Mia's palms slicked the phone with a cold, frantic sweat. Ten yards ahead, the Spyker C8 sat like a crouched predator in the twilight. The high beams remained locked on her, a blinding white wall intended to shatter her composure.

She drew a sharp, jagged breath. This was a terminal warning—the end of the Sovereign's patience.

Damien's intolerance for the name "Timothy" was a matter of record. He had researched every second of her twenty-three years before the wedding began. Her past was never a secret; it was a file on his desk.

Mia remembered a night early in their marriage. Damien had returned to the estate as a silent void, his expression a clinical mask. He hauled her into the master suite, knelt on the silk sheets, and systematically shredded her wool dress.

Mia had trembled beneath him, her breath hitching in a fractured rhythm. "What happened today?"

He didn't answer immediately. He leaned in, his lips grazing hers, his voice a lethal silk. "Can't you handle being married to me? Does the consumption bother you?"

Mia's face drained of color. She hooked her arms around his neck, pulling him into a desperate, grounding embrace. "It's not like that... I can handle it. I'm already yours."

He didn't ask again; he simply took possession. Twice. The violence of his devotion left her biting her lip in pain for the next three days.

Gideon had later pulled her aside, wiping sweat from his own brow. "Who is Timothy Brown to you, exactly?"

"A friend," Mia had stammered. "Just a classmate."

"The Syndicate hasn't slept for forty-eight hours because of that 'friend,'" Gideon muttered. "The Sovereign heard rumors from Cambridge. That you were lovers."

Mia had tried to explain the truth. Every time she opened her mouth, Damien cut her off with a look that promised a liquidation.

"Do you really want to have this conversation, Mia?" he had whispered, his thumb tracing her throat. "I have zero tolerance for ghosts. I suggest you keep them buried."

She never mentioned the name again. Until tonight.

"I ran into Timothy today..." Mia started into the receiver, her voice thin.

"Can't bear to leave his side?" Damien's voice was a jagged blade of sarcasm.

"I didn't—"

Click. The line went dead.

A new vibration rattled Timothy's pocket. He pulled out his private cell, his brow furrowing as he studied the screen. "I don't know this number. It's unlisted."

Mia's eyes snagged on the digits. She snatched the device from his hand before he could hit 'accept.'

"How do you have his private number?!" she hissed into the phone, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

"I researched him," Damien's low, rhythmic rasp arrived from the car. "The name, the family, the debt structure of his private equity firm."

Damien watched her through the windshield, his silhouette motionless behind the glare. "He plays in PE. Weaknesses are written into his balance sheets. Liquidating him would be... effortless."

"Damien, stop!"

His voice dropped into a sub-zero register, the last of the "civilized" mask falling away. "For his sake, Mia, come to me. Right now. Or there will be consequences."

----

The black Spyker C8 tore through the night like a jagged blade. Mia gripped the door handle, her knuckles white and bloodless.

Her gaze dropped to a stack of files on the center console. She reached out, her fingers trembling as she flipped through the pages.

The documents were a systematic autopsy of Timothy's private equity firm. Insider trading logs, debt-restructuring vulnerabilities, and lists of offshore shell companies stared back at her in cold, black ink.

The tires screamed against the asphalt as the car lurched to a sudden, violent halt. Damien didn't look at her.

"Out."

Mia didn't move. She stared at the neon blur of the city through the windshield. "Where are we?"

Damien ignored her. He vaulted from the car, rounded the hood, and wrenched her door open. He reached inside, his hand locking around her wrist like a titanium shackle.

"Damien, stop!"

He hauled her onto the sidewalk, ignoring her stumble. He spun her around, slamming her back against the floor-to-ceiling glass of a flagship storefront.

He pressed his body into hers, his fingers digging into her jaw to force her head back. His breath was hot, smelling of menthol and dark intent.

"I am warning you, Mia," he rasped, his eyes two pinpricks of gray ice. "What I saw today was my absolute limit."

Mia's breath hitched. She looked into the abyss of his gaze and saw a predator who had finished playing. She swallowed her protests, her throat tight with a silent, jagged grief.

Damien stared at her for a terminal minute, his expression a clinical mask. Then he shoved the glass door open, dragging her inside the sanctuary of a premier diamond boutique.

The manager's eyes ignited the moment he recognized the silhouette. To the elite of this city, the name Lancaster was synonymous with the God of Wealth.

"Master Damien! What an honor," the manager chirped, rushing forward. "What can we show you this evening?"

"Get out."

Damien didn't even grant the man a glance. His voice carried the weight of a liquidation order.

The manager froze, his smile fracturing as he looked at the Lancaster enforcers standing by the door. He bowed his head and vanished into the back office with his staff.

Damien wrenched Mia toward the high-jewelry counter. He shoved her forward, her palms hitting the glass top with a dull thud.

His gaze raked over her, stopping at her ears. Two withered, purple Four o'clock blossoms were still fastened to her lobes, their scent a lingering ghost of Timothy's touch.

The memory of Timothy's arms around her—the rhythmic, soft way he had bowed his head to her ear—ignited a white-hot fury in Damien's gut.

"You're short on jewelry, is that it?"

He reached into his tailored blazer and produced a thick stack of gold and titanium cards. He raised his hand and slammed them onto the glass counter.

The sound of the impact echoed through the empty store like a gunshot.

"Use them," Damien whispered, leaning over her until his shadow swallowed her whole. "Empty every single one of them. If there is a cent left on the balance, you aren't going home. I have nothing but time tonight."