Special Chapter: The Kitten and the Saint

During the final days of the year, Catherine became a permanent fixture at Julian Lancaster's side. She buzzed around him like a relentless, industrious honeybee. Her internal clock was famously skewed—she went to bed later than a call girl and woke up earlier than a rooster—so as long as she was conscious, she was clinging to Julian like high-quality resin.

Julian, finally reaching his limit of patient endurance, hauled her onto his lap and pressed a blank check into her palm.

"How much? Fill it in yourself."

There was only one reason for Kitten's sudden surge of "devotion" at the end of December: she wanted her New Year's hongbao—the traditional "lucky money."

Kitten grinned, her expression shamelessly sycophantic as she scribbled a string of zeros that would make a banker weep. She slid the check back to him, her eyes sparkling. "It needs a signature, Mr. Lancaster…"

Julian looked at the numbers and then at the girl. He reached out and gave her forehead a playful, affectionate flick. "Am I keeping you in poverty, Kitten?"

"Of course not," she laughed, rubbing her head. "I'm just worried you'll forget how to spend it. I'm doing you a service, really."

Julian was the "Saint" of the Lancaster bloodline—possessing a bottomless well of patience and wealth to match. He signed the check without a second thought and handed it over.

"How do you want to spend the New Year?" he asked.

Kitten was a creature of chaos; in years past, she would have filled the house with colleagues and friends for an all-night marathon of noise. Julian never minded—he enjoyed her happiness—but this year, she paused. Something sparked in her eyes, and she threw her arms around his neck.

"Let's spend it with Mia!"

Julian arched an unreadable brow, a playful, knowing smirk tugging at his mouth. "Oh? I thought you were still suspicious that I was having an affair with her?"

Kitten immediately adopted a stance of absolute, frantic denial. "Me? Suspicious? Never! Not a word!"

The truth was that Kitten's attitude toward Mia Clarke had undergone a violent cycle of "Affirmation—Negation—Re-affirmation."

Two years ago, Damien Lancaster had claimed Mia with a single sentence, forcing her into the role of his wife. For Mia, the transition was a nightmare. Damien was the Sovereign—a man whose emotions were locked behind a vault of ice. He wasn't Julian; he didn't have the "Saint's" patience for listening to a young woman's grievances under the moonlight.

In those early days, the dialogue between the Sovereign and his captive was usually a study in brevity:

Damien: "Go to sleep."

Mia: "...Okay." (Ten minutes later)

Damien: "Why are you still awake?"

Mia: "I can't sleep…"

Damien: "Sleep anyway."

Mia: "..."

In a house where communication was a weaponized silence, Julian Lancaster—with his good temper, good character, and good ethics—became Mia's only lifeline. She was a well-bred woman who knew better than to intrude, so she only called him in the early evenings. She knew Julian had a family; she didn't want to cause a misunderstanding by calling in the dead of night.

But Mia had miscalculated one thing: Kitten wasn't a "normal" person. Her logic didn't follow the standard human orbit.

In a normal household, after-dinner hours are for chores or television. For Kitten, those hours were for "exercise." And by "exercise," she didn't mean jogging or tennis. She meant pouncing on Julian, biting him, and clinging to him until he inevitably lost his composure and pinned her to the sheets.

And so, every time they were in the middle of their most heated "workouts," the phone would ring. It was Mia.

After the third time their intimacy was interrupted by a woman's voice on the line, Kitten's mood had turned decidedly sour.

Julian would simply gesture toward the phone. "It's Damien's person."

Kitten would pout. She knew the caller belonged to Damien, but she didn't know who she was. All she knew was that it was unacceptable for a girl to ignore the older brother and constantly seek out the younger one.

Julian is mine! Kitten wanted to scream to the universe. Nobody else gets a piece!

One night, after Julian hung up, Kitten huffed, "Does Damien-ge still not have a girlfriend? He needs to get married. Having a menace like that on the loose just makes women take the 'curveball' route toward you."

Julian's eyes glinted with amusement. "Who told you he was single?"

Kitten's eyes went wide. "What?"

Julian pinched her cheek, loving the look of pure shock on her face. "I'll tell you a secret: Damien is a married man."

The news hit Kitten like a high-velocity round.

To Kitten, Damien Lancaster was a figure of legendary proportions—an idol of fear and power. She had seen him in action years ago; she knew that without saying a word, a single twitch of his brow could make a man want to fall on his knees and follow him to the ends of the earth. He was the true King of the Syndicate, a man who won wars before the first shot was fired.

What kind of woman could possibly catch the eye of a monster like that?

For two years, Damien had protected Mia with a focus so absolute that even Kitten had rarely seen her. But the end of the year presented an opening. Kitten was determined to meet this "Saint" who lived in the Sovereign's shadow. She was too smart to pester Damien for permission, but she knew that if she pestered Julian enough, he would make it happen.

Three days later, on the final sunset of the year, a sleek, silver Spyker C8—the unmistakable carriage of the Lancaster Sovereign—slowly pulled up to the gates of Julian's estate.

The King had arrived, and he hadn't come alone.