Caught by the Mad Alpha King Chapter 277: Official capacity

Two days.

Marianne Lancaster survived two more days of Princess Heather.

Two days of tantrums polished into royal diction. Two days of sighs so dramatic one could chart weather patterns from them. Two days of being inford, repeatedly, that Palatine architecture was either "depressingly functional" or "too ornantal" when she saw the traditional side of the palace. That the guards "needed more sparkle," and that if Dax truly wished to impress her, he would have t her at the airport personally with flowers, a crown, and possibly a choir.

By the end of the first day, Marianne’s right eye had developed a twitch.

By the end of the second, she had started ntally identifying nearby windows in case she developed the overwhelming urge to test gravity using royalty.

She once won a negotiation with Dax of Saha himself and walked away with most of her sanity intact.

Heather, however, was a different kind of battlefield.

Still, duty remained duty.

And Saha, for all its unnerving precision and infuriating calm, had finally sent word that His Majesty King Dax had agreed to et her.

Marianne almost sagged with relief.

If she had to endure one more hour of lavender silk and unchecked delusion without a productive objective in sight, she genuinely wasn’t certain whether she would remain loyal to her country... or defect to Saha out of spite.

Killian Frost escorted her through the halls of Parliant.

Every guard stiffened as they passed. Every aide dipped. Every door opened exactly when he intended it to. If Sahir wore authority like silk, Killian wore it like steel.

"Thank you," Marianne said sincerely as they stopped before the final door.

He inclined his head. "Do try not to cause an international incident," he replied with courteous dryness.

"I make no promises," she muttered.

Then the door opened and she burst in with all her might.

"For the love of any god still paying attention to this miserable world," she declared, voice echoing through the office with blessed catharsis, "do you truly enjoy watching descend into madness, Dax? Because I swear to you, this is psychological warfare, and you are winning!"

The words crashed into the quiet room like a storm into calm water.

And then she saw the audience. Her montum stuttered.

One heartbeat. Two.

Chris was sitting on one of the sofas in a white shirt, sleeves rolled neatly at his elbows. Black trousers. Relaxed posture. He looked up at Marianne like a man watching a mildly interesting docuntary: calm, alert, and faintly curious about whether the next scene would include an explosion.

On the other side of the room, sunlight washed over the king’s desk.

Dax sat behind it, his long body leaned back just enough to be lazy, a pen balanced between his fingers, and the gold of his mantle draped carelessly nearby like an afterthought. His brows lifted slowly as he regarded Marianne, the barest spark of amusent flaring behind his eyes.

He had absolutely heard every word.

And he was entertained. Of course he was.

A long, dangerous, unbearably fond breath left him, as if soone had just handed him his favorite kind of chaos on a silver tray.

"Good afternoon, Marianne," Dax said, his voice far too pleased with the world in general and her existence specifically.

Marianne dragged a hand down her face, collected the last shreds of her dignity, and rembered that she did, despite everything, possess diplomacy.

She turned toward Chris.

Her posture straightened, shoulders settling into formality as if soone had switched her back to "official capacity." She inclined in a perfect bow, deep enough to acknowledge position, sharp enough to acknowledge respect.

"An honor to finally et you, Consort Christopher," she said, voice smooth and exquisitely polite.

Chris blinked once, surprised by the sudden shift in tone, opening his mouth to respond... He didn’t get the chance.

Marianne snapped back toward Dax like a rubber band released at lethal speed.

"Now that courtesies are done... YOU," she burst, pointing at him with outrageous familiarity only soone with history dared attempt. "I ca here in good faith. I even considered saying sothing admirable, like ’you look alive, I’m glad ruling hasn’t killed you yet,’ but no. NO. Instead, I had to survive that child for days. Days, Dax. I have been psychologically assaulted by pastel entitlent and lavender perfu. And you? You took your sweet ti answering my request. Do you enjoy watching suffer?"

Dax tilted his head, lips curling into that quiet, delighted smile that ant he absolutely did.

Chris, seated comfortably, watched this unfold with bright attention and a composure that was perhaps a little too calm, the faintest shadow of amusent flickering over his mouth.

Marianne inhaled sharply and then exhaled even sharper.

"And since I know you will ask why I stord into your office like divine wrath itself..." she continued, stabbing a finger toward his desk, "I will tell you. I thought it would be nice to see you again. Civilized. Rational. Adult. I intended to sit down, smile politely, and inform you calmly that the Maleks reached out to a month ago. You know, casually reveal that they would very much like you distracted so they can attempt sothing profoundly stupid involving your mate."

She gestured at Chris without even looking, because of course she ant him.

"But no," she finished with emphasis. "I don’t get to be that person today because instead of walking into a respectable eting, I have been trapped on a diplomatic babysitting mission with a delusional princess who thinks she will ’fix Saha’s aesthetic’ once she marries you. So forgive , Your Majesty, if my delivery is slightly less polished than I intended."

Silence followed.

A deep, incredulous, rippling silence.

Chris slowly turned his head from Marianne to Dax.

And Dax was staring at Marianne with the look of a man who had just been told his enemies sent him fireworks.

"Repeat the part," he said slowly, voice already darker, sharper, and already exquisitely entertained, "where they think distracting could possibly be enough to get anywhere near my mate."

Marianne finally collapsed into one of the chairs like a soldier granted permission to stop standing.

"I will," she sighed. "But first... coffee. Or alcohol. And possibly a tranquilizer dart for Heather before she attempts to redecorate your palace on arrival."