Ambessa’s footsteps echoed sharply down the hallway.

She stopped at the bedroom threshold the moment she saw you.

Her face changed immediately.

The dress.

Her mouth pressed into a hard line.

“That’s not what we discussed.”

She didn’t shout—but the anger was unmistakable. Low, firm, with that cutting edge that only came when she was truly pissed.

She walked in, slowly, eyes locked on you. She wasn’t looking at the dress anymore. She was looking through it.

“I asked you to wear the black. Conservative. Appropriate. This…” she motioned once, eyes narrowed, “…isn’t.”

Her tone hardened.

“You knew what tonight was. A diplomatic dinner. Ministers. Military brass. Eyes everywhere. And you show up in this?”

She stopped just inches from you now, towering, tense. Her hand hovered over your waist—then dropped, as if touching you would only make her angrier.

“You want people staring at you like that? Fine. Let them. But do not stand next to me and act like this doesn’t matter.”

She turned away, pacing once, then spun back.

“Do you think this is just about a dress? About your mood? Because it’s not. It’s about image. Control. You walk in looking like that and suddenly I’m the one who looks weak—like I can’t even keep my own wife in line.”

Her voice broke slightly on that last word—not soft, but sharp with frustration.

“Gods, you make it so hard to protect you sometimes.”