Julian was a ghost of his former self. At 3:00 AM, Kitten would kick him awake, demanding stories of the Great Resistance.

At midnight, she required a three-layer fruit sponge, hand-baked by a Lancaster heir or she wouldn't eat at all. By 6:00 AM, she was upright, demanding he supervise her watercolor sessions to "prevent abdominal cramps."

Julian's silhouette had thinned by ten kilograms in ninety days. He moved through the estate with a rhythmic, exhausted gait, catering to a girl who held his heir hostage with a smirk.

Behind his back, Kitten's laughter was a jagged, vengeful sound. That's for making me cry, Julian. That's for the lockdown. You won't survive these ten months.

In contrast, Damien's index of happiness was at a record high. Mia remained a "civilized" miracle—no midnight demands, no screaming, just a quiet, crystalline grace.

Witnessing Julian's systematic dismantling, Damien felt a rare surge of empathy. He coiled an arm around Mia one evening, his voice a low, rhythmic rasp. "Do you... do you want to hear a war story?"

Mia went entirely still for three minutes. She turned, placing a cool hand against Damien's forehead. "Are you burning up?"

Damien's jaw tightened. He was an idiot for trying to copy Kitten's brand of chaos. Mia Clarke was a woman who had memorized world history by age ten; she didn't need him to narrate the Resistance.

Pregnancy had changed one variable: Mia wanted Damien with her at all times. They moved through bookshops like a liquidation team. Mia would glance at a volume on prenatal care; Damien would buy the entire shelf without glancing at the price tags.

Store owners began to smile like blooming flowers the moment the Spyker C8 pulled to the curb. To Damien, these were not expenses; they were investments in Mia's softness.

"Take her shopping for a gown," Charles suggested, closing his laptop after a Syndicate briefing. "A girl's mood is linked to her wardrobe. It's basic psychological auditing."

Damien took the bait. He picked Mia up from the gallery and drove directly to a high-fashion flagship.

Mia emerged from the fitting room in a pale yellow silk gown. It was a "Luxury Noir" masterpiece—minimalist, elegant, and devastating.

Pregnancy had softened her angles, making her curves more lethal under the silk. She looked at her reflection with a rhythmic, shy hesitation. "Is it... does it look alright? I feel like I've gained weight."

Damien didn't answer. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his gaze a gray abyss of absolute occupation. A flame ignited in the pit of his stomach—the biological imperative of a predator in spring.

He stepped forward, his voice a jagged fracture of its usual silk. "It's perfect."

He reached out, his thumb tracing the satin ribbon at her waist. His pulse hit the redline. The scent of her skin—fresh, warm, and entirely Mia—was a systematic demolition of his self-control.

Damien slammed a titanium card onto the counter and didn't wait for the receipt. He gripped Mia's wrist, hauling her toward the Spyker with a rhythmic, predatory intent.

He threw her into the passenger seat and vaulted inside. The central locks clicked like a firing pin hitting an empty chamber. The tinted glass turned the interior into a tomb of dark desire.

He pulled her onto his lap, his hands searching for the hem of that yellow silk. His breath was hot against her mouth. "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting?"

Three months. A terminal abstinence for a man addicted to her anatomy.

Mia's breath hitched, her fingers digging into his shoulders. She didn't say no. She wanted to anchor herself to him, to feel the weight of his possession as a guarantee of his existence. "Be gentle..."

Damien's mouth curved into a beautiful, terrifying smile. He leaned in to claim her.

The car's Bluetooth system suddenly screamed.

Alistair's

voice exploded through the speakers, frantic and clinical. "Damien! Don't you dare! I'm reminding you for the tenth time—zero activity during this trimester! She is too weak! Her system is fragile! For the sake of the heir, stand down!

Stand. Down.

"

The silence that followed was terminal.

Damien sat motionless, his forehead resting against Mia's neck. His knuckles were white against the leather. The Sovereign had been liquidated by a voice mail.

Miles away, Alistair was doubled over in a fit of ecstatic laughter. "I've spent three years being threatened by that monster! Finally! Ten months of blue-balls for the King!"

He turned to Charles, his eyes wet with relief. "Charles, you're a genius. That 'medical warning' was the perfect strike."

Charles leaned back, his expression a mask of elegant, "dog-like" satisfaction. He adjusted his cufflinks, a shark-like grin spreading across his face.

"That's what he gets for abandoning a five-billion-dollar negotiation to go dress-shopping," Charles drawled. "If I have to stay in the office, the Sovereign stays in the freezer."