Free Web NovelChapter 322: Chapter 322: Overkill
The car stopped in front of a jewelry shop.
No.
Dean corrected himself while looking through the tinted window.
Not a shop.
A jewelry atelier, apparently, because normal shops had windows with displays, price tags, and human expectations. This place had expensive marble, dark wood paneling, and pale stone imported from some remote part of the continent only to prove that the owner could afford to make walls insulting.
There was no jewelry in the windows.
Which meant, to Dean, who had been raised in both worlds as the son of a grand duke but had still attended public schools long enough to understand normal people, that one needed a certain kind of money just to be on this street.
The car door was opened by one of the security detail while the others secured the perimeter immediately.
Dean looked at the building.
Then at Arion.
"You know... we are on our honeymoon. I was planning to linger in bed with food and snacks and maybe a movie. But no. I had to talk about new collars, and now we are taking over a jewelry shop for billionaires."
Arion stepped out first, then turned and offered his hand. "Atelier."
Dean stared at him. "Excuse me?"
"It is not a jewelry shop. It is an atelier."
"It makes it sound like the building has opinions about poor people."
Arion’s mouth curved faintly.
Dean ignored his hand for exactly three seconds out of principle, then took it because the pavement was wet, the October mist was cold, and apparently dignity had limited use when one’s husband was both warm and pleased with himself.
He stepped out.
The street was quiet in the way expensive streets were quiet, not because nobody was there, but because everyone present had been trained not to appear curious. A woman across the road glanced once at the convoy and immediately became fascinated by the window display of a private tailor. A man in a gray coat turned away before his face could register recognition. Even the rain seemed to fall more politely here.
Dean liked the architecture but hated the attention. There would be news about them soon.
Arion’s hand settled at the small of his back, guiding him toward the entrance as if Dean had not just been emotionally abducted from pastry.
"I am not trying anything on," Dean said.
"I assumed it."
"To be clear, knowing you, someone will bring out diamonds."
Arion paused.
Dean stopped walking. "Arion."
"I did not request diamonds."
"That was too specific."
"I was thinking of black diamonds."
Dean closed his eyes.
The security officer by the door looked like a man who had just learned too much about royal marriage and wanted to return to guarding roads from assassins, which was apparently easier.
"No diamonds," Dean said.
Arion leaned closer. "Not visible ones."
Dean opened his eyes. "You are very close to sleeping alone on our honeymoon."
"That would make both of us unhappy."
Dean hated that he was right.
The atelier door opened before they reached it.
A woman in a fitted charcoal suit stood inside, elegant, composed, and terrifyingly discreet. Her platinum blonde hair was pinned back in a low bun. Her expression was neutral in the careful way of people who dealt with money so large that she couldn’t be surprised anymore.
"Your Highnesses," she said, bowing with respect to both of them. "Welcome to Maison Veyl."
Dean looked at Arion. "Maison."
Arion’s eyes warmed with anticipation. "Yes."
"So it’s not even an atelier. It’s a maison." fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm
"It is both."
Dean turned to the woman, his purple eyes filled with a dangerous glint. "Do you sell jewelry or property law?"
Her mouth twitched, but she suppressed it almost instantly.
"We specialize in private commissions, Your Highness."
"Dangerous answer."
"Usually," she said, with admirable calm.
Dean liked her immediately and resented that too, because now Arion would have a reason to make this fun for both of them.
Arion guided him inside. The air was warm, scented faintly of cedar, leather, polished stone, and something floral so subtle it was probably more expensive than the entire café they were to just an hour ago. The interior was all soft gold light, dark velvet panels, glass counters with nothing inside them, and a staircase leading upward to rooms no ordinary customer would ever see.
Dean looked around.
"There is nothing here."
"That is intentional," the woman said.
Dean nodded. "Of course it is. Wealth now means hiding the thing you sell."
Arion’s hand pressed once against his back.
A warning or amusement.
Possibly both.
The woman only smiled. "It means privacy."
"It means I should have stayed in the car with the pastry."
"You brought the pastry," Arion said.
Dean looked down.
He had.
The pastry box was still tucked under his arm.
He decided not to be ashamed.
"This is emotional support."
The woman bowed her head solemnly. "We can provide a plate."
Dean stared at her, raised a pale brow and then pointed at her. "You may live."
Arion exhaled softly beside him, the closest thing to laughter he allowed himself in front of strangers.
They were led into a private consultation room behind a sliding panel of smoked glass. Inside, a long table had already been prepared.
Dean saw it and stopped.
Samples lay arranged across the surface with surgical precision. Black leather so fine it looked almost liquid. Matte silk. Flexible woven bands threaded with silver. A dark, soft material that seemed to hold its structure without being rigid. Clasps in blackened platinum, brushed silver, and one deep violet metal that Dean immediately suspected was rare, unnecessary, and criminally expensive.
There were sketches too.
Dean turned very slowly toward Arion.
"You blackmailed them fast."
"I had thoughts."
"How long?"
Arion did not answer quickly enough.
Dean’s irritation faltered, understanding that Arion wasn’t being overbearing because Dean had said something suggestive in a café while relaxed and stupid from pastry.
Dean looked at the table again.
The samples were all soft and probably chosen long before Dean had spoken.
’He had prepared this... He just sped it up after the cafe.’
The woman, whose name Dean still did not know and who was too clever to fill the silence, stepped to the side of the table.
"His Highness informed us that comfort was not negotiable," she said.
Dean swallowed once.
"I’m going to need pastries injected into my bloodstream."
