The chandelier light dripped golden fire over the marble floors of the Francisco estate's grand hall. Laughter and music filled the air, the room thrumming with wealth, desire, and power. Alexander Tempest stood at the edge of the crowd, crystal glass in hand, his lips trembling as though he were swallowing broken glass.
At the center of it all, like a prince basking in his own arrogance, sat Rhain Francisco. His silver hair caught the light like steel, his shirt half-open as if to declare that he had nothing to hide. On his left, a woman in a silk red dress leaned against his chest, giggling at something whispered in her ear. On his right, a man with sharp features trailed fingers over Rhain's thigh beneath the table, hidden but not unseen.
And Rhain didn't push either of them away.
He welcomed it.
Alexander's heart twisted. Every time the woman touched Rhain's chest, every time the man's fingers slid higher along his leg, it was another dagger into Alexander's ribs. This was his husband. His husband. Yet here, in front of everyone, Rhain treated him like a ghost.
Unable to endure another moment, Alexander moved forward. His heels clicked sharply against the marble, drawing a few glances from the guests. He stopped just short of Rhain's table, voice low but trembling with rage.
"Rhain."
His husband lifted his gaze lazily, crimson eyes glittering with a dangerous amusement. "Ah. There you are, Alexander. I was wondering when you'd crawl out of the shadows."
The woman giggled. The man smirked. Alexander felt heat burn his cheeks—not with shyness, but with humiliation.
"I'm not hiding," Alexander hissed. "But you… you're parading yourself like this? In front of all these people?" His voice cracked, raw with heartbreak. "Do you realize how humiliating this is—for me? For us?"
Rhain chuckled, low and cruel. "Us? Don't be dramatic. These people know what I am. They expect this of me." His fingers stroked the inside of the woman's wrist, deliberately slow. "If you're embarrassed, that's your weakness, not mine."
Alexander's throat closed up. He wanted to scream, to tear the woman away, to break the man's hand for touching what was supposed to be his. But his hands only trembled at his sides.
"You made vows to me," he whispered, each word soaked in pain. "You promised me forever, Rhain. But you stand here every night, in every hall, shaming me. Do I even matter to you anymore?"
Rhain's smile sharpened, but his eyes hardened. He leaned forward, dismissing the hands clinging to him as though to drive his cruelty deeper.
"You're my husband, Alexander," he said softly, with a cold intimacy that chilled more than it soothed. "That makes you mine. But don't mistake possession for affection. I don't owe you tenderness. I don't owe you love."
The words struck like lightning, leaving Alexander breathless.
The guests had gone quiet now. Whispers passed through the crowd like poison in the air. Alexander's humiliation was complete—the faithful, devoted husband, shattered in public by the man he loved.
His lips quivered, but no tears fell. Not yet. He refused to give Rhain the satisfaction.
"If being yours means I am nothing," Alexander said, his voice shaking but defiant, "then perhaps I'd rather not belong to you at all."
Rhain tilted his head, studying him with a dangerous glint. For a moment, it looked like he might reach out. But then, as if to drive the knife deeper, he pulled the woman closer, brushing his lips against her temple.
"Careful, Alexander," he murmured. "Empty threats don't suit you."
Alexander's chest constricted, air burning in his lungs. He turned away before his breaking heart could be seen, before his knees gave way beneath him.
But in the crowd, hidden among the golden shadows, another gaze lingered. Lark Francisco—silver hair catching the same light as his son's, but with eyes darkened by something far heavier—watched the scene unfold.
And in that moment, watching Alexander crumble, Lark felt the first undeniable pangs of a desire he had no right to feel.
The First Fracture
The night stretched on like a cruel performance. Music played, laughter rose, glasses clinked—but for Alexander Tempest, it was all a blur. His chest ached as though his ribs were splintering inward, crushing what was left of his dignity. He fled the hall, slipping through the tall doors into the quieter corridors of the Francisco estate.
The silence there was deafening. His footsteps echoed against marble and velvet, his breathing ragged, his hands trembling at his sides. When he reached the tall window at the end of the corridor, the dam broke. His body sagged against the sill, golden hair falling forward, his shoulders quivering as silent sobs shook through him.
"Why?" His whisper fogged the glass. "Why do I endure this? Why do I still love him when he destroys me every night?"
The sound of footsteps behind him made him stiffen. He hastily wiped his cheeks, willing himself into stillness. When he turned, his heart jolted.
Lark Francisco stood there.
The man carried the same silver hair as his son, though his was tinged with storm rather than steel, streaked by years of power and burden. His broad frame filled the corridor, his shirt open at the throat, his expression unreadable. He had been watching—Alexander knew it by the heaviness in his gaze.
Alexander swallowed hard, ashamed to be seen in this state by his father-in-law. "Mr. Francisco," he whispered, voice breaking. "I—please, forgive me. I just needed some air."
Lark's brow furrowed, his deep voice rumbling low. "Alexander." He rarely used his first name, and the sound of it alone carried both weight and gentleness. "You should not apologize. You are the one wronged tonight."
Alexander's breath caught. The words were too kind, too dangerous. He lowered his head, his blonde hair shadowing his tear-stained face. "I am his husband," he said bitterly. "And yet he treats me like… like an ornament to be discarded. I thought I was strong enough to bear it, but tonight…" His voice broke. "…tonight I was nothing."
Something shifted in Lark's face—anger, but not for Alexander. His fists flexed at his sides, veins pressing against his skin. "You are not nothing," he growled. "You are far more than my son deserves."
The words pierced Alexander's fragile heart, pulling another tear from his eye. His lips trembled, and before he could stop himself, he whispered, "Then why do I still love him?"
A silence followed, heavy, dangerous. Lark stepped closer, slow, measured, until the space between them was too small, until Alexander could smell the faint trace of cedar and smoke on his skin.
"Because your heart is loyal," Lark said softly, eyes burning into his. "But loyalty should never be paid with humiliation."
Alexander's chest heaved, torn between shame and a desperate, aching need for comfort. When Lark's hand rose, he flinched—only to feel it settle, warm and steady, against his cheek.
The touch was fatherly, protective… but the way it lingered was not.
Alexander's lips parted, his breath shallow. "Lark…" His voice quivered. He should have pulled away, should have turned and fled—but his body betrayed him, leaning into that hand as if starved for the gentleness Rhain denied him.
Lark's jaw tightened. His thumb brushed away a tear, slow, reverent. "He will never see what I see," he murmured, voice roughened by restraint. "He does not deserve the devotion you give so freely."
The world tilted, the air charged with a dangerous electricity. Alexander's heart pounded wildly—half with guilt, half with an intoxicating relief. In Lark's touch, in his steady gaze, he felt something he had not felt in so long: wanted.
And yet the weight of it pressed down. "This… this is wrong," Alexander whispered, though his cheek still pressed against Lark's palm. "You're his father."
Lark's eyes darkened, not with guilt but with a storm long restrained. "Yes," he admitted, voice low, heavy. "And I should turn away. But seeing you suffer, seeing him break you again and again—Alexander, I can't. I won't."
Their breaths mingled now, the space between them closing as though the house itself drew them together. Alexander's lips trembled inches from his father-in-law's, his heart screaming warnings his body refused to obey.
But before the line was crossed, Lark drew back—just enough to restore the air between them, just enough to leave Alexander's lips aching for what had almost been.
"You deserve more than humiliation in a gilded cage," Lark said, his voice softer, almost breaking. "And if you cannot walk away from him… then let me be the one who reminds you of your worth."
Alexander stood frozen, torn open, heart pounding with forbidden longing. For the first time in years, someone had spoken to him not as Rhain's possession, but as a man worth cherishing.
And though guilt gnawed at his ribs, another thought burned brighter, more dangerous:
He wanted more.