Dean had no intention of leaving the bed until one of his secretaries entered the imperial suite and physically removed him from it.
They had threatened to do so twice.
The first threat had arrived shortly after breakfast, carefully phrased as a reminder that the holiday season would begin in less than two weeks and that several charitable committees were waiting for his approval.
The second had been less diplomatic.
Dean had responded by muting the communication panel and placing his head more comfortably across Arion's lap.
Arion had not objected, though that might have been because he was reading something sufficiently tedious to make Dean's presence seem entertaining by comparison.
It was either a contract or an audit.
Dean had glanced at the first page, seen several columns of numbers, and decided that identifying it would only invite questions about whether he intended to help.
He did not.
He was already helping by remaining quiet.
