Damien Lancaster was a man of absolute power, but he usually wore it with a bored, languid indifference. His expression was often sultry and soft, yet those who knew him felt a sub-zero chill the moment he entered a room.

But when the Sovereign played for keeps, his word was final. He had decided this gallery needed to cease to exist. He wanted it leveled to the dust. His men didn't hesitate; a command from the Lancaster blood was a biological imperative for the Syndicate. The moment he gave the order, they began to move.

The Director of the Time City Gallery was frantic. "Wait! You—you can't—"

Gideon Vance clamped a hand over the man's mouth, silencing him instantly. There was no explanation. Gideon simply handed the Director over to a pair of enforcers and gestured for them to drag him out. No one knew what happened when someone triggered Damien's temper, and no one was brave enough to find out.

Just as the Director was being hauled away, his heart hammering in his chest, the heavy oak doors were thrown open. A man strode into the hall, his pace hurried.

"Wait!"

The newcomer walked straight up to Damien. He met the Sovereign's eyes with a look that was both helpless and complex.

"You can't do this."

In this world, there was only one man with the courage to stop Damien. It was, of course, Julian.

Damien was already consumed by a quiet, white-hot fury. Seeing his brother arrive to publicly oppose him caused his rage to boil over. He offered a smile that held zero warmth, his voice sharpening into a lethal edge.

"Since when do you get a vote on what I do?!"

Julian's poise was superhuman. Even under the weight of Damien's unreasonable pressure, he didn't allow a single spark of anger to ignite. He stared at Damien for a full minute before he finally spoke.

"Mia is gone. I carry the weight of that responsibility," Julian said, his voice steady. "If you need an outlet for your rage, take it out on me." He pulled two sets of keys from his suit pocket and held them out to his brother. "My company. My home. If you're interested, smash them. Burn them to the ground. I won't haggle with you."

Damien didn't take the keys. He stared at Julian with a clinical, mocking coldness. "You think I won't?"

"There is nothing you won't do, Damien," Julian replied, his tone gentle and unyielding. "I've lived with you for twenty years. I know exactly who you are. I'm not interested in playing games with you."

Julian reached out and shoved the keys into Damien's suit pocket. "I understand your mood. I won't interfere with your grief. But you cannot touch this gallery. If you raze this place today, how is Mia supposed to face the world when she returns?"

The name "Mia" hit the exact pressure point in Damien's armor.

He didn't say the demolition was off, but he didn't say it was on. The enforcers stood like statues, terrified to make a sound. Even Gideon didn't dare ask for clarification.

Only Julian knew what to do. He turned and gave Gideon a brief, quiet series of instructions, signaling the crew to stand down. He knew Damien's heart had softened; he just knew his brother would never admit it. Gideon nodded and led the men out.

Julian, always the master of propriety, walked over to the Director. He offered a polite, measured bow. "I apologize for the disturbance. I'm speaking for my brother. He meant no harm."

The Director wasn't just terrified; he was horrified.

"No harm?!" the man sputtered, staring at Julian as if he were insane. "The man was seconds away from turning this entire building into a parking lot! And you say he meant no harm?!"

Julian nodded, his voice dropping into a soft, terrifying rasp as he leaned in.

"Believe me... he truly meant no harm," Julian whispered. "If he had intended harm, the floor would be a river of blood by now."

The Director went silent.

Julian proved exactly why he was the Lancaster Syndicate's master of crisis management. He moved with a flexibility that the Sovereign lacked, settling the volatile energy in the room with a lethal, polished grace that ensured no one walked away feeling truly slighted—only deeply intimidated.

The Director watched as the younger Lancaster brother reached into his charcoal suit, retrieving a fountain pen and a leather-bound checkbook with a slow, rhythmic composure. Julian wrote a figure with a staggering number of zeros, his signature a sharp, architectural stroke that carried the weight of an empire.

He capped the pen and held the check out to the Director.

"A small gesture," Julian murmured. "Please accept it as compensation for the... inconveniences of the evening."

The Director's eyes bulged at the amount. His hands began to shake. "No... no, I couldn't," he stammered, his survival instinct screaming that taking money from these men was equivalent to signing his own death warrant.

Julian offered a faint, clinical smile. He wasn't the type to accept a 'no' from a civilian. He pressed the paper into the Director's numb fingers.

"I have a favor to ask. A matter of business."

"Anything," the Director gasped.

"Keep the events of today between us. Mia will be returning to her position here, and I don't want her burdened by the details of how we spent our afternoon."

"I... I understand." The Director swallowed hard, but Julian wasn't finished.

"Because," Julian continued, his voice dropping into a register that felt like a razor against the throat, "if you find you can't manage that simple discretion..."

The Director's blood pressure spiked. "Will you... will you level the building after all?"

Julian let out a short, genuine laugh. "Rest assured, I won't do that. However," he added, his tone turning remarkably sincere, "bankrupting this institution and ensuring you never work in the arts again is a task I could handle before dinner."

The Director went pale. Julian Lancaster was clearly no saint.

Julian had just finished the cleanup and was turning to persuade Damien to leave when a silhouette tore through the gallery doors.

Julian's heart sank.

Kitten. She was never one for obedience.

Earlier, Alistair had stormed into Julian's residence, shouting like a madman that Mia had vanished. Kitten had instantly bolted, and Julian had been forced to physically restrain her, locking her in the bedroom to keep her away from the Sovereign's path. He hadn't anticipated that her ability to escape confinement had improved so drastically over the years.

The enforcers at the door hadn't dared to stop Julian's woman. She practically flew into the hall, her presence a chaotic, vibrant flame in the cold, "Luxury Noir" stillness of the room.

The moment Julian saw her expression, a single word flashed in his mind: Disaster.

Before he could intercept her, Kitten's voice rang out, sharp and blunt.

"Was she snatched?! Was she kidnapped?!"

The air in the gallery turned to liquid nitrogen. Julian felt his pulse hit a historic high. Before he could even blink, Damien had moved.

The Sovereign's hand clamped onto Kitten's right wrist. He didn't just grab her; he ground his knuckles into her skin with a force that threatened to shatter the bone. His face was a mask of absolute, terrifying focus.

"Say that again," Damien whispered, his voice a low, clinical rasp that made the floor seem to vibrate. "Every word."