Winter snow arrived without warning.

The wind was fierce, and under the cast of the streetlights, the flakes fell in a torrential white blur, like a scene from a dark fairy tale. The world after the snow became dreamlike, delicate, and expensive—resembling the layered silk of a debutante's gown.

Exiting the supermarket where the central heat had been blasting, the sudden drop in temperature was a physical blow. Mia breathed into her palms; the white mist spiraled away from her lips, impossibly soft.

Suddenly, a heavy black overcoat was draped over her shoulders.

Mia looked up to find Damien. His handsome face was devoid of expression, and his voice was a pale, flat rasp that didn't ripple the air.

"Wear it," Damien commanded, his long fingers moving to fasten the buttons across her chest. The gesture was a paradox: gentle yet non-negotiable. "Your constitution has always been fragile. You can't endure this kind of cold".

She watched him, knowing better than to resist. "You'll be cold," she whispered with a trace of unease.

Damien's style was something no normal human could endure. Even in the dead of winter, he wore nothing but a thin silk shirt beneath his coats. She had never once seen him fall ill. Now, seeing him without the outer layer made her feel an phantom chill on his behalf; she felt a sudden, desperate urge to hold him, to shield him with her own warmth.

Damien suddenly smiled.

"I'll bring the car around. Wait here".

"Wait—"

Damien reached out and gave her forehead a playful flick, his pale gray eyes glinting with a dark, predatory amusement.

"Didn't Alistair tell you?" he murmured, his fingers grazing her cheek with a coldness that seeped into her very bones. "My blood is cold. I was made for this temperature".

Mia stood in the snow, the sensation of his touch lingering like a brand. Years later, even after time had reclaimed the details of her life, she would never forget that he had once been this tender.

When Damien's car pulled smoothly into the garden of the Lancaster estate, Catherine was standing at the second-floor bedroom window, grinning down at the pair.

"La belle," she whispered. The beauty.

Julian Lancaster stood behind her, nodding in silent agreement.

In the garden, Damien looked like a sliver of moonlight. He wore a silver shirt that draped with a heavy, liquid grace—cool, pristine, and dangerously眩惑 (dazzling). Every movement he made was a study in lethal elegance.

Kitten tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "Such a bizarre man. So beautiful, so seasoned... how did he ever allow himself to be anchored by a girl like Mia?".

Julian wrapped his arms around her waist, his voice a low, teasing comfort. "Don't you women believe in love at first sight? Perhaps that's all it was".

"No, not him," Kitten said, her eyes locked on the couple below. "I don't know him well, but I can see this much: Damien Lancaster is not a man who survives on sentiment".

Love at first sight? It was too fraudulent for a man like Damien. He was a creature of schemes and tactical strikes; those traits were his instinct. To him, everything served the end result, regardless of whether the means were "civilized" or "monstrous". As a businessman, he was terrifying; as a Sovereign with a Syndicate at his back, he was terminal.

He could kill, and he could play. When he was single, his nights were a blur of uninhibited carnal mastery—how else would he have acquired such soul-shattering techniques in bed?. When he killed, his eyes were void; when he played, they were filled with a faux-devotion. No one knew which version was real.

And yet, here he was, binding Mia Clarke to his side, never letting her out of his reach.

"Hey," Kitten nudged Julian. "Your brother... he's not just playing with Mia, is he?".

Julian gave her forehead a sharp tap. "Don't talk nonsense".

"I'm just curious!" she pouted.

Julian's expression softened, and he whispered into her ear. "There are things I can't tell you".

Kitten blinked, startled. What could be so secret that even she couldn't know?.

Julian lowered his eyes, a faint, sad smile touching his lips. "It's ancient history now... but I can tell you this: Damien has a void in his heart that can only fit one person. He let Mia in. Now, no one else can get through, and she can never find her way out".

By the time Damien and Mia entered the house, Alistair and the others had arrived. Kitten was a creature who thrived on noise; a few phone calls had summoned a small battalion of the city's elite for the New Year's dinner.

The meal was a chaotic, high-energy affair. Wherever Kitten was, there was no shortage of conversation. She even managed to corner Mia while the men were occupied with whiskey and business talk, adopting the persona of a "professional veteran wife".

"Mia, are you still terrified of Damien-ge?".

Mia froze, then nodded with an embarrassed blush. "A little...".

Kitten patted her shoulder with the bravado of a street-fighter. "Oh, he's just a paper tiger! Like Chairman Mao said: hit one if they come, double-fly them if they come in pairs! Don't be afraid!".

Mia kept her head down. "Sometimes... he gets so angry. I don't know what to do". She was thinking of the night two years ago when his fury had nearly dismantled her soul.

"That's easy," Kitten babbled. "Just remember: when he's lecturing you, never talk back. Just put on a look of profound, agonizing remorse. I've been doing it to Julian for years. It works every time!".

Mia remained silent.

"The key is to be shameless," Kitten insisted. "Shameless. Do you understand?".

"..."

"Forget it, the philosophy is too deep," Kitten sighed. "Let me give you an example. Suppose you don't know Damien, and he doesn't know you. One day, he hits you with his Spyker C8. You're hurt, but not badly. What do you do?".

"I... I guess I'd just let it go?" Mia suggested.

"Wrong!" Kitten cried in mock-agony. "That's when you have to be thick-skinned! Think about it—how many times in your life do you get hit by a multi-million dollar hypercar and survive? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to blackmail a rich man! You have to have that 'extortion spirit' with Damien, or he'll eat you alive!".

Mia felt a cold sweat. She couldn't help but envy Kitten; Julian's bottomless indulgence was the only reason she could get away with such madness.

"Thank you, Kitten," Mia said softly. "I appreciate you staying with me. But the truth is...".

Mia couldn't even decipher Damien's heart.

He never spoke of love. Their dialogue was sparse, yet on the rare occasions he whispered "sweet nothings," they were so sugary they were nauseating—designed to make her sink into the abyss. He dominated her, possessed her, yet he never brought her into the light of the public eye. He hid her, made her "disappear." Was this a refusal to acknowledge her?.

He had given her the title of Mrs. Lancaster, but he hadn't given her a reason, or a life. If she hadn't already learned to surrender to fate and find "pleasure" in her own isolation, she would have lost the will to live long ago.

But now, she was more lost than ever. Why did she look for "pleasure" in her cage? Because the only light she had found was her feeling for him. It was catastrophic: her only source of warmth was a man who was a dark, unfallen city protected by Ares.

Her love was the flight of a moth into a flame.

Kitten understood. She was shaken by the bitterness hidden behind Mia's submissive facade. Kitten silently vowed that if Julian ever treated her that way, she would start a literal revolution.

As dinner ended, Kitten's chaotic energy returned. She announced that she wouldn't let Damien leave without a fight—she wanted a night-long gambling marathon to defeat him. Years ago, she had been "slaughtered" by Damien at the poker table, losing everything she owned because she'd been distracted by his beauty. Curiosity had truly killed the cat.

Damien arched a brow, intrigued. "I'll play. But only if you have the capital to offer a stake that interests me".

Kitten smirked cunningly. "Money is boring. Today, we don't use cash".

"Name your bet," Damien said, tapping the table. "You can't beat me, so don't waste my time with ordinary stakes".

Kitten held up a single finger.

"A One Minute Stand...".

The men in the room went still. Kitten was truly "uninhibited" to suggest such a thing.

"If I lose," Kitten said quickly, "Julian and I will show you all—right here—a One Minute Stand. But if you lose—".

Then, you will have to show us exactly what the Sovereign looks like when he is consumed by soul-shattering desire..