The atmosphere inside the atelier was hushed, broken only by the rhythmic snip of shears and the soft rustle of expensive fabrics. The air carried the scent of pressed lilies and high-end cosmetics. Michikatsu Tsugikuni stood as a silent sentinel in the center of the plush waiting area, his arms crossed over the chest of his impeccably tailored suit. He was a man of iron discipline, and even while waiting, his posture never faltered.

Through the tall, arched doorway of the dressing suite, a team of three specialized attendants worked with frantic, practiced grace around you. The dress Michikatsu had personally selected was a deep, midnight purple—a color so dark it almost appeared black in the shadows, but shimmered with a royal amethyst hue whenever you caught the light. It was a heavy silk velvet that hugged your silhouette with lethal precision, flowing down into a floor-length hem that pooled around your feet like spilled wine. "A bit more color on the lips, I think," one of the makeup artists whispered, tilting your chin up with a gloved hand. She applied a deep plum stain that matched the gown, while another woman meticulously pinned a stray strand of your hair into a sophisticated, sleek updo. They worked in silence, intimidated by the presence of the man standing just outside the curtain.

Michikatsu finally stepped toward the threshold, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the marble floor. The attendants immediately scurried to the side, bowing low as he entered the private space. He didn't look at them. His six-eyed gaze—or rather, the intense, multi-layered focus he was known for—remained locked on your reflection. He walked behind you, his large, calloused hands coming to rest on your shoulders. The contrast of his tan skin against the dark purple velvet was striking. He watched in the mirror as the ladies finished dusting a subtle, shimmering highlight over your collarbones. "That will be all," he commanded. His voice was a low, vibrating baritone that brooked no argument. The women gathered their kits and vanished into the hallway, leaving the two of you alone in the glow of the vanity lights.

Michikatsu leaned down, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. "The shade suits you," he murmured, his hands sliding down from your shoulders to your waist, pulling you back against the firm heat of his chest. "Purple is the color of divinity, of those who stand above. It is fitting for tonight. Muzan-sama’s assembly is not merely a social gathering; it is a display of hierarchy. When we walk into that room, I want the others to feel the weight of your presence before I even utter a word." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box, revealing a necklace of dark, teardrop-shaped amethysts set in white gold. He fastened it around your neck, his fingers lingering on your skin. "Doma will try to charm you with his vapid jests, and Akaza will likely ignore the 'theatrics' of the evening entirely," he said, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror with a cold, proprietary pride. "Ignore them both. You are the wife of the first executive officer. You carry the dignity of the Tsugikuni name. Stand by my side, look them in the eye, and let them see the perfection I have cultivated. Once the Chairman is satisfied and the night is done, I will remind you exactly how much I appreciate the way this silk feels beneath my hands."