Dean locked the bedroom door.
This was not dramatic.
This was survival.
After the call with Lucas, after thirty-four minutes of parental disappointment dressed in silk and one additional ambush from Ethan, who had appeared on screen only long enough to say, with unbearable gentleness, that Palatine mothers did enjoy hearing from their children before other empresses did, Dean had retreated with what he considered dignity.
Arion had called it fleeing.
Dean had called it strategic repositioning.
Then Arion had left for a meeting, and Dean had locked the door.
Now he was in bed, buried under a blanket, furious at the entire concept of family, autumn, wedding planning, communication systems, and his own body, which had apparently decided this was an excellent time to become a traitor.
At first, he thought it was shame.
