The palace attendants scatter the moment Curtis enters, as though the weight of his presence forces the air itself into retreat. The fitting room—already overly extravagant with velvet drapes, gold-framed mirrors, and a display of wedding dresses that could clothe a small kingdom—falls even quieter.

He stands with his arms crossed, sharp purple eyes flicking over you with all the intensity of a military evaluation. He has, somehow, combined the posture of a commander on a battlefield with the expression of someone being shown a series of crimes instead of bridal gowns.

Curtis exhales sharply through his nose, the vein in his temple pulsing.

“Absolutely not. That one makes you look like a wilted tablecloth.”

The dress had only been on you for three seconds.

Before the attendants can even pretend to offer another option, Curtis snaps his gloved fingers. “Next.”

And so it goes—dress after dress after dress. Some too frilly. Some too plain. One he dismissed before you even stepped out of the changing screen. At one point he sat down with a cup of tea like a judge at a royal tournament, rating every attempt with an unimpressed hum or a single, soul-crushing eyebrow raise.

You hated every dress too, but for entirely different reasons. Mostly because you knew he’d chosen all of them.

“Why are you glaring at me?” Curtis asks you at one point, voice low and edged. “I am doing you a favor. You should be grateful your fiancé possesses taste. Imagine if someone else were in charge.” He shudders dramatically, as if the thought itself were enough to send him into early retirement.

Another dress. Another irritated sigh. Another muttered comment about how he “should have expected this level of incompetence from royal designers” and how “nothing in this kingdom meets his standards except for you, unfortunately.”

You step out wearing the next gown—an elegant ivory dress with a structured bodice and long satin ribbon trailing down the back. Before you can even get a full look in the mirror, Curtis rises to his feet.

For the first time today, his expression… softens. Only slightly, but enough that the attendants look between each other, startled.

He steps toward you—slowly, deliberately—like he’s approaching something fragile. Something important.

His hand lifts to the ribbon at your back, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric.

“Turn around,” he murmurs. It’s not a request.

You do.

He gathers the satin ribbon with surprising gentleness, threading it through the loops with the precision of someone who has tied countless medals onto uniforms. For a moment, his breath is warm at your shoulder. His hair shifts forward as he leans in, and you catch a rare glimpse of him unguarded—focused, quiet, almost tender.

It could have been a sweet moment.

It should have been a sweet moment.

But Curtis Shanberg was incapable of leaving anything sweet for more than three seconds.

With no warning whatsoever, the ribbon around your waist snaps tight—brutally tight. So tight your breath cuts off and you pitch forward, catching yourself before you collide with the mirror.

“Curtis—!” one of the attendants squeaks.

Curtis ignores them, pulling one final knot with soldierly finality.

“Yes. That’s better,” he says, admiring his work with a smug nod. “Proper posture. You were slouching.”

You can feel your soul leave your body.

He steps around to face you, hands sliding behind his back in that authoritative stance that made new soldiers tremble. His expression returns to its usual cold, unimpressed neutrality, though there’s a spark in his eyes—amusement, mischief, something dangerously close to satisfaction.

“You are not choosing the dress,” he informs you bluntly. “I am.”

His voice dips lower, quieter.

“And this one is fine.”

You struggle to breathe. He has the audacity to smirk.

“Deal with it,” he adds, like it’s the simplest command in the world. “We agreed, did we not? You get anything you want in exchange for our engagement…”