Stella pulled a chair from the corner and slid it up to Eamon's desk, her laptop tucked under one arm. Behind the oversized frames perched on her nose, her black eyes were sharp and assessing.
If the Sauveterre Law Firm had a skeleton key to the digital world, Stella was it. She could erase you from the grid in under an hour or build a spotless identity out of thin air. She knew exactly which sparks to fan to make a rumour explode, and which wires to cut to snuff one out. As a bonus, her mouth was always blunt and often lethal, having left more than one boardroom in stunned silence.
"You look like death," she said, settling in without so much as a greeting.
"Thank you," Eamon replied dryly, "and you look like a goddess, as always."
"The one and only." She gave a little snort, already flipping open her laptop. "But seriously—what's wrong with you?"
"Just got off a call with my dad."
"Aah, I see. Pretty boy got reprimanded again," she laughed unrestrainedly.
"How's your parents' marriage? Still good?" she asked in the same mocking sing-song before he could answer.
Eamon shot her a warning look. "Would you stop trying to sleep with my dad?"
"Can't help it. She is one fine Alpha." Stella's tone was shameless. "You know, only a hundred years ago, she could've married multiple people."
"Not Betas," Eamon corrected automatically.
"Semantics." She leaned back, grinning.
They stared at each other for a beat before both broke into laughter, the tension briefly easing.
"It's hard to tell when you're kidding," Eamon admitted.
"Most of the time I'm not. Like, seriously, if your dad ever becomes available, you have to tell me first."
Eamon just shook his head, deciding it was safer to steer the conversation back on track. "Did you get the post ready?"
"Sure did." She spun the laptop around so the screen faced him. A clean, eye-catching layout displayed a short write-up of Acheron's recent trip, accompanied by high-quality shots of his artwork.
"This kid is seriously talented," Stella murmured, leaning forward to admire a painting she'd already been staring at all morning. She'd even considered printing it for her office wall.
Eamon's lips tugged upward in the faintest smile. "He is."
"And the Blackwells are targeting him."
Eamon gave a short nod, his gaze fixed on the screen.
"Poor kid," Stella said softly, before switching back to business. "I suggest posting right away. A few reporters are sniffing around for a story. Attempting to force a permanent mark will cause waves. It's a damn miracle you've managed to keep the news under wraps this long."
"Post it."
Eamon had already turned down an interview request this morning. He knew timing was everything, and the sooner a positive public image of Acheron was out there, the harder it would be for the Blackwells to twist the narrative.
Stella's brows lifted slightly. "You think you can win this?"
"I'll make it so."
Her hand flew to her chest in a mock swoon. "Wow. Suddenly, I find you very attractive."
"Shut up," Eamon smirked, the corner of his mouth curling in amusement.
After Stella left, the office felt unusually quiet. Eamon leaned back in his chair for a moment, then gave in to the nagging thought at the back of his mind. He unlocked his phone, opened his social media, and searched for Acheron's account.
He didn't know what exactly he was looking for, maybe reassurance or maybe trouble, but when he found Eron's profile, the sparse feed immediately struck him. There were only four other posts.
The oldest showed a much younger Acheron sitting on a battered swing. His expression was unreadable, a boy already used to keeping his thoughts to himself. Oversized sweatshirt, pants bristling with zippers, and short, spiked hair tossed into chaos by the wind. Even then, there was a certain guarded defiance in the way he met the camera's lens.
The next two were candid shots clearly taken in art class. In one, Acheron sat with a paintbrush in hand, head bent toward the canvas, eyes sharp and focused. In the other, he was attempting to sculpt something; a small lump of clay sat on the wheel. His exaggerated grimace suggested the attempt had gone horribly wrong.
The most recent post, however, was something else entirely.
It was a group photo, the kind people post after a party. Acheron was in the centre of a faded, sagging couch. To his left, an Alpha with bright red hair had an arm wrapped tightly around his waist, dragging him close. On his right sat three others: an Alpha girl and a Beta boy sat shoulder to shoulder, with an Omega sprawled lazily across both their laps. The Omega's head tilted toward Acheron, as though mid-laugh.
The Alpha girl had one arm draped around the Omega's waist and the other hooked casually over the Beta's shoulder, while the Beta's hand rested on the Omega's thigh. The whole group was tangled together in easy, familiar contact.
Everyone in the photo was smiling widely, carefree, and loudly.
Everyone except Acheron.
He wasn't wearing his usual wall of sternness, but neither was he relaxed. His brows were faintly pinched, his gaze distant, his expression tinged with a confusion that didn't belong in a photo like this. His eyes were narrowed and faintly red, the whites veined, his pupils hazy. The tip of his right ear was bright red, like it had just been pinched or pulled. His body sagged heavily into the redhead's side, his head tilting ever so slightly toward the Alpha as though he couldn't hold it upright.
Eamon had known Acheron was a drug addict, but it wasn't until this moment, staring at that single photo, that he felt the full weight of what that meant. The signs were all there, visible and undeniable.
His fingers tapped against the desk in an irregular rhythm. The habit stopped when he reached for his phone. He hesitated for a heartbeat before dialling. The line rang for a while before being answered.
"Mr. Sauveterre." Acheron's soft voice drifted through the receiver, gentle as a sigh, accompanied by the faint hum of voices and the occasional clinking of items in the background.
"I'm not interrupting anything?" Eamon asked, his tone deliberately even, though there was a subtle warmth beneath it.
"No," Acheron let out a light, almost shy laugh. "Just shopping for art supplies."
"You must run out of those quickly."
"You wouldn't believe," Acheron replied with a playful lilt.
He stood in front of a tall display of oil paint tubes, his eyes scanning the rainbow of pigments. Today, though, no new shades seemed to catch his attention. That didn't seem to dampen his spirits; he still reached for a few tubes of black and white, the staples of any piece. Most people overlooked how crucial those two colours were and how they vanished faster than any other. He plucked a few familiar blues and ochres into his basket before finding a row of rarer shades. Deep forest green, muted coral and a stormy violet that made his eyes brighten just a little.
Moving to the brush section, Acheron lingered longer. His fingertips brushed along the bristles like he was greeting old friends, testing their softness with gentle taps against his palm. He picked a couple of his tried-and-true brands and a few from a new label he'd never tested before, curiosity glinting in his gaze.
"How are you feeling now?" Eamon asked, his voice low and smooth, the sound curling against Acheron's ear like warm silk.
"I'm okay," Acheron said after a pause. "Just… a little jumpy."
His eyes had just caught on a massive A1 black sketchbook, more than a hundred thick, deliciously empty sheets. The kind of book that made his fingers itch to start something big and messy. It was also awkward as hell to carry. He glanced around; the aisle was empty. Thinking he could manage, he slid the book free from the stack and hugged it to his chest.
"I wanted to thank Mr Sauveterre for helping last night," he said softly. "It's probably not in your job description to calm your clients down after hours."
"It's alright," Eamon murmured. "I'm just glad I could help ease your mind."
A loud thud, followed by the unmistakable clatter of cascading supplies, rang through the line. A moment's silence. Then, a burst of bright, unrestrained laughter.
"What just happened?" Eamon asked, amusement colouring his voice.
"It's stupid," Acheron said between chuckles. "I tried to carry the big sketchbook, but it covered half my face, and I—" He dissolved into another laugh, "—walked straight into a display stand. Knocked over half the watercolour sets."
The sound of his laughter was unguarded, almost musical. Eamon found himself smiling without thinking, leaning back in his chair as if the sound itself was enough to fill the space around him. A store clerk soon arrived to help, their muffled voice faint over the phone, and Acheron's soft apologies tumbled over themselves in that breathless, flustered way that made it hard for Eamon to hang up.
By the time Acheron reached the register, he had somehow arranged the sketchbook so it rested against his shoulder like a shield, and he assured everyone that he would be able to carry the sketchbook as his family's driver was waiting a few streets over.
"Sorry about that, Mr Sauveterre."
"Just call me Eamon."
"Okay… Eamon," Acheron repeated, hesitating over the syllables. A faint blush crept over the tips of his ears and the bridge of his nose. Eamon's lips curved into a smile.
"I hope there weren't any cameras recording that," Acheron added quickly, voice slipping into an embarrassed ramble. "If there were, I swear the footage's going to be everyone's lunchtime entertainment."
Eamon chuckled. "I'll have my team look into it."
They kept talking about brushes, pigments, and whether or not sketchbooks had a "right" smell. Until Acheron reached the final stretch and midway through a sentence, he went still. His breathing changed.
"Acheron?" Eamon's voice sharpened.
"I-I think I just saw him."
"Him?" Eamon's tone darkened. "Hadeon?"
Acheron had been strolling down a semi-crowded street, the afternoon sun casting soft gold over rows of boutique shops and narrow storefronts. The hum of traffic mixed with the chatter of pedestrians, and every so often, the scent of fresh bread or brewed coffee would drift from a doorway. He had been lazily scanning the window displays while talking, noticing colourful ceramic teapots, leather-bound notebooks and glass jars of pastel candies when something made his steps falter.
At the entrance of a small jewellery store, a tall man with striking red hair stepped inside. His posture was relaxed, but before closing the door, he glanced up, directly at Acheron. The look was brief, no more than a second, but it sent a pulse of cold through his chest.
"How far are you from your driver?" Eamon's voice came calmly over the phone, grounding him like a steady hand on the shoulder.
"Not far," Acheron murmured, trying to keep his tone light despite the tightness in his throat. "Just around the corner." There was a faint rustling on the other end of the call as he shifted his bag. "I just messaged him to fetch me at this location. The jewellery store is between me and him, and…" he hesitated, lowering his voice, "I don't think I have the strength to walk past."
"That's a good idea," Eamon said, a note of quiet approval threading his words. "Maybe find a store you feel safe waiting inside of."
"Okay. Thank you, Eamon." The way he said his name was soft, almost shy, like he was rolling it over his tongue to make sure it fit. Half of his focus was still fixed on the jewellery shop's glass door, his body angled toward it as if afraid to look away too long.
Eventually, he spotted a flower shop directly behind him. "I'll go inside here," he murmured, almost as if telling himself. After a quick apology, he ended the call and pushed through the small door.
The moment he stepped inside, a lush wave of scent washed over him—earthy greenery, honey-sweet blooms, the faint tang of eucalyptus. The air felt warmer here, softer. The florist, a middle-aged man with round glasses perched low on his nose, glanced up briefly but said nothing, returning to the careful task of arranging a bundle of deep red roses.
This suited Acheron perfectly. He wasn't in the mood for conversation. From his pocket, he fished out a grape-flavoured lollipop, its wrapper a little crinkled from being carried around all day. He popped it into his mouth, the candy's sweetness curling over his tongue, and the familiar taste made his shoulders drop just a little in relief.
Wandering between the displays, he let his fingertips trail lightly over petals and leaves, careful not to crush anything. Then his eyes caught on a tall vase tucked into the corner. Two sunflowers stood there, golden and bright, their broad heads tilted slightly toward the shop's window as though seeking the sun.
He stepped closer. The colour gradient in their petals fascinated him, the soft buttery yellow melting into a warm amber near the centre. They stood taller than the others around them, elegant but unpretentious. They reminded him of his mother. These were her favourite flowers, and just like her, they were strong yet beautiful, always managing to brighten a room simply by existing. Without hesitation, he decided to buy them.
The florist wrapped the stems in sheets of yesterday's newspaper, securing them with a neat twist of twine. Acheron paid in quiet, his lollipop still bobbing in the corner of his mouth as he held the flowers like something precious.
His phone buzzed. The driver had arrived. Through the shop's large front window, the sleek silver car waited, its metallic body catching the sunlight. For the first time since spotting the redheaded man, Acheron felt safe enough to step back outside. But as he opened the car door, he couldn't help it glance over his shoulder, peeking through the backseat window toward the jewellery shop.
He didn't see anything.
He let out a slow breath he hadn't realised he was holding and settled back in his seat, the sunflowers resting across his lap. Maybe it wasn't him after all.
Still, he kept looking out the window until the shop was well out of sight.
An hour later, the car rolled into the long driveway, its tyres crunching softly over the pebbled path. Ivy had been in the kitchen when she heard the sound and immediately set down the dish towel, her heart already lifting. By the time the silver car came to a stop, she was at the front door, eager to greet her son.
The moment Acheron stepped out, the late afternoon sunlight caught in his hair, and Ivy's smile widened, but then her gaze dropped to the bouquet of tall, golden sunflowers he held. Her breath caught.
"You… you bought me flowers?" she asked, her voice lilting with both surprise and delight.
Acheron's lips curved in a shy little smile, and he nodded. "You like sunflowers. These ones were… taller than all the others." His voice softened as if the detail mattered deeply to him.
Before Ivy could say anything else, he stepped forward and slipped the flowers into her hands, then wrapped his arms around her in a warm, lingering hug. His forehead rested gently against her shoulder, his body relaxing as the familiar scent of his mother's pheromones washed over him. Acheron inhaled, the corners of his mouth twitching in a faint, almost sleepy smile. It was a smell that felt like home, like safety.
Without a single word, he took her hand, his long fingers curling lightly around hers, and led her through the house to the backyard. Ivy followed, curious, but still clutching the bouquet.
Out on the lawn, the scent of turpentine and oil paint lingered faintly in the air from his morning's work. Acheron strode to the corner where a large canvas leaned against the garden wall, his movements unusually decisive. Without looking at her, he lifted it and carried it to the small fire pit they sometimes used for bonfires.
Ivy's brow furrowed. "Acheron…?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he set the painting down into the pit with deliberate care, almost as if he was laying something to rest, and fetched a small can of accelerant from the nearby shed. The metallic click of the cap echoed softly before the sharp scent of fuel drifted into the air. He stepped back beside Ivy, holding a box of matches between his slender fingers.
There was no ceremony, no hesitation. Just a quiet flick (scratch, spark, flame) and the match dropped into the pit.
The fire caught instantly, flaring in bright orange tongues that licked across the painted surface. It spread like wings unfolding, swallowing colour and shape until nothing of his work could be seen beneath the dance of the flames. The air grew warmer, wrapping them in its heat, and the crackle of burning canvas filled the silence.
Acheron's eyes stayed fixed on the fire, his hands absently toying with the edge of Ivy's sleeve, a small, almost unconscious need for contact.
Ivy glanced at him, her lips pressing into a line. She didn't fully understand the why, but she understood enough. Sometimes, to breathe again, you had to burn the weight away.
They stood there together until the last ember dimmed, until all that remained was a bed of soft grey ash.
Only then did Acheron turn to her, his cheeks faintly flushed from the heat, his voice a whisper. "Do you… Want to put the sunflowers in a vase now?"
Once inside, Ivy filled a tall glass vase with cool water while Acheron hovered nearby, sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he was preparing for something far more complicated than flower arranging.
"I can do it," he said, reaching for the vase with a determined little pout when Ivy tried to set it on the counter herself.
"You sure?" she teased, amused by his sudden possessiveness.
"Yes. They're my gift. I should… make them look nice." His voice was stubborn, but his eyes were bright, and a faint pink dusted his cheeks.
He took the flowers from her carefully, like they might bruise under his touch, and began adjusting their stems in the vase. Every so often, he'd step back, tilt his head, frown, and shuffle them again. Completely absorbed in the task.
When a petal brushed against his cheek, he wrinkled his nose and batted it away with a quick flick, only for another to fall loose and float down, landing in his hair. Ivy bit back a smile as he didn't even notice.
"Perfect," he finally announced, placing the finished arrangement in the centre of the dining table. The sunflowers stood tall, catching the late sunlight through the windows, their golden faces bright against the room's warm tones.
Ivy leaned down and plucked the stray petal from his hair. "Perfect," she agreed softly, but she wasn't looking at the flowers when she said it.
Acheron caught her gaze, eyes warm but shy, and then, like nothing had happened, he asked if they could have tea in the garden before dinner, as if the afternoon's fire had never happened.