Julian and Kitten snapped back to reality at the exact same heartbeat.

Julian had a sudden, violent urge to commit murder. But no matter how much Lancaster blood was boiling in his veins, he couldn't allow his wife to be exposed in front of an intruder. He scrambled in a frantic, uncharacteristic mess, trying to shove Kitten's sweater back down. Kitten, usually the "savage" of the family, was hissing in a panic, "My panties! Julian, my panties!"

She was currently... entirely vulnerable.

Julian snatched the silk lace from the floor and was about to help her when a thundering bang echoed through the suite. The heavy office door was kicked open with a force that rattled the glass partitions.

Julian made a split-second executive decision. He scooped Kitten up and stuffed her directly into the footwell beneath the massive mahogany desk.

He had just straightened his posture when the "punchable" face of the Sovereign drifted into his line of sight.

"..."

In his mind, Julian was systematically liquidating his brother in a hundred different ways. But then again, in this city, only Damien Lancaster had the sheer audacity to kick down the door to Julian's private office.

"Well... this is a surprise. What are you doing here?"

The second the words left his mouth, Julian wanted to punch himself. He had just stepped out of a "Luxury Noir" pre-game session; his voice was still thick, honeyed, and dripping with an uninhibited sensuality. Even to his own ears, he sounded entirely debauched.

Damien, surprisingly, didn't call him on the obvious. He offered a faint, elegant smile—the kind that usually preceded a corporate takeover. "Weren't we going out for a drink?"

"Ah..." Julian breathed, his eyes darting. He could see Kitten through the gap in the desk, struggling heroically to pull her underwear back on in the cramped darkness. He let out a "thief-like" cough. "I actually have manifests to review. Manifests and... Syndicate filings. Maybe another day?"

"No need." Damien strolled across the room and sank into the leather sofa with a languid, clinical composure. He gestured with his chin toward the piles of paper. "Go ahead. Review them now."

"..."

Damien offered a "thoughtful" smirk. "You do your business. I won't interfere."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I'm watching you do your business."

"..."

Julian ground his teeth. Dealing with Damien when he was in this brand of unreasonable mood was like trying to negotiate with a hurricane.

To buy Kitten enough time to finish dressing, Julian was forced to sit down. With his wife hidden inches from his knees, he opened a random file and began to mimic the posture of a man deeply invested in logistics.

Five minutes of suffocating silence passed. Then, Damien's low, rhythmic rasp cut through the air.

"...Julian. You're still angry with me, aren't you?"

If I bruised Mia, would you be throwing me a parade? Julian thought bitterly. He was certain that if he had laid a finger on Mia Clarke, Damien would have razed his house by now.

But Julian was the "Golden Son," the man of propriety. He managed a brittle, hypocritical smile. "Heh... of course not. We're brothers. There's no need for such talk."

"Oh? Is that so?" Damien nodded, then tossed out a verbal lure. "...So we're still 'good brothers' then?"

Who the hell wants to be your brother? Get out!

Julian desperately wanted to scream it. But his personality was a cage of contradictions; his rage was always a temporary flare, and his sense of family duty was a terminal condition.

He turned on his most dazzling, sincere-looking Lancaster smile. "Of course. Who else do I have but you?"

His voice sounded remarkably genuine. Damien looked satisfied. Julian felt a wave of internal depression.

The clock ticked on.

Under the desk, the space was too confined. Kitten had managed her underwear, but her trousers were proving to be a logistical nightmare. She was currently crouching there with two bare, ivory legs, clinging to Julian's calf and silently wailing: When can I get out of here?!

Julian's mind was racing, trying to find a way to eject the "Beautiful Monster" from his sofa.

Damien suddenly spoke again, his tone conversational. "I actually expected Kitten to be here today..."

!!!

"Hahaha!" Julian's laugh was so fake it was practically a crime. He pushed through it anyway. "Why would she be? Impossible!"

Damien smiled but said nothing.

Julian hated this. He didn't want Damien to know the reason he was avoiding the drinks; he didn't want the Sovereign to catch a whiff of the "clandestine" heat in this office. The moment Damien knew he had leverage, Julian's confidence would be systematically liquidated.

Damien let out a long, theatrical sigh. "Not here? What a tragedy..."

"What?"

Damien reached behind him and slowly produced a high-end paper bag. "I brought a gift for her. Limited edition."

Julian felt a sharp, agonizing pinch on his thigh. He looked down to see Kitten staring up at him with the wide, "dog-like" eyes of a predator. Julian! What is it?! What does he have?!

Julian sighed, forced to be the middleman. "Limited edition... what?"

"A meat bun."

"..."

Damien offered a dark, amused chuckle. "One of a kind. A five-million-dollar meat bun."

God damn it! Can you be any more ridiculous?!

Julian was about to snap back at the absurdity when the pain in his leg spiked. He looked down. Kitten's "front paws" were locked onto his thigh in a death grip. She was looking at him with tears in her eyes: Julian, I want it! I have to eat it! Give it to me!

Julian felt his mind collapsing. You idiot! You're normally so sharp! The second someone mentions food, your IQ vanishes! Where on this earth is there a five-million-dollar meat bun? Is it made of solid gold?!

But Kitten was immune to logic. Damien's "Sovereign" status was so powerful that even the meat bun he carried attained a legendary, heroic stature in her mind. She began to shake Julian's leg with a desperate, frantic intensity.

Damien suddenly tilted his head, his pale gray eyes focusing on the mahogany.

"Julian... what exactly is that rattling sound coming from under your desk?"