The mahogany door to the master suite finally clicked open.

Damien and four-year-old Tristan stood face-to-face, both arching a single eyebrow with identical, soul-crushing arrogance. Tristan possessed a face so devastatingly handsome it bordered on a public hazard—a miniature Sovereign in the making. Despite the height difference, the boy held his ground with a clinical calm.

"Good morning, Papa."

Damien's jaw tightened. He had hoped the child would throw a tantrum, giving him a "civilized" excuse to banish him to the nursery. Instead, Tristan was operating with a standard of etiquette that left Damien zero margin for a liquidation.

Damien cut his eyes toward Thorne and the maids standing in the corridor. "I thought I gave orders to keep him contained."

Thorne wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. "He's been up since five, sir. We did our best."

Tristan tilted his chin up, his expression a mask of Lancaster pride. "I waited outside for over an hour, Papa. I was giving you face."

"Mia," Damien called out, his voice a low rasp.

"Tristan," Mia's voice drifted from the bed. "Come here."

The boy's "Sovereign" mask liquidated instantly. He sprinted into the room and scrambled onto the black silk sheets, burying his face in Mia's neck. "I missed you all night, Mama. I love you."

Damien's mouth twitched. It had taken him three years of systematic obsession to utter those words to her. This little monster said them three times a day without a shred of psychological resistance. He had become a master of tactical seduction.

Mia was so accustomed to Tristan's barrage of affection that Damien's own rare, intense declarations had lost their impact. She would just push his shoulder and laugh, telling him he was starting to sound exactly like his son.

Mia kissed Tristan's cheek. "Mama loves you too."

Tristan began fussing with the duvet, his movements rhythmic and careful. "It's cold, Mama. The temperature variance at dawn is a systematic risk to the health."

Damien reached the bedside and grabbed the boy by the collar of his silk pajamas, hauling him up like a stray kitten. "She's sleeping. Stop the siege."

"I'll sleep with her," Tristan countered, his eyes narrowing with a tactical focus. "I rose early. I require a secondary rest."

Damien didn't engage. He began carrying the boy toward the exit. Tristan struggled, his heel accidentally catching Mia's hip—the exact spot where the bruises of Damien's "raw carnality" from the night before were still angry and violet.

Mia winced, her brow furrowing with a sharp, localized pain.

Damien's expression plummeted into a sub-zero chill. Tristan froze, sensing the predatory shift in the room. He had been "father-scared" since the cradle, and he knew when a liquidation was imminent.

"Tristan, go eat breakfast," Mia intervened softly, pulling the child into a brief, protective embrace. "I'll join you in a moment."

The boy nodded, cast a wary glance at Damien, and vanished through the door.

Mia turned to her husband. "You're unreasonable. You're the one who hurt me last night, yet you blame the child."

Damien leaned over her, his thumb tracing the curve of her hip where the skin was tender. "Where does it hurt exactly?"

Mia flushed a feverish pink and pushed his hand away. "Stop. I'm taking a shower."

Damien's gaze went heavy with a familiar, dark intent. He decided the five-billion-dollar negotiation in the study could wait. "A morning shower. Splendid idea."

It was noon by the time they descended the stairs. Tristan sat at the dining table, his face a picture of stoic disappointment.

"You said a 'moment,' Mama. I made you a heart-shaped egg. It's been three hours and forty-five minutes."

Mia felt a jagged surge of shame. She used to have an iron self-control, but lately, one touch from Damien was enough to liquidate her entire will.

Damien sat on the sofa and pulled Tristan onto his lap, his patience replenished by his luxury morning. "What are you reading?"

"Ancient Greek Ethics."

"Do you follow it?"

"No," Tristan admitted, looking wounded. "But Mama reads it like it's a fairy tale."

Damien smiled, a rare, genuine expression. He remembered Mia telling the boy that wisdom, in its etymological root, meant "to preserve light." She taught him that the most complex empires began with a simple, pure intent.

"Don't compare yourself to her," Damien murmured, stroking the boy's hair. "Your mother occupies a level of grace that is unique in this world."

That evening, the estate gardens were a vault of amber lights and Christmas cedar. Damien lifted Tristan so the boy could secure a diamond-encrusted star to the top of the tree.

Mia watched them, her fingers tracing the dark, polished jade on her neck. It had developed the "aura"—the soul that comes from being loved.

She felt Damien's arms coil around her waist from behind. "What are you thinking about?"

"Tristan," she whispered. "And London. There's a Cambridge reunion after the New Year. I want to go."

Damien's grip tightened. "I'll take you."

"And if Tristan wants to come?"

"He stays with Charles."

"And if I see Timothy?" Mia asked, a faint, playful light in her eyes.

The atmospheric pressure in the garden dropped to sub-zero. "I will be extremely unhappy."

"Damien..."

"I won't stop you," he rasped, burying his face in her hair. "But I won't pretend to like it."

Mia turned in his arms, her gray eyes vast and shimmering. "Meeting you... it was the only thing that ever mattered."

Damien finally smiled—a vivid, terrifying beauty. "Me too, Mia."