphasis, "I'm not wearing these."
"They're not optional, Your Grace," she replied, tone crisp and rehearsed. "They're tradition."
"They're dresses," he said flatly.
"They're formal wear." She spat out, visibly trying to remain composed.
"They're dressed with delusions of grandeur," he snapped, glaring at the nearest one. It glittered at him like it had opinions.
