After a moment of silence, Mia steadied her breathing. She reached for the two portfolios she had brought with her and handed them to Damien.

He arched a brow, his pale gray eyes flickering with a cold curiosity. "What is this?"

"My apology."

It was rare to see a flash of genuine surprise on Damien's face. He looked down at the sketches in his hand and realization dawned on him. Only a woman like Mia would choose such an aesthetic, almost poetic way to ask for forgiveness.

"When I was studying at Cambridge," she murmured, her voice soft and melodic, "my art professor taught me something. He said that if a day ever comes where a person's words fail them—when language becomes inadequate—then painting is the only way out".

Damien let out a dry, short laugh. "And what if the person looking at the painting doesn't understand it?"

"You will."

She leaned in, her lips grazing his in a ghost of a kiss.

"...You understand, Damien. I know you do".

What she had given him were not heavy, aristocratic oil paintings or deep, brooding watercolors. They were two simple pencil sketches, light and clean.

The lines were precise, the colors minimal—everything about the frames radiated a sense of clarity and peace. Damien found himself imagining her as she drew them: sitting at her desk in the dead of night under the amber glow of a lamp, the only sound in the suite being the rhythmic scratch of graphite against paper.

The first sketch depicted a meeting.

It wasn't their first encounter under the bruised twilight sky of the fire. Instead, it was the moment everything had finally settled—the first time she saw him after waking from her trauma. In the drawing, he was sitting across from her, watching her with a dark, playful intensity.

"When I first met you," Mia began, her gaze fixed on the sketch, "I tried to find a way to see through you—to understand the intentions and thoughts behind the mask. Later, I realized it was impossible. So, I stopped. I gave up...".

No language could truly capture the shock he had branded into her soul. She remembered every detail of that day, every micro-expression, every shift in the air. Yet, even with all those memories, she still didn't understand him.

"Damien," she whispered, her hand moving to stroke his sharp cheekbone. "I'm sorry."

He offered a faint, unreadable smile. "What are you sorry for?"

"I'm sorry that from the day I decided to marry you—as your wife—I gave up on trying to know the real you".

She should have learned sooner. If she had understood him then, she wouldn't have been able to wound him so deeply.

But at that time, Mia Clarke had not yet learned how to love.

She remembered waking up that day, bracing herself with her left hand as she sat up. The moment she opened her eyes, she saw him.

Beautiful.

That was her only impression. He was devastatingly handsome—like the Islamic concept of the Zahir: something that is right in front of you, impossible to ignore, something that occupies the soul effortlessly.

He was sitting on a leather sofa, his posture languid, his expression bored. He held a hexagonal crystal glass of pure water, sipping it with a slow, methodical rhythm. When he saw her wake, a faint curve touched his lips—a display of pure, lethal temptation.

"Woke up?" he asked, his voice possessing a magnificent, velvety texture.

Mia nodded. She wanted to ask who he was, where she was, what this place was... but he didn't give her the chance to speak.

"Mia Clarke, right?"

Hearing her name in the mouth of a beautiful stranger sent a jolt of dread through her chest.

He spent a few minutes simply appreciating the look of pure innocence on her face. Then, as if he couldn't care less, he picked up a thick manila folder from the glass coffee table.

"Mia Clarke. Twenty-three years old," he began, his voice a low, clinical drawl. "Only daughter of the Clarke family. Cambridge graduate. Major in European Literature, minor in Western Philosophy. Academic record is flawless—recommended for advanced research, but forced to decline due to family... complications."

He flipped a page, his tone turning dark and playful.

"As for your private life... no smoking, no drinking, zero record of nightlife. No sexual experience. Social interaction with the opposite sex is effectively non-existent."

He looked up, appearing genuinely intrigued. "A believer in Plato, hmm? Growing up in this circle and still having zero sexual history... you're a rare creature, Mia".

He had investigated her. In a shockingly short amount of time, he had mapped out her entire existence. Mia stared at him, her eyes wide with shock, unable to decipher whether the man before her was black or white.

He smiled, dropping the clinical tone for a direct strike. "To put it simply: I'm interested in you".

"...Interested?!"

The word felt like a threat. Mia's pulse hammered. "What do you mean?".

He was patient. "My interest means I can pay your debts. I can solve every 'complication' your family left behind".

The realization hit her like a physical blow. She shook her head instinctively. "I'm sorry. I don't sell myself".

Damien laughed.

"Sell?" he repeated, his amusement sharp. "You didn't actually think I was interested in your body, did you?".

Mia went silent, the air leaving her lungs.

He took his time scanning her from head to toe. His gaze was clinical, critical, and entirely dismissing.

"It might be rude to say this to a girl," he murmured, his voice a slow, sexy rasp, "but I'll be direct. With a body this plain, and a woman who has no idea how to incite a man's desire... the idea of taking you to bed holds very little interest for me".

Mia was bewildered. "Then what...?".

Damien provided the answer with a casual flick of his wrist. "I have no interest in your flesh. But I have a great deal of interest in your person".

"..."

"Yes. I want you, Mia Clarke."

Before she could process the words, his long fingers slid a single sheet of paper across the glass table. Black ink on white paper. Mia looked down at the document and felt her world tilt.

"Marry me," he said, his tone devoid of fluff. "And the wreckage your parents left you becomes my problem to solve".

He stood up to leave, but stopped at the threshold.

"I'm not interested in keeping a mistress," he added, his voice low and precisely modulated. "If I want you by my side—as my woman—there is only one way. You become Mrs. Lancaster".

Mia remained frozen in shock as he pulled the door open.

"If you want to run, feel free," he called over his shoulder. "But I should warn you: for a man with my resources, finding a person is not a difficult task. I told you, I'm interested. I'm not playing games".

She watched him, her mind a blank slate of disbelief. "Who... who the hell are you?".

He smiled—a dazzling, blinding expression that made him look as if he were bathed in a halo of dark light. It was a look of pure, ruinous devotion. For a second, he seemed to soften. He walked back into the room, coming to a halt directly in front of her.

He dropped to one knee, kneeling before her like a subject before a queen. He reached out and stroked her pale cheek, his eyes filled with a tenderness that bordered on obsession.

"Damien," he whispered. "...I am Damien Lancaster".

"...I didn't understand it then," Mia said softly, bringing herself back to the present. "A marriage is a once-in-a-lifetime commitment. I couldn't understand how you could invite me to join your life so easily. I thought you were playing, or that you simply didn't care. Only later did I realize... you aren't the man I thought you were".

"I didn't understand where you found the courage two years ago to claim a woman you had just met. And two years later, I still didn't understand the extremes you were willing to go to," she continued, looking deep into his eyes. "I admit our moral codes are different. But we can talk, Damien. In the future... please don't be so extreme with yourself. Okay?".

Damien let out a soft, melodic laugh.

He looked at her as if she were a child. She was too pure—she didn't understand his world. He knew that once she truly saw the abyss inside him, she wouldn't stay to "talk." She would run as far and as fast as she could.

"I won't talk with you."

"Damien..."

She began to protest, but his voice arrived, low and clinical, cutting through her plea.

"...How can the cool wind make a pact with the dust?".

Mia froze.

She was the transparent, cool wind; he was the dust, stained by the blood and violence of the Syndicate.

Damien smiled. "Tell me, Mia. How are we supposed to talk?".

He suddenly coiled his arms around her, pulling her so tight against his chest it hurt. His voice was a low, ghost-quiet rasp in her ear.

"I know," he whispered, his devotion bleeding through the words. "I know all too well... if I'm not that extreme, I can't keep you".

Two years had passed, and only now did Mia realize the truth: A man really can lose his soul just to keep another person.

To hold onto her, Damien Lancaster had gambled his marriage first. And the second time, he had gambled his life.

He had seen it all from the beginning. He simply hadn't said it. He knew that the deeper he fell for her, the more he would lose his autonomy—his sovereignty over himself.

And yet, he had stepped into the abyss anyway. He hadn't even bothered to struggle.

Looking at him, Mia felt a wave of profound sorrow wash over her. Faced with a man like Damien, there was no longer any escape.