CHAPTER 263: CHAPTER 263: FASHION SCAM

Laziel Wynn stepped into the manor like it was a crime scene he’d been summoned to fix. He was draped in slate-gray robes trimmed in matte black silk, his gloves tight, his boots soundless. He carried no luggage nor sketchbook, just an air of doom and taste so refined it could cut through glass.

His eyes swept the sunroom like it might disappoint him.

It did.

"You’re late," Elias said, because he couldn’t help himself.

Laziel’s green eyes moved to him like the sun deciding whether to bother shining.

"I’m early, darling," Laziel said, voice smooth and polished like lacquer. "You’re late to self-awareness."

Victor coughed into his hand, utterly entertained by this man’s audacity. "He’s been under pressure."

"And it shows," Laziel replied, already walking past them. "The furniture is trying to compensate for his posture."

Elias opened his mouth to retort but closed it again when Laziel snapped his fingers.

Three quietly terrified attendants appeared from the hallway, dragging wheeled racks of garments behind them. The racks were covered in dark fabric, which made Elias reconsider his choices and consider seclusion as a good point in his life.

The fabric shielding the garments wasn’t just for drama; it had weight. Texture. The cloth whispered that you can’t afford to touch me unless your net worth comes with a comma and generational trauma.

Laziel didn’t spare the racks a glance. He reached into the folds of his robe and retrieved a thin tablet, matte black and edged in silver. A single tap sent a soft chime through the room, and suddenly the lighting shifted, just subtly. The warmth bled out of the afternoon sun filtering through the glass, replaced with something cooler, sharper. Tailor-lighting. Judgment lighting.

Victor raised an eyebrow. "Do you travel with your own preset?"

"I don’t trust natural sunlight," Laziel said flatly. "It has no taste."

Elias pressed a hand to his temple. "Of course it doesn’t."

"Now," Laziel said, without looking up, "strip."

Victor blinked. "He’s pregnant."

"And?" Laziel replied, calm as glass. "Not modesty. I meant your ego." He finally met Victor’s eyes with the kind of look that had ended lesser men. "You’re going to hate one of these designs and pretend not to. I advise you to lie better."

Victor leaned back, clearly delighted. "I’ve missed you."

"I haven’t changed," Laziel replied, waving an assistant forward.

The assistant peeled back the first cover like unveiling a weapon. And it was one, just made of Italian wool, crushed velvet, and a kind of design arrogance that came from knowing you were dressing a demigod and his irritated, hormonal fiancé.

Elias squinted. "Is that... a cape?"

"It’s a coat," Laziel said, with the disdain of someone correcting a child’s grammar in public. "With drama."

Victor made a soft, appreciative sound. "It has structure."

"It has purpose," Laziel corrected. "A double-split hem for motion. Collar reinforced with brushed steel memory mesh. Hidden zips for modular lining, in case your sudden taste for aesthetic martyrdom requires transformation mid-event."

Elias gave him a flat look. "Is that supposed to make me feel better about walking into a ballroom full of cameras while my ankles look like overstuffed marshmallows?"

"Sweetheart," Laziel said, not unkindly, "no one will be looking at your ankles. This," he gestured grandly at the coat, "is designed to make grown billionaires forget their safe words."

Victor choked.

"I am not wearing something that screams ’come collar me, Daddy,’" Elias said.

"You say that now," Laziel murmured. Then clapped once.

Another rack was unveiled: more silk, less menace. Still an insult to subtlety.

Elias slowly lowered his feet from Victor’s lap and sat up, one hand bracing his stomach and the other pointed with precision. "No. No, absolutely not. If I wanted to look like a walking ransom note with imperial trauma stitched into the seams, I would’ve worn what Ego prepared."

That got Laziel’s attention. His gaze snapped to Elias like he’d just said a slur.

Victor’s eyebrow rose, elegant and very much amused. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."

"It is a trap," Elias hissed. "A velvet-covered trap designed to make me look like a Numen heirloom while you stand next to me looking like a villain with a moral compass."

Victor considered that. "Flattering."

"It’s manipulative," Elias said. "Extravagant. The kind of outfit that gets auctioned off for charity and ends up owned by a private collector with a vault full of weird perfume and opinions about ivory."

Laziel looked vaguely affronted. "You’re describing my last client."

"I’m describing a cult leader’s dream closet," Elias said. "This is sabotage. High fashion sabotage. And I swear if you make me wear anything that costs more than a mortgage, I will bite someone."

Victor stood slowly, like the air had suddenly become richer in oxygen. "You’ll bite me anyway," he murmured.

"Don’t tempt me."

Laziel arched a brow. "If you’re worried about the price, darling, don’t be. Victor’s net worth regenerates faster than his skin cells."

"I know that," Elias said. "I also know he’s not vain. He doesn’t care if his cuffs are lined in silk or barbed wire so long as they match. But this?" He gestured to the garment with the kind of disdain usually reserved for tax evasion. "This is a scam. A very beautiful, well-stitched scam. I’m not wearing it."

Victor’s smile turned slow and sharp, a little too entertained. "So you’d rather wear what Ego picked out? The outfit came with a folder titled ’Controlling the Narrative: How to Dress Your Uterus’?"

Elias narrowed his eyes. "That’s not the point."

"No?" Victor stepped closer, his tone warm and dry. "You think I’m doing this for me?"

"I think you’re trying to distract me with style crimes," Elias snapped, "and bribe me with ankle support."

Victor leaned in, voice soft at the edge. "I’m giving you whatever you want. But I’m not stupid enough to let you wear something chosen by a man who once said accessorizing is a sign of weakness."

Laziel gave a small, scandalized sound in the background.

"I hate how reasonable that sounds," Elias muttered.

Victor lifted one shoulder in an elegant half-shrug. "Then hate me in a better outfit."

Elias looked down at the rack again.

Then at Laziel, who had silently shifted into position like a predator sensing hesitation.

"...Fine," Elias said. "But I swear if there’s a second cape..."

Laziel snapped his fingers again.

Three more racks arrived.

Elias stared. "You’re dead to me."

Victor smiled. "Still not wearing Ego’s pick, though."

And Elias grudgingly, tragically, was not.