Chapter 162: Chapter 162: Visually Corrective (Win-Win)
A few days later, Liam learned that there were worse things than medical revelations, poison residue, and Arik being reasonable at emotionally inconvenient times.
There were fittings.
Specifically, there were engagement reception fittings arranged by his mother and Mirelle with the calm violence of women who had decided that if Liam was going to be used as bait, he would at least be bait in excellent tailoring.
Arik, coward that he was, had escaped.
Officially, he had a meeting with King George.
Unofficially, Liam suspected Arik had sensed the dangerous concentration of fabric samples, measuring tape, and maternal intent, and had chosen to face a compromised monarch instead.
That was romance, apparently.
Liam stood in front of a three-panel mirror at Mirelle’s private designer’s atelier, wearing half of what was apparently his engagement reception suit, while two assistants adjusted the fall of the jacket sleeves and a third crouched near his ankle with the reverence of someone measuring a saint’s hem.
He was not a saint.
He was a tired engineer being visually corrected.
Behind him, Enia sat on a pale velvet sofa with her legs crossed, one hand resting around a cup of tea she had not touched. Mirelle stood beside a rack of dark fabrics, her eyes narrowed with devastating focus as she compared three shades of green that Liam was entirely certain were the same color and apparently wrong in three different ways.
"No," Mirelle said. She was dressed in linen trousers, an emerald silk shirt, and minimal jewelry.
The designer, a thin man with silver rings on every finger and the expression of someone who had survived nobility through emotional dissociation, immediately removed one of the fabrics.
Liam looked at his reflection.
The man in the mirror looked too elegant to be trusted.
The suit was deep green, almost black when he stood still, but when he moved, the fabric caught the light in a cold, rich gleam. The cut was severe enough to make him look taller than he was, the shoulders precise without being aggressive, and the waist shaped in a way Liam deeply resented because it suggested Mirelle had spoken to someone about his body and that someone had listened too well.
The shirt beneath was pale, the collar structured but not high enough to hide the line of his throat completely. The cuffs were still unfinished. There were no jewels yet, which Liam considered the only mercy left in the room.
"This is excessive," he said.
Mirelle did not even turn. "No."
"You did not look."
"I did not need to."
Enia’s mouth curved faintly. "You look beautiful, darling."
Liam stared at her through the mirror. "That is not a tactical category."
"It is at court."
"Then court should be abolished."
"Frequently said by people who lose at it," Mirelle replied.
Liam looked at Stanford.
Stanford stood near the door, hands folded behind his back, expression blank in the way only a Shadow could make blankness feel like fortified architecture. He had returned that morning after being gone for several days on a mission no one would explain. He had appeared beside Liam as if nothing had happened, quietly resumed his post, and responded to every question with the same professional indifference that made Liam want to commit social crimes.
At this moment, unfortunately, Stanford was his only ally.
Liam gave him a look through the mirror.
Stanford looked back.
No help came.
Liam narrowed his eyes. "You are failing in your duties."
"My duty is your protection, my lord."
"I am being attacked by tailoring."
"The situation appears controlled."
"One of them has pins."
Stanford’s gaze moved briefly to the assistant kneeling near Liam’s ankle. "The pins are visible."
"That does not make them harmless."
"No, my lord."
Liam waited.
Stanford said nothing else.
Mirelle made a pleased sound. "I like him."
"You would," Liam muttered.
The designer stepped back, studying the line of the jacket. "The shoulder is excellent. The waist needs a little more authority."
Liam turned his head slowly. "My waist does not need authority."
Enia lifted her cup, her smile hidden behind porcelain, her light yellow summer dress moving faintly with each movement she made. "Let him work."
The designer put one hand beneath his chin and folded the other across his chest in a thoughtful pose that made Liam consider running for the sake of self-preservation.
Arik would find him anyway, and then they could run away to Agaron together.
"A corseted vest," the small man said
The room went still for exactly one second.
Then Liam said, very clearly, "No."
Mirelle said, at the same time, "Yes."
Enia lowered her cup with the calm of a woman about to participate in a crime. "Possibly."
"Mother," Liam said.
"Darling," Enia replied.
"No."
"You have not seen it yet."
"I have heard enough."
The designer’s expression did not falter. Liam suspected this man had survived worse than noble protests. Perhaps ducal widows. Perhaps royal brides. Perhaps Mirelle on a bad afternoon with lace.
"It will not be ornamental," the designer said, turning toward the rack with visible purpose. "But something structural. Internal boning, dark lining, reinforced waist, concealed closures. It will keep the jacket clean and give the entire silhouette more command."
"My silhouette has never requested command."
"Silhouettes rarely know what they need."
Liam stared at him.
Stanford, traitor that he was, did not intervene.
Liam looked at him through the mirror. "Say something."
Stanford’s eyes moved from the designer to Liam’s reflection. "It may be practical."
Liam’s betrayal was immediate and profound. "Practical."
"Yes, my lord."
"In what universe is a corseted vest practical?"
"This one, if it improves posture and conceals defensive lining."
The designer paused, then turned with the sudden brightness of a man who had found another madman in the room. "Exactly! And I have the perfect example for that."
He disappeared behind a changing screen and came back with a mannequin bust on wheels.
Liam’s first and most important thought was: ’Heck no.’
