Chris blinked, genuinely taken aback. "You want in?"
"Obviously."
"This isn’t... a committee," Chris said, slowly. "It’s just... me. And some silk. And a very questionable plan."
"Which is why you need help." Sahir’s tone was light, but his eyes were already working through something calculating, focused, and far too fast for Chris to feel entirely comfortable.
"You’re serious."
"Of course I’m serious. You’re staging what amounts to a public consort reveal in Saha, with Dargente’s tailoring, Cressida’s political subtlety, and Killian’s military-grade logistics. You do realize this looks like a coup, yes?"
Chris opened his mouth. Closed it. "It’s a birthday robe."
"It’s a message," Sahir corrected. "And not one anyone will misinterpret."
Chris exhaled sharply. "Great. Love that for me."
Sahir stood and began pacing, just two steps, no more, but it was enough to suggest he was already redesigning something in his head. "The design needs to be perfect. It can’t read as submissive, ceremonial, or foreign. No flowing silks at the shoulders. No ornamental sashes. And absolutely no gemstone-threaded embroidery."
Chris gave him a look. "That’s oddly specific."
"Because I’ve worn robes that looked like betrayal wrapped in couture," Sahir replied. "None of the others helping you are omega males. And none of them have lived in Saha with a public profile."
Chris hesitated. "That matters?"
"It matters if you want to be seen as Dax’s equal, not his ornament." Sahir turned back toward him, voice level. "You’ve kept the robe a secret because you thought it made you vulnerable. I’m telling you, it doesn’t have to."
Chris sat back, shocked. "Hold on a minute. I never said anything about vulnerable; I’m keeping it a secret because Dax needs to shut up for a few hours."
Sahir blinked once. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth curved.
"Ah. So it’s an offensive maneuver."
Chris gestured vaguely, still half-defensive. "I mean, yes. That too. But mostly it’s damage control."
"How generous of you."
"I’m a giver," Chris said dryly. "Besides, every time I hint at doing something nice, he circles like I’m about to declare war on his blood pressure."
Sahir gave a thoughtful nod. "That does track."
"I just wanted to give him something without him monologuing about it for six hours or trying to reorganize the State Council around my wardrobe."
"Well," Sahir said, voice amused but edged with approval, "then we’ll make sure it’s something that shuts him up completely. Preferably with impact."
Chris narrowed his eyes. "You’re enjoying this."
"Oh, immensely," Sahir said without shame. "You’ve gone from ’intern in palace survival’ to ’spite-draped strategic surprise,’ and I fully support the transition."
Chris stared at him for a long beat. "It’s a robe."
"And I’m telling you," Sahir replied smoothly, "if done right, it will be a declaration. A visual signature. One this court will never forget."
Chris leaned back slowly in his chair, utterly done with these nobles. "If you start asking me if i know what it means like the others, I’m running away. I thought it was something omegas wear daily."
Sahir gave him a long, almost pitying look, the kind reserved for idealists and foreign diplomats about to be devoured by ceremony.
"No one wears that kind of robe daily," he said, sipping his tea. "Unless they’re planning to trigger three bloodlines and a trade alliance in one morning."
Chris groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I just wanted it to look good."
"And it will," Sahir said brightly. "But in Saha, ’looks good’ is code for ’makes a statement.’ You walk into that ballroom in a custom consort robe, tailored in silence, unveiled without warning? That’s not just fashion. That’s a strategic escalation."
Chris muttered, "You people need therapy."
Sahir’s eyes gleamed. "We have etiquette classes. Same thing, but with gowns and threats."
Chris gave him a look. "And you chose to stay in politics after losing a love triangle and a spouse?"
"Revenge," Sahir said simply. "And grandchildren."
Chris sank deeper into the chair, already regretting every time he let Killian talk him into "a small adjustment to the schedule."
"You realize I’ve done construction site inspections in seventy-degree heat. I’ve yelled at engineers three pay grades above me. I’ve survived four academic panels. But this," he gestured broadly, "this is the thing that might break me."
Sahir smiled like he was pleased to witness it. "Good. That means it’ll work."
"What will work?" Dax asked, stepping into the room.
His voice was low, threaded with irritation. His posture was too controlled. He had the ’I have just stopped myself from ending someone’s bloodline’ expression.
Chris did not turn around.
He stared at Sahir like a man staring into the headlights of an oncoming train.
Sahir blinked once, then smiled pleasantly, perfectly unbothered.
"The schedule," he said smoothly, like he hadn’t just threatened Chris with political cultural couture warfare. "Chris’s integration training is going well, so we are adjusting the schedule."
Chris shot him a look that conveyed: ’I hope your tea is poisoned.’
Sahir, entirely unaffected, handed him the paper like it was both a peace offering and a perfectly sharpened dagger. Chris took it with the dread of a man who already knew he was too far in to run.
Dax stepped closer, his shoulders tense like he’d just walked out of a cabinet meeting where every minister had taken turns personally offending him. "What schedule?"
Chris didn’t answer. He was too busy reading the paper, like it might start screaming.
Sahir answered instead. "A minor adjustment. Supplemental education in Sahan cultural structure, ceremonial presentation, and traditional omega roles in state optics."
Dax raised an eyebrow. "That’s what we’re calling it?"
Chris groaned. "Apparently, I now have... cultural integration in the Sahan omega tradition."
Dax’s expression shifted, just slightly, into something that told Chris he was seriously considering it.
He glanced at Sahir, then back at Chris. "That’s reasonable."
Chris looked up like he’d just been betrayed by gravity. "What?"
"Sahir’s the best person for that," Dax said matter-of-factly. "He was raised in it. Lived through every shift in court power. Got elected prime minister by the people, not the court. If you’re going to survive this place long-term, you need someone who understands it from the inside."
Chris blinked. "You’re agreeing with him?"
"Yes." Dax crossed his arms. "Because he’s right."
Chris pointed a finger at Sahir. "He’s smug."
"That’s his baseline," Dax said, not unkindly. "He also has the highest retention rate of any political aide in court history. Even Cressida won’t challenge him on this."
Sahir bowed his head slightly. "I’m flattered."
"You shouldn’t be," Chris muttered. "You’re forcing me to learn about robes, optics, ceremonial patterns, and... what is this... ’expressive posturing’?"
Sahir nodded. "Very important. How else will you signal disdain across a gala table without speaking?"
"I’ll throw a fork," Chris offered.
Dax smiled, utterly entertained.
Chris shoved the schedule into his pocket like it might explode. "You’re all enjoying this too much."
"I’m enjoying watching you adjust," Dax said. "It means you’re staying."
That pulled Chris up short. Just a beat.
Then he looked away. "Don’t get ahead of yourself."
Sahir, sensing that particular emotional landmine, checked the time. "I’ll leave you to discuss that among yourselves. I have a review panel to intimidate."
Chris muttered something unspeakable under his breath.