Oaklen's jaw tightened ever so slightly as he looked through the documents. Lily, on the other hand, reached out and placed a hand gently over Acheron's. Her touch was light, but grounding.
Eamon waited for a moment, letting the family absorb the gravity of the evidence laid before them. Then, with a smooth motion, he reached for a new folder.
"Now that the DNA results and surveillance footage have been logged, we move into a more active phase of the pre-trial process."
He opened the folder and pulled out a printed schedule, neatly annotated.
"First, the preliminary hearing. This is where we'll formally present the case to the judge. It's mostly procedural, establishing that we have sufficient evidence to move to trial. You will not need to testify yet, Acheron, but your presence is required."
Acheron gave a small nod, his fingers still lightly brushing the chip he carried in his pocket.
"Next, depositions," Eamon continued. "This is one of the more emotionally demanding steps. You, your father, your brother, and other witnesses will give sworn statements in a formal setting. The Blackwells' lawyers will be allowed to cross-examine you."
At this, Oaklen stiffened."Is there a chance they'll try to twist his words?" he asked, voice clipped.
"They will try," Eamon said plainly. "But we'll prepare for that."
He turned back to Acheron, softening his tone again.
"In the coming weeks, we'll start mock sessions. I'll ask you questions, and then we'll go over possible lines of attack from the defence. This will help you stay steady and safe in the room, even if they try to rattle you."
"Okay," Acheron said, voice quiet but firm.
"There will be days when it feels unbearable," Eamon added, his eyes locking with Acheron's again. "But you don't need to carry this alone. You'll have legal support, and if you allow it, emotional support, too."
Acheron blinked once, the offer lingering like a thread in the air. He said nothing, but the silence didn't feel like refusal.
"Lastly," Eamon said, sliding a thinner file across the table, "we are filing a protective order against the Blackwells. This will legally prohibit them or their associates from making contact with you or attempting to intimidate witnesses. If you've noticed anything suspicious, anyone watching, messaging, or lingering, you must tell me immediately."
"They've already tried to silence him once," Lily murmured, her voice like a steel blade, sharp and striking.
"I know," Eamon said. "They can keep trying, but they won't get near him."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"Once depositions are complete, the court will set a trial date. We'll keep you updated every step of the way. Until then, continue attending your meetings. Keep showing up for yourself. It's helping."
Acheron's lips parted slightly at the last comment, surprised by the personal nature of it. He wasn't sure how Eamon knew, whether someone had told him or if he had just seen it.
He decided not to ask. Instead, he just nodded his head.
"I will."
"One last thing," Eamon said, reaching for his laptop. "Our private investigator intercepted a series of photos sent to a few marketing accounts." He opened a folder on his laptop and turned the screen toward the couch where the Desrosiers sat. Acheron leaned in slightly, Oaklen and Lily flanking him on either side.
Displayed on the screen were several photos of Acheron walking alongside the campus tour guide, exchanging what appeared to be casual conversation, even a laugh. The setting was unmistakably from the recent university visit.
Confusion flickered across Lily's face. Oaklen leaned forward, frowning.
"The photographer's intent," Eamon continued, "was to circulate these with the implication that the victim Omega—you—has been flirting, leading on multiple Alphas. They want to plant doubt. Suggest you're calling wolf."
Acheron's eyes widened. His fingers clenched into the fabric of his trousers. The blood drained from his face. He had always known that Hadeon and his family would fight, but having him watch and follow, twisting his image and destroying everything he is fighting for. His stomach flopped; he felt violated… once again.
Eamon's jaw was tight, his voice low. "This is clearly the Blackwells' handiwork. They're testing the waters, trying to discredit you by manipulating the public. This is just the start."
He noticed Acheron's silent stillness, the way his shoulders locked, the slight tremble in his fingers. Without a word, Eamon reached for one of the prepared water bottles. By the time it reached Acheron's hands, the cap was already off.
"Drink slowly," he murmured.
Acheron obeyed, sipping quietly, trying to swallow down the nausea.
Eamon waited until he'd steadied, then gently pivoted back to the strategy.
"The best way to handle this," Eamon said, "is to take control of the narrative. Post the photos yourself. Thank the university for the tour and for the scholarship they've awarded you. And, this is important, include some photos of your art. That'll redirect attention from you to your work and education. Let the focus shift to your future."
Oaklen's brows lifted, his expression turning impressed. "Tipping the script."
"Exactly," Eamon replied, leaning back slightly, his tone proud but measured. "If you're comfortable with this, we'll work with your PR liaison to polish the post and time it strategically. But we won't do anything without your permission."
The room went quiet for a moment.
"Sure," Acheron said, voice firm, unwavering.
Everyone looked at him. Surprised at the strength in his voice.
Eamon smiled in a quiet, assured manner. Approval gleamed in his eyes, but he offered no patronising praise.
"Good," he said simply. "We'll begin drafting the post this evening."
The rest of the meeting went smoothly. Despite the heavy subjects, there was a rhythm to it. The flow of Eamon's calm voice, the methodical laying out of facts, all accumulate to the mutual sense of progress.
The sun had already dipped behind the skyline when they finally wrapped up. Eamon offered to escort the Desrosiers to their car, and none of them refused. The firm was quiet now, staff mostly all gone, their footsteps echoing in the marbled halls.
At some point, Lily and Oaklen walked a few paces ahead, lost in quiet conversation. Their voices were muffled, their presence drifting just far enough that Acheron and Eamon were left walking side by side.
That was when he noticed it. Acheron's nose caught Eamon's scent, faint but unmistakable. The electric burn of a lightning strike during a storm had found him again. It was subtle, less potent than it had been in the hospital, but still faintly there. Warm and grounding, like clean stormwind. Just like before, it reached for him not in a domineering way, but in something that felt dangerously close to… safety. It felt too comfortable.
Something within him ached at the memory. He had craved that warmth once in the dark. Now it returned with its own will, and to his surprise, he not only needed it but also wanted it.
His cheeks flushed before he could stop it. A slow heat burned its way up his neck, colouring the tips of his ears. Embarrassed by the sudden pull, Acheron tried to will it away, but he was too aware of the nearness between them. Of the steadiness in Eamon's steps. Of the raw awareness thrumming beneath the quiet.
Eamon glanced sideways and caught the redness blooming across Acheron's face. His lips twitched just the ghost of a smirk, and his thoughts wandered briefly, teasingly.
I should turn down the heating in the office next time.
No words were exchanged, but something passed between them nonetheless. When they reached the waiting car, Eamon moved ahead to open the door for Acheron. He stepped aside with quiet formality, letting the Omega slip into the plush interior.
Eamon didn't close the door behind him.
For a breath, they both lingered, neither of them quite willing to sever the connection. Their eyes locked, held there by something they didn't name, something magnetic and unspoken. Not desire exactly… not yet. But the early echo of something being born. Something that tethered.
Eamon's hand flexed against the doorframe.
After a few pauses, slowly, he made the first move. He reached out and closed the door gently, the soft click sounding louder than it should.
He turned without another word and walked away.
With every step back toward his office, something inside him hollowed slightly. As if he'd left something behind in the car. Or maybe, something had just begun to root itself deep in his chest...and was already missing its other half.
Once home, Eron wasted no time retreating into his room. The air inside felt still, familiar, as if nothing in the world had changed...yet everything had. He quietly went about tidying up, the last few remaining evidence from last night. He finished folding the corner of his blanket, placing a stray mug back on his shelf, and adjusting a crooked photo on his desk. There was comfort in these small actions. Most of his things were still intact. Untouched and safe.
He stopped in front of his easel, which stood by the large window that looked out into the vast garden below. The light outside had dimmed into that soft blue that sat between evening and night. He placed the small chip right beside his brushes. Its presence calmed him and grounded him.
Without planning, without sketches or expectations, Eron reached for a brush.
He let his hand move instinctively, dragging soft strokes of paint across the blank canvas. There was no image in his mind, no intent behind his movements. He simply allowed the colours to speak, his brush curving and twisting, tracing the emotions he couldn't quite name.
Orange-gold swept across the top, vibrant and warm. Seafoam green rose from the bottom like a wave, meeting the gold at the centre. The two colours blended in spirals and tendrils, bleeding into each other, undefined yet inexplicably harmonious. An abstract birth of feeling, not memory, not pain, not hope, but all of them tangled in pigment.
Eron immersed himself in this new experience. He had avoided painting abstract, finding it too obscure, but tonight it had gifted him a sense of freedom. For the first time in a long time, he wasn't painting to escape or to remember. He was simply… painting.
Acheron leaned into it. The silence around him wasn't heavy for once; it was peaceful. The chip shimmered faintly in the soft glow of his desk lamp, and he imagined the faint scent of storm-washed cedar lingering in the air. His thoughts drifted, not unpleasantly, back to the way Eamon had looked at him. That moment of stillness at the car door. That was something that had passed between them.
The buzz of his phone snapped the moment in half. It vibrated once on the small table beside him, the screen lighting up with the kind of simplicity that felt too casual for what followed.
Unknown Number
"Missing you, my Love."
The world didn't stop spinning, but Eron did.
The warmth in his chest drained in an instant, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. His hands trembled as he stared at the screen, barely able to keep hold of the phone that now weighed heavily, like stone.
The paintbrush slipped from his fingers and rolled across the floor. The soft hum of his room, once serene, now seemed to throb with tension.
His throat tightened. The words burned into the screen like a brand.
He didn't have to guess who it was.
The past had found a way in.
Again.