There was a particular sort of chaos that could only be born from locking two matriarchs, the Prime Minister, and one very accomplished but currently overwhelmed fashion designer in a room filled with bolts of rare fabric, mood boards, jeweled accessories, and the mounting pressure of a deadline that had become more myth than milestone.
Chris stood at the center of the tailoring suite with his arms slightly raised, the weight of the half-draped robe cascading from his shoulders like poured ink. He didn't flinch when the assistants circled him with pins and measuring tape; he'd survived foundation inspections in a sandstorm. This was easier. Quieter, even, if you didn't count the overlapping arguments happening just behind him.
"The robe needs tapering at the hem," Serathine said, her tone indulgent but firm, like someone who had once restructured a bloodline with a raised eyebrow. "The current weight drags the silhouette down. Let the embroidery rise, not drown him."
