Given the way she had been sculpted by silence, Mia would never play the informant. Even if someone were to step on her, she viewed it as her own burden to carry. Besides, Gideon hadn't raised a hand or a voice; he had simply occupied his own territory and expressed his disdain. In a world defined by the Syndicate, that was merely freedom of speech. Once the moment passed, she let it go.

But she knew the man in the bed.

Damien looked fragile now—ivory skin, a deceptive lack of aggression, a face so beautiful it invited a misplaced sense of pity.

It was a lethal masquerade.

The moment Damien woke, every violent impulse in his DNA woke with him. In his world, no grievance was too small to ignite a war. If he intervened, the fallout would be anything but civilized.

Mia shook her head, forcing a smile as she wiped the last of the salt from her cheeks. "No one. I have you, don't I? Who would be brave enough to touch me?"

"Is that so?"

Damien nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. He used his right arm to brace himself, pushing his weight upward to sit.

Mia rushed to adjust the pillows, supporting his frame. She let out a quiet breath of relief, thinking she had successfully navigated the minefield, until his voice arrived—low, precisely modulated, and terrifyingly casual.

"...Did Gideon and the others do something?"

Mia felt a cold sweat break across her brow.

This was the man who held the East Coast in a velvet grip. A bullet hole in his shoulder hadn't dulled his senses in the slightest.

She was suddenly reminded of a conversation she'd had with Julian shortly after she became a Lancaster. Back then, even though Damien hadn't demanded her "marital duties," his presence in the bedroom was a haunting weight. She had used every excuse her imagination could conjure to avoid him. Damien never argued; he would simply sip a glass of water, watching her with a gaze that made her blood turn to ice, before strolling out in a silence that felt like a death sentence.

Julian had warned her then: "Don't bother lying to Damien. It's a dead end."

"But he didn't seem to doubt me tonight," she had whispered.

"He didn't believe you," Julian had countered with a faint smirk. "He was just too bored to tear your lie apart. On a personal level, Damien can be incredibly languid. If you don't know him, you think it's a quirk. If you do know him, you realize it's just the predator waiting for his patience to run out. When that patience is gone, he won't let you go."

"Then what do I do?"

Julian had shrugged. "Give him the truth, but wrap it in a lie. Men have zero resistance to a woman who knows how to show vulnerability."

In other words: if you can't fight him, coax him.

Mia, whose entire moral compass was aligned with honesty, found the tactic agonizingly difficult. But as Damien's fingers clamped onto her chin, tilting her face to meet his pale gray eyes, she knew she was trapped.

"Tell me," Damien murmured, his voice a low-flying predator. "What did those bastards do to you?"

Mia took a shaky breath, deciding to follow Julian's script.

"You're right," she whispered, her eyes turning soft and guarded. "There is one person in this house who is very good at bullying me."

Damien's gaze sharpened. "Who?"

"You."

Ten minutes later, Mia walked out of the suite. Her legs felt like water. She had managed to de-escalate the Sovereign, but the "Luxury Noir" performance she'd just put on made her skin crawl with embarrassment.

She found Julian in the hallway and pulled him aside.

"I didn't realize," Mia whispered, her face ashen, "that a man like Damien would actually respond to... to that kind of approach."

Julian looked genuinely surprised. "Really? It worked?"

Mia stared at him. "...You didn't know? You're the one who taught me."

Julian cleared his throat, looking sheepishly away. "I was just generalizing based on basic male psychology. I didn't think Damien actually qualified as a member of the human race."

They both looked back at the closed door of the VIP suite. A shared sense of guilt washed over them. They both knew that by shielding Mia, they had just served Gideon Vance up on a silver platter.

Over the next few days, though Damien was still a patient, no one treated him like one.

As Gideon had noted, the entire Syndicate answered to one man. He was irreplaceable, an absolute sovereignty that could not be delegated.

A steady stream of high-level lieutenants arrived at the hospital, seeking directives. While Julian handled the legitimate business, he possessed too much "territorial awareness" to touch the sensitive, darker layers of the Lancaster engine. Ultimately, every life-and-death decision returned to Damien's desk.

Mia often watched him from the doorway. His eyes were blades—thin, cold, and devoid of sentiment. It was a jarring contrast to the man she had guarded while he slept. In slumber, he had been a masterpiece of fragile ivory. Awake, he was a monster who weaponized his own beauty.

On a Tuesday evening, Gideon entered the suite with a fresh stack of manila folders.

Alistair was in the middle of changing Damien's bandages. The doctor looked irritated. He had expected Damien to be a difficult, high-maintenance patient; Alistair had even pre-planned a regimen of heavy sedatives to keep the man from burning the hospital down.

Instead, Damien had been unnervingly calm. He ate, he worked, he slept. He was a perfect machine, and the lack of chaos was giving Alistair a professional crisis.

Gideon stepped to the bedside. Damien took the files with his right hand, flipping through the pages with a languid, rhythmic motion.

"What is the stance from the Taiwan contingent regarding the joint-holding proposal?" Damien asked, his voice a low drawl.

"Clear," Gideon reported. "They don't care if the capital is black or white. They only care about the dividends."

Damien let out a short, knowing laugh. Masters of profit recognize their own kind. When experts meet, three words are enough to seal a deal.

"Send them a gift," Damien instructed casually.

Gideon blinked. "...Sir?"

"I heard they just welcomed a daughter. Send a formal token of my regards."

Gideon nodded, impressed by the strategic courtesy.

Damien looked up, his expression suddenly dripping with a rare, disturbing warmth. "You've worked hard these last few days, Gideon."

Gideon felt a cold shiver race down his spine. Coming from Damien, that tone was a warning siren.

"Gideon," Damien asked softly. "How long have you been in this house?"

"Twenty-five years and three months, sir."

Damien smiled. It was a dazzling, terrifying display of devotion. "Your memory is impeccable."

Alistair looked between the two men and instinctively took a step back. A "warm" Damien Lancaster was a hazard to everyone's health.

"Master Damien..." Gideon's voice was a plea for mercy.

"Once you finish the arrangements for Taiwan," Damien murmured, his voice like velvet, "I think you need a vacation. Why don't you travel the world? Learn the local customs. Contribute to international harmony. I'm sure the Syndicate can spare you."

Gideon began to sweat. "Sir, I'm not a diplomat... I don't need to—"

"I have a better idea," Damien interrupted, his smile turning sharp. "How about a retreat to the Farm?"

Gideon's face went translucent. The Farm was a Lancaster asset—a desolate, godforsaken island where the Syndicate sent those they wanted the world to forget.

Years ago, for a reason known only to the two of them, Damien had exiled Gideon once before. Gideon had tried to remain optimistic, taking a copy of Robinson Crusoe and treating the exile as "labor reform." He had raised pigs and chopped wood for three months, waiting for the call back to the city.

Instead, Damien had sent a messenger with a formal notice: In view of Mr. Vance's enthusiasm for agricultural life, the organization has decided he shall remain at the Farm for the duration of his natural life.

If Julian hadn't stepped in to beg for his return, Gideon would still be raising ducks in the middle of the ocean. Twenty years of loyalty meant nothing to Damien Lancaster when his patience was exhausted.

Gideon dropped into a deep, ninety-degree bow, his voice trembling. "I was wrong!"

Damien scanned him with absolute indifference. "Wrong about what?"

Gideon couldn't say it. Damien loathed excuses, and he loathed those who meddled in his private sanctuary.

"Can't say it in front of me?" Damien closed the file, the languid mask sliding away to reveal the Sovereign beneath. The air in the suite turned to ice. "Fine. I'll say it for you."

"Gideon... you seem to have a very loud opinion regarding my taste in women."