It was common knowledge that Damien's background was as vast as it was lethal, and given his lifelong history with Alistair, the hospital staff was always ordered to provide nothing short of perfection whenever he was present.

Early that morning, a hospital assistant noticed that Janice had regained consciousness. Seeing that Damien was still in the suite, the assistant hurriedly wheeled in a cart of exquisite pastries and milk, terrified of neglecting such distinguished guests.

"Master, Miss Janice," the assistant murmured with a low bow, "breakfast is served."

Janice, who had just finished a heated confrontation with Damien, glanced at the spread and gave a dismissive wave. "No, thank you."

The assistant looked panicked. "Is it not to your taste, Miss?"

"I'm an omnivore; I'll eat anything," Janice said, jerking her chin toward Damien with a sharp, mocking smirk. "It's the Sovereign you have to worry about."

Damien remained sunk into the leather sofa, his expression languid and bored. He offered no explanation, seemingly indifferent to how his cold aura might terrify the staff.

Janice, possessing a stray spark of kindness, turned to the trembling assistant. "He has severe lactose intolerance. He doesn't touch milk or anything containing it."

The assistant's eyes went wide. "But... lately, Master has been eating the pastries brought in by Madam every single day..."

Janice let out a sudden, jagged laugh. Her expression turned crafty. "Ah, I see. How could he possibly refuse the treats made by Mia? What if he broke his precious wife's heart? I bet he not only eats them but has strictly forbidden Alistair or Julian from mentioning his allergy. Tell me, Damien, are you having them help you finish the leftovers? I remember you used to break out in hives if you even smelled milk."

"Have you said enough?" Damien's voice arrived, low and clinical.

Janice grinned, her eyes searching his for a crack in the ivory mask. "I never would have guessed it. You're actually... quite the devoted husband."

Damien finally looked up, his pale gray eyes scanning her with a lethal indifference. "If you've said enough, shut your mouth."

Janice held up her hands in mock surrender. "Fine. My mistake."

The assistant hurriedly wheeled the cart out, returning with glasses of purified water and a dairy-free breakfast. Janice watched the glasses of water, her lips curling. On a whim, she lined up four identical crystal glasses and gave the assistant a knowing wink. "These represent purified, mineral, natural, and sparkling water. Can you guess which one he'll take?"

The assistant was on the verge of a professional breakdown. Janice picked up the purified water and slid it toward Damien. "Drink up. We all know you only touch the purified one."

Damien remained recessed in the sofa, watching her with dark, analytical interest. "Investigating me? Is this a professional hazard for a prosecutor?"

"With my resources, digging into your private life is a fantasy," Janice shrugged. "But I've known you since I was seventeen. It's been nine years. If I couldn't see these details by now, I'd have no business at the Prosecutor's Office."

Damien didn't touch the food. "Get out," he said to the assistant.

The moment the door clicked shut, his sharp gaze locked onto Janice. "Do you know why I've stayed here this long?"

"Certainly not because you're worried about me," Janice countered.

Damien picked up a file and hurled it onto her lap. "I'm going to be clear," he murmured, leaning forward until his presence occupied her entire field of vision. "Syndicate business has nothing to do with you. If you get hurt again trying to interfere in this house, your life or death will be of zero consequence to me. If last night happens again, I will not save you.".

His sharp, beautiful face held not a single trace of pity. Janice realized that for the woman he didn't love, he was a wall of stone—a thin, lethal blade that could wound a soul without trying.

"One last question," Janice whispered. "Years ago, you told me a girl shouldn't carry scars. Was there even a tiny bit of real concern in your heart then?"

"No.".

Mia took the day off. She sent a text to Damien, telling him she was at an orphanage with the gallery director and wouldn't be home until late. Damien's reply was instantaneous:

"Fine. Call me if anything happens. I'll come get you."

.

Mia turned her phone off. She needed one day of isolation to forget everything she had seen in the sterile light of that hospital dawn. She took a bus to the outskirts, walking familiar country paths until she reached a small, old church. This had been her sanctuary years ago, before she met Damien.

She spent two hours staring at an oil painting on the church wall entitled

Original Sin

. The painting depicted a nude woman sinking into a swamp, entangled by snakes.

"Envy?" a priest's voice sounded behind her.

Mia turned slightly, offering a faint, tired smile. "Jealousy."

"Mia, you are the last girl I would associate with jealousy," the priest noted.

"The Bible says jealousy is an original sin," Mia whispered, her voice flowing like water. "When I was a child, I told myself I would never let that happen. But today, I discovered I can't control it. On the night of my birthday, I waited all night for someone. But he was with someone else. He even lied to me."

"So, you are angry?"

"Angry, sad, aggrieved... all of it," she whispered. "I almost cried. But I still forgive him."

"You are a good woman."

"No," she shook her head. "I forgive him because later, I heard another version of the story."

Mia offered a small, knowing smile and began to speak of the night the "beautiful monster" had first claimed her.

"There is another version of this story," Mia whispered, her voice a thin thread in the vast, echoing silence of the church. "It's about a girl who came from a powerful family, a lineage of old money and heavier expectations. But she was stubborn. She fought her entire bloodline just to have a life that belonged to her. She wanted a dream that wasn't dictated by her last name."

The priest offered a small, appreciative smile. "A brave soul."

Mia nodded slowly. "She should have had a beautiful life. But when she was seventeen, she looked at a man, and she never looked away. The problem was... the Sovereign never loved her back."

The priest's expression shifted into a quiet understanding. "And he never will, will he?"

"No," Mia said, her gaze fixed on the teal swamp of the painting. "He doesn't love her, and she doesn't demand it. Instead, she stays in the shadows and memorizes him. She knows he has severe lactose intolerance, that even a drop of milk is a toxin to him. She knows his clinical, meticulous preference for purified water over anything else. Things even the man's wife doesn't know, she understands in her marrow. She spent nine years deciphering a man who refuses to let her near him. She used every ounce of her heart just to learn his habits from a distance."

Mia remembered standing outside the VIP hospital suite that morning. She had watched the other woman's face through the glass, and in that moment, the truth was a physical weight. That woman truly loved him. Perhaps she loved him more than Mia ever could.

If she didn't, her expression wouldn't have been so shattered.

The Sovereign controlled the entire climate of that woman's life. He was her joy and her sorrow, her light and her abyss, her sanctuary and her executioner. Mia wondered how much courage it took to endure nearly a decade of his indifference. How did one survive being dismissed by a man like that every single day?

The priest looked surprised. "You mean to say the wife... didn't know these details?"

"The wife is useless," Mia said, a bitter, self-aware smile touching her lips. "She was raised to be agreeable, a quiet survivor who always followed her parents' orders. When they died and she met him, she simply traded one cage for another. She listens to him because she doesn't know how to do anything else. She spends her days buried in books that have zero practical value—just entertainment to pass the time in her gilded room. She tells herself she loves him, but it's all words. She didn't even know he couldn't touch dairy. She made him pastries with heavy cream and then pouted when he didn't eat them, forcing a man who weaponizes control to lie to her just to protect her 'peace.'"

The priest understood then. He reached out, his hand hovering near her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "Mia..."

She lowered her head, a broken, jagged sob escaping her throat. She sounded like a wounded animal.

"I can't go back," she choked out. "How am I supposed to go back to this house after seeing that? He lied to me. He broke his word on my birthday. He spent the night with another woman. But now that I know the truth... I don't even have the right to be jealous. I don't even have a reason to be angry. Gideon was right. For a man like him, she really is the better choice."

Finally, Mia Clarke collapsed inward, her spine curving as she wept, the tears hitting the cold stone floor in a rhythmic, hopeless pattern.