For the past two years, the rhythm of life between Damien Lancaster and Mia Clarke had existed in a perpetual, oscillating loop: The Devotion Phase — The Friction Phase — The Devotion Phase.

Most of this was Mia's doing.

To describe Mia's personality with a positive slant, one would call her "gentle." On a darker note, she was "systematically quiet." In a marriage where two people share the same air, the same meals, and the same bed, friction is a mathematical certainty. Yet, every time a spark of conflict ignited between them, Mia's reaction was always the same: absolute stillness.

She followed her routines with a clinical precision—reading, eating, sleeping. Even when Damien was radiating a sub-zero malice, she remained unruffled. She would knot his tie in the morning with a steady hand; she would call him in the evening to ask if he was returning for dinner as if the world weren't on fire.

After a few days of this "languid stillness," Damien was always the one to break first. Her refusal to engage would ignite a nameless fury in him, a rage that eventually devolved into a single, predatory instinct: Drag her back to the nest and consume her.

Once he had taken possession of her in the marriage bed, his frustration would dissipate into the silk sheets. For a man like Damien, once his desire was sated, the world aligned again. The Friction Phase would end, and they would slide back into the warmth of Devotion.

But this time was different.

After Damien's "Luxury Noir" brand of cruelty at the church, Mia hadn't retreated into her usual silence. She had actually cried.

To Damien, this was a massive leap forward. While he murmured "I'm sorry, Mia," against her skin, his internal state was one of dark exhilaration. To him, her tears were a milestone—an acknowledgement. It was a turning point where their relationship had taken a violent stride toward a deeper, more unstable intimacy.

Driven by this surge of "positive" energy, Damien became exceptionally affectionate during the ensuing honeymoon phase. He even experienced a rare flicker of a conscience regarding Kitten. Remembering that he had physically bruised her during his panic, the Sovereign decided to play the role of the protective hero and offer a formal apology.

Naturally, the call wasn't made to Kitten.

Damien was a master of human psychology; he knew Kitten was a "chaotic flame" who likely wouldn't hold a grudge. The person he needed to address was Julian.

In this world, Julian Lancaster was the only man who viewed "Damien bruising Kitten" with the same gravity as a declaration of war.

One afternoon, Damien made two consecutive calls to Julian's office. He kept the invitation simple: Come out for a drink.

Predictably, Julian's voice arrived from the other end of the line with a cold, clinical brevity. "Busy."

Then he hung up.

Damien studied the disconnected screen with a faint, amused smile. It was clear: the Golden Son of the Lancaster family was throwing a tantrum.

Gideon Vance, standing by the desk, whispered cautiously, "Master Julian sounds... provoked. Should I head over there and smooth things over?"

"No need."

Damien set the phone down with a slow, rhythmic composure. "Julian is the type who needs to be coaxed. You can't use iron with him; you have to use silk."

Gideon was right—Julian was consumed by a quiet, white-hot fury.

In fairness to Damien, the situation was a bit of a misunderstanding. Damien had indeed gripped Kitten's wrist, and he had indeed caused a bruise. But Kitten was a woman of "savage" resilience. To her, a bruised wrist was a footnote; she had survived far worse in her days as an undercover reporter.

True to form, Kitten didn't give the injury a second thought. Shouting slogans about her contribution to the "truth," she had plunged back into the front lines of her latest ambush assignment. After a new round of "rough and tumble" reporting, the original bruise had combined with a fresh injury.

By the time Julian saw it, her right wrist was swollen into a round, angry "meat bun" that rivaled a cartoon character's.

Julian had panicked, hauling her to the hospital instantly.

The hospital, however, was not a place of peace. It was the domain of Dr. Alistair Sterling, a man who thrived on chaos. Seeing Julian's frantic expression, the doctor decided to ham it up.

Throughout the examination, Alistair used an array of tragic facial expressions and heavy sighs. Every few minutes, he would mutter darkly, "This injury... it's going to be very difficult to manage..."

Combined with Kitten's soul-shattering wails when she saw the needle for her injection, the experience was a systematic torture of Julian's internal organs.

In his protective rage, Julian shifted the entire debt of Kitten's suffering onto Damien's head.

You might be comfortable laying a hand on her, but I'm not, Julian thought, his resolve hardening. You don't value her, but to me, she is a treasure.

Damien, however, possessed a predator's patience.

Despite Julian's repeated rejections, Damien called every single day with the same offer of a drink. Julian began to wonder if his "beautiful monster" of a brother had undergone a personality transplant. Where was the usual frost? Where was the arrogance?

Eventually, Julian's manners got the better of him. During a call, he muttered, "Next time. My treat."

Damien snapped the trap shut instantly. "Splendid. Tomorrow, then."

Julian hung up, gritting his teeth. Is the man a foreigner? Does he not understand that when a Chinese man says 'next time,' he means 'never'?

Julian didn't give the meeting another thought. Which is why, the following afternoon, he committed the greatest professional error of his life.

That afternoon, Kitten "flew" into Julian's corporate headquarters.

She wasn't there for a romantic visit. For a girl who loved the wild outdoors, the only reason Kitten would willingly enter a skyscraper was simple: it was the end of the month. She had lent out her paycheck, spent her savings, and was currently... destitute.

Kitten approached every task with a focus on "Force and Beauty." Even when asking for a handout, she had standards. Pouting and saying, "Hubby, please sponsor me," was beneath her "Revolutionary" aesthetic.

Her plan was systematic:

Enter the office. Engage Julian in a "heart-to-heart." The topic didn't matter; the goal was to pull his focus away from the Syndicate's routing manifests. Liquidate his resolve.

Julian's moral code had one glaring vulnerability, and it was Kitten. For the first ten minutes, he tried to remain a professional, buried in his work. But ten minutes later, his self-control began to fray.

He reached out, snatching her waist and hauling her onto the mahogany desk. His fingers began to move over her with a slow, predatory rhythm.

"You're quite proactive today, hmm?"

Kitten didn't argue. She just offered a dazzling, uninhibited grin. For a fresh injection of capital, a little sacrifice of the flesh was a fair trade.

Julian leaned in to possess her mouth, his hand sliding to the waistband of her trousers. As he fumbled with the button, he felt something in her pocket. He pulled it out: a thin, entirely empty wallet.

Julian paused, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips. "Running low?"

Given her talent for causing disasters and "distributing wealth," he knew she'd be tight by the month's end.

Kitten blinked her wide, dark eyes at him. "Not enough for you to... subsidize?"

"..."

God damn it, Julian thought. She's too cute.

His logic vanished. He ripped her trousers away and shoved her sweater up, pinning her against the desk.

"I'll subsidize it," he whispered, his voice a low, seductive lure as he reached beneath her silk underwear. "Whatever the amount... I'll cover the debt."

Just as the "pre-game" heat in the office reached its peak, the internal line began to buzz. Julian, operating on pure instinct, snatched the receiver.

"Yeah...?"

His voice was thick with "Luxury Noir" sensuality—a low, rhythmic rasp that felt like velvet and fire.

On the other end of the line, the assistant froze. The sound was so raw, so uninhibitedly sexual, that the assistant dropped the phone with a heavy clatter.

Julian's focus cleared instantly. "Who is this? This is Julian Lancaster!"

"Mr... Mr. Lancaster... someone is here to see you..."

"I'm busy. Tell them to wait."

Julian slammed the phone back onto the cradle. He didn't care who it was; if he stopped now, he'd spontaneously combust.

Kitten's breathing was already a fractured mess. Julian lifted her, seating her firmly on the desk and burying his face in her chest. He realized then that this desk was a sound investment—it was large, sturdy, and Kitten was petite enough that their "business" didn't even disturb the files.

He pulled her hands down to his zipper, his voice a low, breathless invitation. "Let's do it. Now."

Kitten let out a small, muffled sound of surrender, her eyes shimmering with a feverish light.

Julian laughed, a dark, triumphant sound. "I'll take that as a yes."

In one fluid motion, he hooked his fingers into the silk of her panties and tore them away.

At that exact heartbeat, a series of rhythmic, highly "punchable" knocks sounded at the office door.