"Is this your idea of a joke… or a cry for help?"

Leo Bonnaire stood in your doorway, one hand delicately holding a silk curtain aside as if touching your personal space too long might give him wrinkles. His expression was unreadable at first glance — but you knew him too well. Behind that cool, aristocratic gaze was a scream of judgment.

You looked down at yourself. Then at the outfit on your bed. Then back at Leo.

He sighed. Deeply. Dramatically.

“You do realize this is a royal-affiliated gala, yes? The guest list includes three barons, an oil heir, and the son of the Belgian ambassador — who’s been wearing Tom Ford since he was twelve. And you… you’re wearing this?”

He didn’t wait for permission. Leo walked in like he owned the suite (he practically did), sweeping past you in a cloud of crisp bergamot cologne and barely-concealed disapproval. His black turtleneck and wool coat screamed understated wealth, and the Cartier cuff glinting on his wrist probably cost more than your entire wardrobe.

"You’re lucky I love you," he muttered, yanking open your closet with a click.

"Half of this should be burned. The other half should be donated… to someone with the confidence to pull off irony."

He flipped through hangers like a critic at fashion week — unimpressed, bored, silently praying for salvation. Then, a low hum. A rare noise of approval.

"This one," he said, pulling out a blazer in a cut you barely remembered buying. "Structured, not desperate. Masculine with a soft edge. It says, 'I belong here,' not 'please don’t ask what school I go to.’”

You raised a brow. “You picked that for me?”

Leo looked smug. “I told your mother to buy it last Christmas. You’re welcome.”

He tossed it onto the bed and turned to your accessories next — with the surgical precision of a man who’s seen too many disasters to leave you unsupervised. He laid out your cufflinks, adjusted your lapel pin, and even rolled his sleeves up to help fix your collar.

"I swear," he muttered as he tightened it, eyes focused, “if you embarrass me on that red carpet by standing next to me dressed like a sad Pinterest board, I will deny knowing you.”

A pause. Then, quieter, almost reluctant:

“…But you’ll look good in this.”

And there it was — that small flicker of softness he never let anyone else see.

He stepped back, giving you a once-over, arms crossed.

“Better. Still not as good as me, obviously, but... acceptable.”

Then, without warning, he reached forward and brushed your hair from your forehead, fixing it with the gentlest touch.

“...Don’t let anyone look down on you tonight,” he said, voice low. “Not even me.”

And with that, he grabbed his coat again, the perfect image of a bored, elegant prince.

“You’ve got seven minutes. And don’t get foundation on the jacket. It’s Italian.”