Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 324 - 319: Alexandra’s war (2)

"Oh good," she snapped. "We’re aligned."

"I assume you’ll be taking matters into your own hands," Edward said delicately.

"I already am. I’m two blocks from Gloria’s. I want the Empress’s wing cleared for a fitting by the time we arrive. And send the royal designer on holiday. Somewhere cold. With no return ticket."

"Done. I’ll say it’s an emotional burnout leave."

"Make it spiritual."

The call ended in mutual silence and understanding, with Edward already preparing damage control and Alexandra preparing for war.

The atelier loomed to the left, like a blessed fortress of reason. She didn’t wait for the driver to stop fully before opening the door and sweeping inside.

Inside, Gloria had barely taken her first sip of coffee. Her silk robe was still tied, her hair half-pinned, and three assistants were fussing over a mannequin in something tastefully scandalous.

Then the door slammed.

"Alexandra?" Gloria blinked. "You’re early—"

"Emergency." Alexandra held up the tablet like it was a death certificate. "He’s being put in this."

Gloria stared. And stared. And kept staring in the increasingly desperate hope that the image would magically shift into something designed for the frame of a man or at least a being with functional dignity.

"For the love of anything... what the heck is this?" she finally said, recoiling like it burned. She set her coffee down with theatrical care and immediately began pacing across the atelier floor, her silk robe flaring behind her like a battle flag. "There is no way. There is no way that someone wants to die this badly."

She muttered to herself in a fury of trailing fabric and hairpins, hands gesturing wildly. "Lavender? Organza? Did someone fall into a bridal shop and decide that was a sign from the gods?"

Alexandra didn’t interrupt. She just sat. Smug. Furious. And righteous.

Gloria stopped mid-step, eyes wide. "No. No, no, no, I am not letting that... that pastel atrocity touches Gabriel’s skin. His scent will never recover. He’ll need therapy. I’ll need therapy."

She exhaled, hands on her hips, and narrowed her eyes like a woman preparing to make a blood oath with thread.

"I have a robe. From before the coming-of-age ball," Gloria said, already moving across the atelier floor like a general gathering her troops. "It’s not my best creation, but it’s good. White with crimson lining and gold embroidery. Masculine cut. Good weight. He liked it."

She paused, hands on her hips, chest rising with a sharp breath.

"With the right ether spell, we can change the embroidery to silver and make it shimmer, just enough to catch the light without looking like we drowned him in glitter."

Then she started pacing again, energy gathering like a storm.

"He has a mark, doesn’t he?"

Alexandra didn’t miss a beat. "He does. Damian did a terrifying job. It’s oddly symmetrical."

Gloria stopped dead. "Good. I can work with that. We’ll do a back cut, something structured, elegant, and a little unexpected. It’ll frame the mark. Let him make a trend out of it."

She turned on her heel, already muttering fabric choices under her breath, summoning assistants with a wave and nearly knocking over a mannequin named Veronica.

"I’ll pull the robe. We’ll need silk thread woven with fine ether channels to hold the shimmer enchantment. Alexandra, how does he feel about cloak weight?"

"He once wore a military coat to a ball out of spite. He’ll manage."

"Perfect. He won’t just look imperial," Gloria said, eyes gleaming, "he’ll look like he built the damn Empire with his bare hands and would burn it down if someone disrespected his shoes."

Alexandra smiled slowly. "Now that sounds like my brother."

—

They didn’t knock. Edward stood waiting at the side entrance, posture sharp, coat immaculate, and jaw set like he’d already lost the day and was simply managing the fallout.

"Is it done?" he asked, eyeing the garment bag Gloria carried.

"It’s more than done," Alexandra said. "It’s appropriate."

"It’s regal," Gloria added, lifting her chin. "Which is more than I can say for the last thing approved under this roof."

Edward didn’t reply. He turned and led them through the corridor without a word. The walls were quiet this time of day, too quiet, like the palace itself knew something had gone wrong and was bracing for the correction.

"They’re in the eastern hall," Edward said over his shoulder. "Gabriel hasn’t opened the file yet. The stylist forwarded it early, but I intercepted. The message is still unread."

"Good," Alexandra muttered. "Let’s keep it that way."

They rounded the final corner.

Gabriel stood by the window, tablet in one hand, gesturing as he spoke. Damian listened with folded arms, expression unreadable, but there was a stillness to him that suggested his mind was already ten steps ahead.

"I just think the announcement should come before Max’s appointment," Gabriel was saying. "That way we don’t give the press two things to tear into at once."

"Gabriel," Alexandra called out.

He turned, slowly.

His brows lifted. "You brought backup?"

"No," she said, already approaching. "I brought intervention."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she’d already slipped her arm through his and snatched the tablet from his hand. With the ease of a woman completely done with diplomacy, she turned and tossed it straight at Edward.

"Delete the robe file. The one with the design. Delete the designer too if possible."

Edward caught it with a resigned sigh. "Understood."

Gabriel blinked. "What design?"

"You don’t want to see it," Gloria said. "Trust me. You’ll thank us later."

"I don’t like the sound of that," Gabriel muttered.

"You’ll hate the look of it more," Alexandra replied, still dragging him out of the hallway.

Damian tilted his head, his gold gaze fixed on the tablet, the request quiet but absolute.

"Can I see?"

It wasn’t a question, and Edward didn’t treat it like one. He stepped forward, handed it over without a word, and stood still.

Damian unlocked the screen. The image opened in full. And looked at the thing that was neither a dress nor a robe, but some kind of fucked chimera of the two.

Damian said nothing.

He scrolled once, then again, until the footer appeared, clean text, hidden in procedural formatting.

If no objections are filed within three days, the design will be considered accepted under ceremonial clause 5.7.

The silence stretched.

Edward didn’t shift. He’d already read the file, already tracked the timestamps, and already confirmed the filing date.

"They submitted it right before the leave," he said quietly, watching Damian’s profile with care. "Filed it under internal updates. Marked it low priority. The designer requested objections through internal mail, then waited the three-day period out, knowing neither of you were available. It passed automatically."

Still, Damian didn’t speak.

The tablet screen dimmed, fading into black.

Then the first fracture appeared, thin and precise, splitting across the glass like a hairline crack in ice. Another followed. And another. Within seconds, the entire screen had webbed over with fractures, delicate and branching, as though the device itself understood that something had gone wrong and chose to shatter rather than endure the weight of it.

The casing split at the edges.

The metal bent with a groan that was barely audible.

Ether residue flickered faintly at Damian’s fingertips. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t tightened his grip. He hadn’t even looked away from the door.

With a flick of his wrist, he let the ruined tablet fall to the floor.

Glass cracked on impact. The casing split fully. The soft hiss of ether leaking from the fractured seal barely registered over the quiet command that followed.

"Kill them all," Damian said before leaving.