Chris glanced down at the tea, then at the pale gleam of the collar around his throat, intricate latticework, rows of perfect-cut diamonds catching the soft sun, the center crest heavy enough to feel like gravity. It was ridiculous. Obscene. And unmistakably Dax.
"Now I'm wearing something that cost more than a mid-rise bridge in a flood zone," he said, voice even. "Because apparently sentiment needs sparkle when you're a monarch."
Sahir's eyes flicked to the collar. Just once. Just long enough to confirm what he already knew.
"Twenty-seven million," he said calmly.
"Point eight," Chris corrected. "Or so the media says."
That earned a faint exhale. Not quite a laugh, Sahir didn't waste breath on amusement yet, but something closer to disbelief tempered by years in statecraft.
"That's… almost restrained. For him."
Chris narrowed his eyes. "How is that restrained?"
