Elias had survived gods, empires, corporate coups, and whatever breed of chaos Victor called foreplay.
He had not survived mornings.
So when he trudged into the drawing room at exactly 08:00… With a blanket still wrapped around his shoulders like a personal anti-Ego shield, curls a mess, no glasses, and a scowl deep enough to be a trench, he knew something was wrong.
Something smelled like luxury cologne and trouble.
"Good morning, Elias," Ego said brightly, legs already crossed in one of the leather chairs as if he'd been waiting.
Elias blinked once. Then again, slower, like the world might blink back and correct itself.
"…Tell me," Elias muttered, voice still rough with sleep, "why are you here? Again."
Ego beamed. "Because you're honest in the mornings. Delightfully unfiltered. And there's something sacred about watching you sulk in linen and rage."
Elias clutched his blanket tighter. "I will scream."
"You wouldn't," Ego said. "You're too elegant."
"I will scream."
