The night was as cool as stagnant water, and Mia stood alone in the dark expanse of the garden.

Her lips were still burning from the his touch; when she reached up to graze them with her fingertips, the heat felt as though it were searing her skin.

She felt a flicker of fear. Damien had systematically dismantled every social and moral constraint her elite upbringing had instilled in her. He never spoke of love, yet he provided his devotion in its most extreme forms. He knew he owed her a public acknowledgment, and he had given it with a lethal intensity, leaving it to her to find the courage to endure it.

A pair of strong arms suddenly encircled her waist from behind.

"...The stars are not as they were last night; for whom do you stand in the wind and dew at midnight?"

Mia blinked, then let out a soft laugh.

Damien leaned down, pressing a kiss to her delicate earlobe. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Mia whispered, a smile playing on her lips. "I'm just not used to a man who plays with desire and instinct so ruthlessly also being so... cultured".

Damien paused, his tone shifting into something uncharacteristically innocent. "Hey, I went to school too, you know".

Mia found the image of the Syndicate head in a classroom strangely comedic. "I never actually asked... where did you graduate with?".

"Barely finished middle school," Damien replied with a perfectly straight face. His expression was candid, almost harmless. "The underworld is all about killing and commerce. Why would I need a high-level education? Middle school is more than enough for a man like me".

Mia was stunned. She looked at him, her skepticism warring with his earnest gaze. "Really?".

"Truly," Damien murmured. "It's all blood and bullets out there".

Mia's mind raced. "Then... why is your study filled with all those foreign books? Those texts are dense and archaic. How could a middle schooler read them?".

Without blinking, Damien offered a ready excuse. "A middle school dropout who leads a small army of subordinates needs to decorate the facade, don't you think?".

In the face of such a "humble" admission, Mia—the Cambridge graduate—found herself overcome with a wave of guilt.

Damien lowered his head, his voice turning melancholic and vulnerable. "My mother died early. My father... he didn't care for me," he whispered, his tone dripping with the sorrow of a victim of circumstance. "I wanted to work hard, but there was no one to teach me the importance of an education".

The psychological blow was effective. Every remaining doubt in Mia's mind evaporated, replaced by a deep sense of sympathy.

Damien, lacking any sense of shame for "bullying" her with lies, pressed his advantage. "So, you shouldn't be reading those books all the time. Having a wife from a prestigious university gives me a lot of pressure, Mia. Do you understand?".

Mia nodded fervently. In her heart, she made a quiet vow: from now on, she would correct her "bad habit" of reading foreign philosophy and literature. She had to consider Damien's limited academic background; a good wife should never make her husband feel looked down upon.

Deep in the garden, the scent of night-blooming flowers drifted between them. Their dialogue seemed to take on the fragrance of the stillness.

"Is the game over?" Mia asked.

"Not yet. Half-time. Julian and Kitten are in the kitchen preparing a late-night snack".

Mia thought of the card game they had just played. "Damien... if it hadn't been me by your side today, but someone else... would you still have been willing to accept defeat?".

Damien went silent. A heavy, absolute stillness settled over him—the kind of silence that usually preceded an explosion.

Suddenly, he gripped her shoulders and spun her around, forcing her to face him. His face was a mask of cold indifference, his pale gray eyes unreadable.

"You think I would have lost if it wasn't for you?".

Damien was not a man of patient explanations. That single sentence was all she would get.

Mia's voice was muffled as she looked at his chest. "We're in someone else's house. Could you please show some morality?".

"No," Damien replied, his tone lawless. "Please don't try to discuss morality with a man who never finished middle school".

Alistair came rushing out of the living room to call them for the midnight meal.

"Damien—" Alistair started, but he skidded to a halt.

Though he couldn't see exactly what they were doing in the hazy moonlight, the silhouette of the two of them embraced was so serene and "pure" that Alistair felt it was a sacrilege to interrupt. He quickly pivoted and headed toward the kitchen instead.

As he reached the kitchen door, he heard Julian's voice from inside: "Kitten! If you don't stop, I'm going to take you right here...".

This was followed by a series of distinctly "impure" sounds.

Alistair stood in the hallway between the garden and the kitchen, trapped in a tragic, awkward limbo. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed. I really need to get married, he thought.

The intermission ended, and Julian's home transformed back into a high-stakes casino. A mahjong battle began, with Damien, Julian, Kitten, and Alistair as the central pillars.

Damien began to systematically "brainwash" Mia.

He was a master of performance. With his beautiful face and precise delivery, his lies sounded like divine truth. He whispered to Mia over and over: "Believe me, you aren't actually a white-lotus scholar. You have the potential of a rogue. You're a natural-born gambler, really...".

Julian, Kitten, and Alistair all felt a sudden urge to flee the room. They marveled at the Sovereign's ability to lie with his eyes wide open.

Yet, after a thousand repetitions, the lie began to manifest as reality. When Damien asked Mia to draw a tile for him, the situation became bizarre. Mia, the total novice, began a streak of terrifying luck. 

Kitten was losing her mind. It was one thing to be liquidated by Damien, but being outplayed by Mia was a bridge too far.

Damien's phone rang. He let out a dark laugh, handed the tiles to Mia, and stepped outside to take the call.

The moment he was gone, Kitten pounced. "Mia! Don't stay up late! It's bad for your health. Go to the sofa and read your book!".

"I don't want to," Mia said softly.

Kitten was horrified. "No way. Is the gambling world that addictive? Even a saint like you is giving up books?".

Mia thought of her conversation with Damien in the garden. "He doesn't like it," she admitted.

"Oh my god!" Kitten shrieked. "How can you be so submissive? You need to revolt! Rebel against the capitalist monster! Young people are supposed to be rebellious!".

Mia shook her head, her expression guarded. "Actually... Damien has his own difficulties. No matter how indifferent he seems, he is still a man with pride".

His education... it must be a point of pain for him, she thought.

Suddenly, Julian and Alistair were leaning in, their curiosity piqued.

"Difficulties?" Julian asked. To him, Damien was a man who possessed everything. The idea of him having "difficulties" was absurd.

"Pride?" Alistair added. Damien's pride was absolute; he was the one who looked down on the rest of the world.

The three of them—Kitten the journalist, Julian the thinker, and Alistair the doctor—all saw Mia's hesitant, pained expression and immediately drew the same conclusion.

"Don't tell me... Damien has... 'performance' issues?".

A man of his stature having a "defect" in that department would certainly be a blow to his pride.

Mia's face went crimson, and a cold sweat broke across her brow. "What are you thinking?! How could that be the problem?!".

Damien Lancaster was... beyond normal in that regard.

"But you said it was about his pride and his difficulties!" Kitten shouted.

"I meant his education!" Mia cried out, her stoic mask finally failing.

"What about his education?" Kitten asked, confused.

"Well... according to him... it's a bit low...".

Kitten, who was in the middle of drinking water, sprayed it across the room. "Are you joking?! If his education is low, then I'm practically illiterate!".

Julian wiped the sweat from his own forehead. "Mia... what exactly do you think his education level is?".

"...Didn't he barely finish middle school?".

The room fell into a deathly silence.

"He told me that himself!" Mia insisted, recounting his story about his mother dying young and his father neglecting him.

Julian finally understood the game.

"Mia," Julian said, trying to keep his voice steady. "If Damien ever uses that 'wounded, innocent' expression with you... he is lying. He is a master of psychology; he knows that the 'soft approach' is the only way to handle someone like you, who resists violence but surrenders to kindness".

"Then... what is his actual background?" Mia stammered, her head spinning.

Julian covered his mouth with his fist, trying to suppress the twitching of his own expression.

"Damien's education... is not low," Julian said through gritted teeth. "He holds dual PhDs in International Law and Economics. From the Ivy League".