The Reborn Sovereign of Ruin, Bound by His Star

Liam’s first and most important thought was: ’Heck no.’

His second thought was that the vest on the mannequin was not ugly.

It was beautifully made, which Liam considered a personal attack. The fabric was dark green with a black undertone, firm enough to hold a clean line but soft enough to move. The front had no obvious lacing or romantic nonsense, only a concealed closure that sat beneath a narrow strip of dark gold. The waist was shaped with such precision that it looked less like someone wanted Liam’s waist reduced to some modeling concept.

The back was worse.

The designer turned the mannequin with theatrical reverence, revealing a set of hidden panels beneath the fabric, reinforced along the ribs and spine, the internal structure almost invisible unless one knew what to look for.

Stanford knew what to look for.

Liam saw his eyes move.

Unfortunately, the designer saw it too.

"Exactly," the small man said, brightening. "Defensive lining. Lightweight, flexible, and reinforced along the vulnerable points without adding visible bulk. It will distribute impact and maintain the line of the jacket beautifully."

"No," Liam said.

The designer continued as if Liam had made a thoughtful sound instead of refusing with the clarity of a man facing execution. "The boning is not restrictive if properly balanced, and with your figure..."

"No," Liam said again.

This time, the word was quieter.

The designer stopped.

Enia lowered her cup.

Mirelle turned away from the fabric rack, her sharp expression settling into something still and attentive.

Liam stepped off the fitting platform.

The assistant near his ankle made a small distressed sound, but no one stopped him. Not Stanford. Not Mirelle. Not his mother. The unfinished jacket shifted on his shoulders, the sleeve pins trembling faintly, and Liam reached for the front as if he might take it off entirely.

"I do not want that," he said, his voice low and calm, one that he used mostly only when he was working with difficult idiots. "I do not want a corseted vest. I do not care if it is practical. I do not care if it conceals armor or improves posture or makes me look like a better diplomatic object. I do not want something structured around my ribs like that."

For one irrational second, Liam braced for arguments. For the soft insistence that he would get used to it. For the reasonable explanation that it was for his own protection. For someone to tell him that discomfort was not the same as harm, that appearances were important, that court was important, that Felix mattered, that Arik would prefer him protected, that he had to endure one more thing because everyone else had decided it was necessary.

Enia stood.

"Then no corseted vest," she said.

Liam looked at her.

Mirelle nodded once. "Absolutely not."

The designer blinked. "My ladies, if I may just..."

"No," Mirelle said.

The word fell cleanly.

The designer closed his mouth.

Stanford, from the door, said, "A protective garment that Lord Liam rejects is not practical."

Liam turned his head.

Stanford’s expression remained blank, but his voice had the firmness of a locked gate.

The betrayal reversed itself so quickly Liam almost did not know what to do with it.

The designer lifted both hands slightly, not offended, only trying to salvage the idea. "Of course, of course, my lord’s comfort is paramount. I only meant that if properly fitted, the structure would not feel like restraint. Many clients assume..."

"He said no," Enia said.

The designer stopped again.

This time, he looked at Enia properly.

Enia’s face was calm, elegant, and terrifying in the way only a mother could be when she had decided politeness was still available but mercy had left the room.

"He does not need to justify the no," she added.

Mirelle came closer, plucked one pin gently from Liam’s sleeve, and placed it into the cushion an assistant held out with trembling reverence. "We are not here to make Liam endure clothing."

Liam raised a brow, crimson eyes amused, but kept his mouth shut.

"Andreas, we came to you because you understood my tastes and regards for boundaries." Mirelle said, with a face that told Liam she was going to finish the business with him if there was anything that would make Liam uncomfortable.

Liam had a family willing to support him in whatever shape he chose to take, and guilt started to stab at him because they did not even know what they were protecting him from.

Not truly.

They did not know about the scan.

They did not know about Felix’s residue on his cheek, or the old obstruction coiled through his ether channels, or the horrifying possibility that the poison had been sitting inside him since childhood while everyone around him believed the easier story, the one with words like weak, resistant, damaged, difficult.

Enia and Mirelle only knew that he had said no.

And that had been enough.

That made the guilt worse.

Liam turned his gaze back to the mirror because the mirror was less dangerous than his mother’s face.

Andreas, the designer, looked deeply wounded but not foolish enough to ignore Mirelle’s tone. He clasped his hands in front of him and bowed his head slightly. "Of course, my lady. Lord Liam’s comfort is the priority."

"His preference," Mirelle corrected.

Andreas blinked. "Yes?"

"Comfort can be interpreted as something we persuade him toward," Mirelle said. "Preference cannot."

Enia sat again, but her voice remained gentle and final. "If he says he does not want it, the matter is closed."

Liam stared at them through the mirror.

He had expected relief.

Instead, something in his chest folded in on itself with such painful softness that he had to look away again.

Stanford remained near the door, expression blank, but Liam noticed the subtle shift of his stance. Not guarding the room from Liam anymore. Guarding Liam from the room if anyone in it became foolish enough to continue pressing.

That was new.

Or perhaps it had been true for longer than Liam wanted to admit.

Andreas hesitated, eyes moving once toward the mannequin. "Then perhaps not a corseted vest. A half-structured inner layer, very light. No boning, only flexible tension panels along the sides. It would give the same visual discipline without the sensation of compression."

"No," Stanford said.

Andreas stopped.

Liam turned his head slowly.

Stanford looked at the designer, calm as a locked gate. "Lord Liam said he did not want something structured around his ribs. Flexible tension panels around the ribs are still structure around the ribs."

The room went very quiet.

Liam’s betrayal had not only reversed itself. It had apparently enlisted in his favor and become armed.

Mirelle’s eyes gleamed. "Very good."

Stanford looked as if praise from Mirelle was a tactical complication.

Andreas swallowed. "I meant no offense."

"I know," Liam said.

His own voice surprised him. It was not sharp. Not really.

Andreas looked at him.

Liam stepped back onto the platform because standing on the floor in half-pinned sleeves made the assistants look like they were about to suffer heart failure, and he had not come here to endanger the tailoring staff.

"I know you meant it as a solution," he said. "It is not one."

Andreas nodded slowly.

Something in his expression changed then. Not surrender exactly, but understanding. Perhaps professional pride had finally moved out of the way enough for him to hear what was being said.

"What do you want, my lord?" he asked.