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.
Hanna didn’t even blink. "The King’s order from last week is still in place. And the new order confirms it."
"Last week’s order...?" Chris turned to face her fully. "I thought that was a mistake. I told you it was a mistake."
She shrugged, unbothered. "I confirmed both with Chief Steward Killian. He said the directives were valid. It’s not my fault if you refuse to comply."
Chris’s jaw tightened. "He said that?"
"Directly." Her tone softened, but only just. "Your Grace, I understand this is unfamiliar, but you are in Saha. The robes are a sign of respect and unity. It would reflect poorly on the King if..."
"If his omega didn’t suddenly start cosplaying as a chandelier?"
Her sigh was long-suffering. "You’re impossible."
"And you’re fashion’s war crime," he shot back.
Hanna didn’t rise to the bait this time. She exhaled slowly, lowering her tablet like a patient instructor dealing with a slow student. "Your Grace," she began, in that maddeningly even tone, "we’ve discussed this before. The order was issued for your own benefit. His Majesty’s office simply wants you to look the part."
"The part?" Chris echoed, bitterness creeping into his voice. "What am I supposed to be, exactly?"
She smiled in a way that wasn’t kind. "The King’s consort. Presentation matters."
He laughed once, short and humorless. "Right. Presentation."
She didn’t flinch. "I understand this is difficult," she said, each word coated in feigned sympathy. "Adjusting to court life takes time. If you’d like, I can review the schedule with you again. Perhaps repetition will help."
He stared at her, speechless for a heartbeat. "Repetition," he repeated, voice low. "Are you serious?"
"I only mean," Hanna continued, tone soft and infuriatingly calm, "that sometimes it’s easier to process things slowly. You’ve had quite a few changes recently. The move, the environment, the... expectations." Her gaze flicked, almost pitying. "And I know your health has been delicate since the transition off suppressants. Perhaps that’s contributing to your distress."
Chris felt his throat tighten. The room seemed smaller, the air heavier. "Don’t," he said quietly.
"I’m only trying to help."
"No, you’re not," he snapped. "You’re trying to make me feel like I’m losing my mind."
Hanna’s eyes softened falsely, expertly. "No one said that, Your Grace. But it’s normal to be sensitive during treatment. The body reacts in unpredictable ways. We wouldn’t want to add unnecessary stress, would we?"
He wanted to yell, to tear the damned robes off their hangers and throw them at her, but the worst part was knowing it wouldn’t change anything. The orders had serial codes, signatures, and confirmation from Killian. Everything looked official and airtight. He was the only thing in the room that didn’t fit anymore.
She inclined her head slightly, as if closing the discussion. "When you’re ready, I’ll have the seamstresses adjust the sleeves. The King will be pleased to see you presentable when he returns."
He didn’t trust himself to answer.
When she left, the silence swallowed everything she hadn’t said aloud.
—
He didn’t eat that day. Or the next.
He told Nadia he wasn’t hungry and listened to her lecture but said nothing else. Told Rowan he was tired. Both believed him, or wanted to. The patch on his arm started flashing amber on the second night, indicating an imbalance in his vitals. He ignored it. When it finally pulsed red, Nadia called the physician, who sent a brief message to monitor fluctuations during suppressant withdrawal.
Withdrawal. Sensitive. Adjustment.
Every explanation made him feel even smaller.
Hanna reported his condition dutifully, her tone perfectly measured. "Your Grace seems fatigued. Likely a side effect of long-term therapy. He’s struggling to adapt to the environment, but nothing unusual for someone with his history."
Each word was a knife dipped in courtesy.
By the third day, the laptop was the only thing left untouched. He clung to it like it was proof that he still existed somewhere beyond the polished walls. Ethan’s messages arrived on schedule: updates, data sets, small talk about home, and for a few hours, he could pretend the world still made sense.
But even that illusion cracked. His fingers shook too much to type, his concentration scattered. He kept rereading the same formula until the numbers blurred into meaningless loops.
At night, he lay on the bed, their bed, surrounded by the faint floral perfume Hanna had insisted on. The scent made his head ache. He pressed a pillow over his face and wished it smelled like spice again.
He’d believed, stupidly, that he and Dax had started something real. That the king’s quiet touches, his phone calls, and his unguarded smiles meant something. That the distance was temporary, the work unavoidable.
But this...
This silence, this emptiness, this slow erasure of everything that was his... This told him otherwise.
Dax didn’t called anymore and Chris didn’t find the power to write in that inactive channel he used as a semi-diary.
By the end of the week, he barely spoke. The patch kept flashing. His labs drifted further out of range.
Nadia saw the warnings with Rowan. The readings streamed across her tablet in clean red lines, with pulse spiking, sleep deprivation, and cortisol levels climbing far past baseline. His endocrine balance was collapsing. It wasn’t the normal drift of suppressant withdrawal; this was stress-induced, accelerated by exhaustion and hunger.
She’d seen it before, years ago in medical units where omegas were monitored during detox. But those patients hadn’t been left alone in royal quarters with someone like Hanna.
The last note in the log, "administered rest supplements, declined meals," made her throat tighten.
She knew exactly what was happening. Hanna was keeping him contained under the guise of procedure, explaining every abnormality as "expected sensitivity." And because the documentation looked perfect, there was nothing Nadia could do formally.
She couldn’t call the king; maybe Rowan could, but they would risk too much. Protocol forbade private medical contact unless the patient’s condition was life-threatening, and on paper, it wasn’t. Not yet.
But there was something else that could bring Dax back faster than any personal appeal: data.
A full, detailed medical report stamped by the royal physician and entered into the Imperial Health Network, a system Dax received alerts from personally.
So Nadia began writing; the report would be approved if John Bird remembered the mistake she helped him recover from years before.
She logged every symptom with ruthless precision:
— decreased caloric intake for five consecutive days;
— elevated heart rate and stress markers;
— patch readings showing severe hormonal imbalance;
— worsening sleep cycle;
— episodes of social withdrawal and emotional detachment.
She attached every timestamp and every graph. Added a note under "Behavioral Changes":
Patient displays signs of acute psychological distress and identity dissociation possibly induced by environmental manipulation. Strongly recommend immediate evaluation.
She didn’t write Hanna’s name, that would have triggered a political review and buried the file for days, but the phrasing would be enough. Dax was too perceptive not to read between the lines.
When she hit send, the report joined the encrypted queue of official palace updates, marked urgent, medical priority. The system would notify Dax automatically.
She called John. "Approve it; you owe me."
"I would even without you threatening. The king would be mad." John said warily.
"He should be; the omega is dying in his home."