That evening, Damien and Julian drove to a high-end lounge. Men of their standing required the occasional dark corner and a glass of vintage scotch to maintain the equilibrium of the Syndicate.

Kitten, true to her "savage" nature, didn't bother questioning Julian's private affairs. It wasn't that she harbored a saint-like trust; it was simply that her ego was a fortress. She considered herself an invincible force of nature, entirely capable of keeping Julian on a short leash. The anxiety of a "wandering husband" was a frequency her brain simply didn't tune into.

Mia, however, had experienced a different reality at the start of the marriage. While she didn't possess a blind trust in Damien, she had a level of internal discipline that bordered on the supernatural. In those early days, when the silence of the estate made her heart race with uncertainty, she didn't pace the floors. She memorized. She would bury herself in the phonetics of German, French, and Mauritian until the world outside faded away.

When the rumors of Damien's "nightlife" grew too loud for her to ignore, she practiced calligraphy. She would sprawl grass script and regular script across page after page, her brushstrokes so bold and authoritative that the house staff began to view her not as a "socialite," but as a divine presence. The Lancaster household eventually treated her with a terrified, silent reverence.

In truth, this brand of self-imposed isolation was a form of spiritual self-harm. If the man involved were a blunt instrument, her restraint would have been nothing more than psychological masochism—a wounding of the spirit far heavier than any physical blow. Mia would later realize how lucky she was that the man she married was not blind to the nuances of the heart.

She never found out exactly when Damien realized her quiet agony, but the change was systematic. He began coming home every night. On the rare occasions when Syndicate negotiations ran into the dawn, he would send a detail to fetch her, arranging for her to stay in his hotel suite so that—no matter the hour—she would fall asleep in the sanctuary of his arms.

Eventually, Mia grew embarrassed by the logistical effort. He was the Sovereign of a criminal empire; surely, she was becoming a nuisance. When she tentatively suggested he stop the arrangements, Damien didn't even look up from his papers.

"I said this is how it's done," he murmured, his voice a low, non-negotiable rasp. "Everything else is outside your jurisdiction."

It was only later, through Julian, that she learned the cost of that "jurisdiction." Negotiating in the Lancaster world was a blood sport played out in the shadows of the night. To withdraw from that arena was to withdraw from the center of power.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"He used to have a nightlife," Mia murmured to Julian one afternoon, her head bowed in a rare moment of vulnerability. "But lately... it's vanished."

Julian let out a short, rich laugh filled with a dark amusement.

"Nightlife?" Julian shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "Mia, if you had seen my brother when he was single, you wouldn't use that word. You have no idea what 'nightlife' looks like for a man like him."

He leaned in, his tone turning remarkably sincere. "Do you know the level of capital Damien had to play with? He was beautiful, he was the heir to the Sovereign throne, and he was pickier than a god. He never deigned to look at a woman for a one-night stand. If a man like that decides to have a night out, the world stops turning. Do you know what they say in the clubs? The owners still mourn the day he got married. Since Damien Lancaster 'went domestic,' the annual profit of the city's high-end nightlife has dropped by half."

Mia listened in a stunned silence. A tidal wave of realization crashed over her.

She had never known. From the moment he claimed her, Damien had been systematically accommodating her. He had been bending his entire world—his profits, his habits, his empire—just to fit the shape of her peace.

Damien Lancaster understood the most tender frequency of love as instinctively as fire understands light.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As fate would have it, Mia had her own obligations that Thursday. The Time City Gallery held a weekly ball, and this week the staff was insistent on throwing her a belated birthday celebration. Since she had promised Damien to be home by six, she rarely attended, but this time the peer pressure was unavoidable. She called Damien to explain.

On the other end of the line, the Sovereign gave a quiet grunt of approval. "Fine. Don't leave alone. I'll pick you up when the music stops."

Kitten, who was hovering near Julian at the time, caught the word "ball" and immediately demanded to go. If there was meat and music, she was there. She declared herself Mia's official "family representative."

Julian nodded, pulling out his keys. "I'll drive you."

He turned, only to see Kitten already halfway down the drive, a small black dot vanishing into the twilight. Julian laughed, letting her go. As he went to unlock his Rolls-Royce, he caught Damien watching him with a look of profound, clinical interest.

Julian cut a sharp glance back. "What's with the eyes?"

"Curiosity, mostly," Damien murmured, his hands in his pockets, a sultry, dark smile touching his lips. "I heard that since the wedding, you've pulled most of your assets out of the Syndicate's primary sectors. You're dumping capital into the news industry—a low-margin headache. Is one little 'Kitten' really worth that much to you?"

"Takes one to know one," Julian countered, his brow arching as he delivered a precision strike. "I heard a certain Sovereign spends his entire monthly allowance on Greek philosophy and rare literature. Word is, you're even studying Greek texts on the private jet during international negotiations just to keep up with your wife's reading list. Compared to that brand of mental gymnastics, the news industry is a vacation."

"..."

For once, Sovereign was speechlessly checked.

Julian was right. Rare as Mia was, a man like Damien—who weaponized his own IQ to match her page for page—was even rarer. Mia's books weren't in English; they were in Ancient Greek. Reading those wasn't a hobby; it was a battle of the soul that required an IQ of 180 and a terrifying amount of courage.

Julian let out a dry cough, his eyes shimmering with a bit of "schadenfreude."

"I'll tell you a story. Gideon took a bullet last month and had to go to the hospital. Alistair was prepping him for surgery, and Gideon asked how grueling the procedure would be. Alistair told him it was 'about the same as being married to Damien.' Gideon fainted on the spot."

Damien ground his teeth, a single, sharp curse escaping his lips. "...Fuck."

He turned on his heel and stroled toward the Spyker with a lethal, offended elegance.