Since that night, the index of Mia's mood remained a steady, vivid crimson.

Damien would occasionally coil an arm around her waist, his voice a low, rhythmic rasp.

"I have zero patience for children," he'd murmur against the pulse of her throat. "It's fine if there isn't one."

Mia processed the words through a specialized internal filter, missing the clinical precision of his phrasing. She didn't notice he said it was fine if one didn't exist, not that he didn't want one.

The city was saturated with gin and the scent of expensive desperation.

The exit of the club was a study in "Luxury Noir" contrast.

Damien emerged from the neon glow with a dozen black-suited silhouettes trailing his shadow.

Beside him, Charles tossed his car keys with a rhythmic, bored precision. The investment director operated with a simplicity that made him look more like a civilian than a Lancaster.

The club owner hurried forward, a practiced, oily smile fixed on his face.

"Sir, surely a night like this requires company?" the man chirped, gesturing toward a line of women.

Damien didn't even grant the man a glance.

"Piss off," he whispered, the sound a razor cutting through the damp air.

The owner vanished into the shadows, his smile fracturing into dread.

Damien stopped on the sidewalk, his gaze fixed on the passing traffic.

"Go," he ordered the silhouettes behind him. "Not tonight."

Gideon hesitated, his knuckles white as he gripped a briefcase. "I should drive you back, sir—"

The atmospheric pressure on the sidewalk dropped to sub-zero.

"Did I stutter, Gideon?" Damien's voice was a pristine, quiet murmur.

The entourage evaporated into the fog.

Charles watched the last black SUV pull away, his posture rigid. "I should have taken the bus."

A heavy, possessive hand landed on his shoulder.

"Give me a drive," Damien ordered.

Charles let out a long, weary sigh toward the skyline. "I am not your designated driver."

The car merged into the rhythmic pulse of the high-rise traffic.

"When did I become the backup for your brother?" Charles asked, eyes locked on the road.

Damien leaned back into the leather, his eyes closed. "Julian is playing midwife to Kitten."

Charles's jaw tightened. "So I'm the substitute for a pregnant house-cat."

Damien's eyes snapped open as they passed a high-jewelry flagship.

"Stop the car."

The store manager snapped into a line of bows as the two Lancasters entered the vault.

Damien's gaze snagged on a diamond-encrusted cross.

He remembered Mia in the cathedral, her hands folded in a quiet, stoic devotion. The image was a beautiful monster in his mind.

He slid a titanium card across the glass without asking for the price.

Charles studied the dark, jagged bruises on Damien's neck. "She's being proactive, then? Need-based distribution?"

Damien took the box, his expression a clinical mask.

"She wants a child," Damien said, his voice dropping into a terminal register.

They stepped back into the car, the scent of expensive leather filling the silence.

"A gift to anchor her?" Charles asked, checking his mirrors. "You're afraid she'll leave."

Damien rubbed his temples, the Sovereign's mask fracturing for a heartbeat.

"I thought if I refused, I could carry the debt of her body alone," Damien rasped.

"You can't hide a liquidation from your business partner forever," Charles countered.

He gripped the steering wheel, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Don't underestimate an animal that bleeds for seven days and doesn't die."

"Tell her the truth," Charles continued. "Face the fallout together."

He offered a sharp, predatory grin. "And if the biology fails, threaten Alistair. He'll find a way to fix the cells if a hollow-point is at his head."

Damien nodded slowly, the quiet fury receding into a cold resolve.

Charles exhaled, his posture finally relaxing into the seat.

The hot potato had finally been tossed.

----

Charles might have been a shark in a tailored suit, but his advice on "letting nature take its course" was sound. Damien had clearly listened—or perhaps he had simply run out of ways to maintain the deception.

The margin for error was shrinking. They were operating without protection now, a systematic and uninhibited intensity that should have yielded a result weeks ago. Even a woman as quiet as Mia could hear the silence of her own womb.

Damien was fracturing. He had always been a void of emotion, but lately, the silence was jagged.

Two days ago, a maid accidentally overturned the afternoon herbs. Damien didn't just reprimand her; his voice was a sub-zero razor that left the girl hyperventilating in the foyer.

Mia watched the scene from the stairs. She had taken those herbs for two years, believing they were for the "systemic pain" Alistair had diagnosed.

She began to look at the dark liquid differently. What exactly was Damien anxious about?

Alistair was having a catastrophic month. His left eyelid hadn't stopped twitching for thirty days—a rhythmic, jagged warning of a coming liquidation.

He had tested the universe by buying a lottery ticket every morning. He never won a cent.

The rain was a terminal deluge when he walked out of the hospital that evening. He stopped, his gaze snagging on a familiar silhouette standing by the glass doors.

"Mia?" Alistair blinked, his doctor's mask slipping. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Mia gestured toward the gray wall of water outside. "The rain... I couldn't get a car. I was just waiting for it to break."

Alistair didn't hesitate. He was a man of "civilized" impulses, a contrast to the beautiful monster he served. "Get in the car. I'm taking you home."

Mia offered a soft, tired smile. "Thank you, Alistair."

He felt a swell of triumph as he pulled the Spyker out of the lot. Helping Mia was the same as helping the Sovereign. And in this house, the Sovereign's favor was the only currency that mattered.

He remembered the Mahjong games at the estate. Julian, Cat, and Alistair had been forced into a systematic surrender the moment Damien stood behind Mia's chair.

Damien would just raise a brow, and the three of them would break their own necks trying to let Mia win without her noticing.

Cat had been so traumatized by Damien's silent threats that she chose sleep over Mahjong for a month.

Only Charles had been smart enough to praise Mia's "world-class" skills, lying through his teeth to secure a five-billion-dollar investment for his firm.

The drive to the estate was filled with light chatter about medical colleagues and "abnormal psychology" dinners. Alistair felt entirely in control.

He pulled into the Lancaster driveway and walked her to the foyer, shielding her with his umbrella. "Alright, you're safe. I've got a dinner to get to."

Mia didn't move. She stood under the amber glow of the chandelier, her silhouette casting a long, rigid shadow.

"Alistair," she said, her voice a pristine, quiet line. "I'm sorry."

Alistair paused, his hand on the door handle. "For what?"

"I lied to you," she whispered. "I wasn't waiting for the rain. I was waiting for you."

The atmospheric pressure in the room plummeted. Alistair stared at her, realizing with a jolt of dread that he didn't recognize the woman in front of him.

The "quiet survivor" was gone. In her place stood a woman with a surgical focus.

"Mia... what do you need?" Alistair asked, his palms starting to sweat.

She looked him directly in the eye, her gaze a crystalline abyss. "I sought out a doctor, Alistair. What else could I want?"

Alistair's heart hammered against his ribs.

"What are you and Damien hiding?" she asked, the words falling like lead weights. "What is wrong with my body?"