From a purely professional standpoint, Alistair had hoped Damien would take his time recovering. Having an elite, old-money patient like the Sovereign in his hospital was like having a fat sheep walk directly into a slaughterhouse. It was a golden opportunity to bleed the Lancaster estate dry.

But after forty-eight hours, Alistair was ready to snap.

The problem wasn't the patient; it was the security detail. Damien's enforcers, trained in the Sovereign's brand of unreasonable logic, were in a state of high-alert hysteria. If Damien so much as shifted in his sleep, the guards would go screaming down the hallway to Alistair's office. They demanded he check the wound. Then check it again. And again.

The breaking point came when a frustrated enforcer actually drew a weapon and threatened to "retire" the doctor if he didn't perform an eighty-second inspection of the VIP suite.

By his eighty-second visit, Alistair—sporting dark circles under his eyes that made him look like a terminal patient himself—grabbed Gideon by the hand, his eyes welling with actual tears of exhaustion.

"Gentlemen, I am begging you... stop the mental torture," Alistair rasped. "It's a gunshot wound, but it's not fatal. It's not even a crisis. He's not dying of a terminal illness. Trust me, the man is going to live. He's far too stubborn to do anything else."

To compensate for his own trauma, Alistair leaned into his "slaughter the sheep" strategy. He began prescribing stacks of obscenely expensive tonics and "sacred" herbal remedies, regardless of whether Damien actually needed them.

Julian caught him staring at a thick stack of prescriptions that looked like a snowstorm of paperwork. Julian plucked one from the pile, scanned the text, and felt a cold sweat break across his brow.

"Alistair, are you serious? Antique herbal remedies? For a shoulder wound?"

Alistair waved a hand with the grandeur of a saint. "It's restorative. Traditional medicine is good for the soul."

Julian rubbed his temples. "The medicine is for kidney deficiency, Alistair. You're prescribing virility tonics to a man with a bullet hole."

Alistair's medical ethics, now exposed, took a hit. "Julian, didn't you study management at Cambridge?"

"What's your point?"

"How do you even know what these herbs are?" Alistair muttered, feeling personally attacked by Julian's assessment.

"It's not expertise, Alistair. It's common sense," Julian said, tossing the papers back. "Redo them. Properly."

Alistair bristled. He owned the hospital, he signed the charts, and he was determined to get his "mental health tax" from the Lancaster family. He refused to budge.

The standoff was interrupted by the sound of the suite door opening. Mia entered, carrying a bag of pastries. She walked over, curious, and took the prescriptions from Julian's hand.

Julian opened his mouth to tell her not to believe a word of it—that Damien didn't have "performance issues"—but Mia spoke first.

"Dr. Sterling, thank you. Really," she said, her expression radiating a heartbreaking sincerity. Her soft gray eyes were shimmering with genuine gratitude. "You've worked so hard to save him. I feel so lucky to have a friend like you. I don't even know how to thank you properly..."

"Stop... please, stop..."

Alistair felt his soul wither under the weight of her innocence. It was one thing to scam Kitten—she was a "little monster" who could take a hit. But Mia? Lying to Mia felt like a crime against humanity.

Faced with her purity, Alistair's conscience performed a sudden, violent resurrection. He snatched the papers back and bolted from the room to fix the prescriptions before he rotted in hell.

Gideon appeared in the doorway moments later, clutching a stack of manila folders. He walked straight to Julian, his gaze bypassing Mia as if she were a piece of furniture. Since the shooting, his resentment toward her had turned into a wall of ice.

Mia instinctively lowered her head. She feared the rest of the Lancaster house. She could feel their judgment; without Damien's protection, she knew they would have liquidated her the moment he bled.

"Julian, these are the files that require immediate authorization," Gideon said. "The doctor says he'll wake up soon, but we can't delay these transactions any longer."

"I'll handle them," Julian said, taking the files. He caught the sight of Mia's hunched shoulders and realized the weight of the pressure she was under. He gestured to the door. "Let's talk outside."

They stood by the window in the long, sterile corridor. Julian used the folders to give Gideon a sharp tap on the forehead.

"She's a girl with no one else in the world, Gideon," Julian whispered. "Damien snatched her out of her life with a single word. She's never caused trouble. How can you be so cold to her?"

Gideon looked grim. "I can't help it. Before this, I thought she was a Sainted Empress. Now? I look at her and all I see is a femme fatale. I see ruin, Julian. I see the kind of woman who brings a man like Damien to a bad end."

Julian sighed. "Can you guys stop casting her as a tragedy? Kitten has never sent me to the ER."

"That's because you aren't a psychopath like your brother," Gideon muttered. Then, his tone shifted to a clinical curiosity. "I don't get what he sees in her. He's had a thousand women crawl toward him. Personally, I think Janice—the prosecutor—would have been a better fit."

Julian arched an eyebrow. "Janice?"

"She came by with files the other day," Gideon noted. "She's sharp. A real asset. But Damien acts like she doesn't exist."

Julian patted his shoulder. "Believe me, I know my brother. A woman like that would never interest him."

"Why not? He saved her life, too. Why didn't he claim her the way he claimed Mia?"

"Gideon, your logic is a disaster," Julian groaned. "Damien doesn't marry every woman he pulls out of a fire."

Inside the room, Mia quietly closed the door. She had heard enough.

A wave of isolation crashed over her. She knew she had failed. She had tried to be a good wife, but in the eyes of the Syndicate, she was a liability—a mistake. Gideon's words echoed in her mind: The position by Damien's side shouldn't be hers.

If her mother were alive, she would have a sanctuary. But now, she was truly alone.

Mia collapsed by the bedside, burying her face in the sheets and weeping. She realized in that moment of total vulnerability that she had become entirely dependent on the man who had broken her wings. Outside of him, she had nothing left.

Suddenly, a cool hand rested on her forehead.

Mia jerked back, her eyes wide. She met a pair of pale gray eyes—tender, playful, and devastatingly lucid.

Before she could scream for the doctor, Damien's left hand shot out, catching her wrist and dragging her hard into his chest.

The Sovereign had returned.

Mia was pressed against his heart, her tears soaking into his hospital gown. Damien raised a hand, his long fingers tracing the line of her trembling lips.

He wiped the moisture from her eyes, his voice a low, velvet rasp that seemed to vibrate through her bones.

"...Tell me what happened?"