Thirty-one minutes later, Dean entered the eastern reception room looking as though he had spent the morning preparing for the meeting rather than being forcibly removed from his bed.
His hair was immaculate, his cream winter suit fit perfectly, and the small gold pin at his collar marked him unmistakably as a member of the imperial family.
Only Arion, walking beside him, knew Dean had spent seven of those thirty-one minutes complaining while two attendants dressed him.
"You look pleased with yourself," Arion murmured.
"I escaped the blue suit."
"You threatened to dismiss the stylist."
"I threatened to review his budget."
"That was worse."
Dean smiled pleasantly as the doors opened.
The smile remained when he entered.
Inside waited representatives from the Imperial Winter Relief Foundation, the Children’s Health Network, three provincial charitable organizations, two ministers, and Lady Corvelle, who had chaired half the palace’s seasonal committees since before Dean was born and considered this sufficient qualification to control the other half.
Everyone stood.
Dean greeted each of them by name.
Arion watched Lady Corvelle’s posture change almost imperceptibly when Dean asked after her grandson’s recovery from a riding injury two months earlier.
The woman had been prepared to fight.
Now she was thanking Dean for remembering.
Dean took his seat at the head of the smaller conference table.
"Please," he said. "We have enough work without spending ten minutes standing because my husband has an impressive title."
Several people laughed.
Arion sat to his right.
Dean opened the folder placed before him.
The laziness disappeared.
"The winter shelter allocation," he began. "You requested an additional twelve percent over last year."
Director Halven nodded. "Energy costs have increased in the northern provinces."
"I saw that. Food costs did not increase at the same rate, yet your catering allocation rose nineteen percent."
A brief silence.
Halven glanced down at his documents.
"We expanded the meal program."
"By six percent."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Dean smiled. "Then either the children have become significantly hungrier, or someone has discovered very expensive potatoes."
Arion looked down at his own papers before anyone could see his expression.
Halven cleared his throat. "There were changes in suppliers."
"I noticed."
Dean turned one page.
"You replaced three regional suppliers with Central Crown Catering."
"Yes."
"Owned by Minister Varlan’s brother."
The minister at the opposite end of the table became remarkably interested in his pen.
Dean looked at him.
"Minister?"
"It was a competitive tender."
"I am sure it was."
The words were mild.
The room became very still.
Dean continued, "Which is why I have asked the procurement office to review the bids before we approve the additional funding. If everything was properly awarded, there will be no problem."
Minister Varlan smiled tightly. "Of course."
"And if it was not," Dean added pleasantly, "we would save nineteen percent."
Arion leaned back.
This was why Dean’s secretaries dragged him out of bed.
Dean moved on without giving the minister time to recover.
"The children’s hospitals requested additional holiday grants for family accommodation."
Dr. Meris nodded. "We currently have parents sleeping in waiting rooms during long-term treatment. The existing guest facilities are full."
"How many additional rooms?"
"Forty-eight across the three hospitals."
"And how quickly?"
"We could convert existing administrative space before the end of January."
Dean frowned slightly.
"Too late."
The doctor blinked.
Dean looked toward his secretary. "The Crown Residence Fund still has unused emergency accommodation money from autumn?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Use it to cover nearby hotel rooms until the conversions are complete. Families should not spend the holidays sleeping in corridors because construction finishes in January."
Dr. Meris looked relieved. "Thank you."
"Do not thank me yet. Send my office the negotiated rates before anyone discovers that the imperial family is paying and triples them."
A few quiet laughs moved around the table.
"Understood."
Lady Corvelle turned one of her papers. "Regarding the palace charity dinner, I still believe the central hall would be more appropriate than the western gallery."
Dean glanced at her.
"Because?"
"The central hall carries greater prestige."
"It also carries twice the security requirement, forces the children’s choir to cross the formal receiving line, and seats eighty fewer guests once we accommodate accessibility routes."
Lady Corvelle paused.
Dean continued, "The western gallery allows us to invite the shelter volunteers rather than only donors."
"The donors contribute significantly."
"They do. Which is why they receive dinner."
Arion coughed into his fist.
Dean ignored him.
Lady Corvelle’s mouth twitched.
"I merely worry," she said, "that reducing the formality may discourage certain families from attending."
"Then they are welcome to discover the terrible hardship of eating excellent food in a slightly less prestigious room."
This time even Lady Corvelle laughed.
Dean leaned back.
"But your concern about donor retention is valid. Keep the formal reception in the central hall for forty-five minutes, then move dinner to the western gallery. They receive their palace photographs. We receive the larger guest list."
Lady Corvelle considered it.
"That would work."
"I know."
Arion looked at him.
Dean smiled innocently.
The meeting continued.
For the next hour, Dean moved between budgets, schedules, medical charities, food distribution, security restrictions, and ceremonial obligations without once losing track of which organization had requested what.
He rejected proposals without humiliating the people presenting them.
He approved money without treating it as limitless.
And whenever someone attempted to disguise personal advantage beneath ceremonial language, Dean peeled the decoration away with two or three polite sentences until only the request remained.
The trade minister finally made his mistake near the end.
"The seating arrangement for the diplomatic dinner," he said carefully. "I noticed my delegation has been placed considerably farther from the imperial table than last year."
Dean looked at the chart.
"Yes."
The minister waited.
Dean waited too.
Eventually, the man said, "May I ask why?"
"Of course."
Another pause.
Arion could almost see the minister regretting the invitation.
Dean touched one perfectly manicured finger to the seating plan.
"Last year, you were seated beside the Valecian ambassador."
"Yes."
"You argued over agricultural tariffs during the soup."
"It was a policy discussion."
"You called his government economically illiterate."
"That was taken out of context."
"You said it directly to him."
The room became silent.
Dean continued calmly, "He then threatened to suspend two shipping agreements before dessert. My mother in law spent three weeks correcting the damage."
The minister shifted.
"So this year," Dean said, "you are seated beside the director of the Botanical Conservatory."
The minister stared at him.
"He does not control tariffs or negotiate shipping agreements. What am I supposed to discuss with him?"
Dean smiled.
"Flowers."
Arion lowered his eyes.
Someone near the end of the table made a suspicious choking sound.
The minister looked wounded. "Your Highness—"
"I am protecting you from yourself."
"I assure you, I am capable of diplomatic restraint."
"Wonderful. Demonstrate it to the botanist, and next year we will reconsider."
The minister opened his mouth.
Dean tilted his head.
He closed it again.
"Excellent," Dean said. "Then the seating is resolved."
His secretary made a note.
Arion suspected it contained an exclamation mark.
By the time the meeting ended, four budgets had been approved, one had been returned for review, two events had been merged, the hospitals had temporary accommodation funding, and Minister Varlan looked considerably less enthusiastic about his brother’s catering company.
Everyone rose.
Dean thanked them individually.
Lady Corvelle remained behind long enough to touch his arm.
"The western gallery is the better choice," she admitted quietly.
Dean smiled. "I know. But I appreciate you letting me pretend we negotiated."
She laughed and left.
When the doors finally closed, Dean’s shoulders dropped.
"I want my bed."
Arion stared at him.
"What?"
"You spent an hour complaining about leaving it."
"Yes."
"And then dismantled three questionable budgets, reorganized two imperial events, prevented a diplomatic argument that has not happened yet, and found accommodation for forty-eight families."
Dean picked up his tablet.
"I can be competent and still resent trousers."
"That may be the most accurate description of you I have ever heard."
Dean started toward the door.
Arion followed.
"You also enjoyed humiliating the trade minister."
"I did not humiliate him."
"You seated him beside a botanist because he cannot behave around diplomats."
"I gave him an opportunity for personal growth."
Arion caught Dean around the waist before he could walk ahead.
Dean looked up at him.
"You are very diplomatic when you want to be."
"I am always diplomatic."
"You threatened a procurement investigation with a smile."
"That is diplomacy."
"You called the minister incapable of controlling himself."
"I called him capable of learning."
Arion kissed his temple.
Dean leaned against him for precisely three seconds before straightening.
"Now take me back upstairs."
"You have another meeting."
Dean stopped, and slowly, he turned.
Arion had faced infected beasts with less hostility directed at him.
"What meeting?"
"Holiday security."
Dean stared.
"You knew about it."
"I emotionally rejected it."
"That still has no legal meaning."
Dean narrowed his eyes.
"Keep saying that," he warned, "and you are spending the holidays beside the botanist too."
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