Julian tumbled onto the vast bed like a mischievous kitten, curls bouncing as he buried himself against his mother's chest. His little hands clutched Isidore's silken hair, tugging with delight.
"Mama!" he chirped, his voice bubbling with uncontainable excitement. "You promised me a teddy! Big—big as me!" He stretched his small arms wide to demonstrate, nearly toppling over in the effort.
Isidore's pale lips softened into a weary smile. "Yes, Julian," he murmured, adjusting his spectacles with one hand while steadying his son with the other. "As large as you. Perhaps larger, if you'll sleep quietly at night instead of sneaking into my bed."
Julian giggled, tucking his face against his mother's neck, eyelashes brushing his skin. The housemaid entered quietly then, her hands folded in polite deference. "Shall I take Master Julian for his bath now, sir?"
Isidore hesitated, pressing one last kiss into his son's hair before gently passing him into her care. "Keep him away from that television," he said curtly, though the softness in his eyes betrayed the sharpness of his tone.
The door closed, leaving silence in its wake.
Across the city, in the mirrored hush of a private dressing room, Tristan Ashford stood like a statue carved for adoration. His tousled red hair gleamed under the soft lights, a crown of embers; his crystalline eyes glinted with the practiced charm of a man who belonged to the spotlight.
He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit, the fabric sliding smooth against muscle. For a moment he simply stared at himself in the mirror, lips quirking upward into a boyish grin before settling into a smile both dangerous and dazzling. One. Two. Enough to break a thousand hearts.
"Time," came a polite knock at the door.
Tristan exhaled once, rolled his shoulders, and stepped into the boardroom.
The air shifted. Rows of executives rose to greet him, their voices a hum of reverence. But it was the figure at the head of the table who commanded his attention.
Zayn Maverick. Twenty-six, tall and poised, his periwinkle hair gleamed beneath the glass ceiling lights, his lilac eyes sharp and unyielding yet lit with excitement. He moved forward, extending his hand with a formality that carried weight.
"Mr. Ashford," Zayn said, his voice low, composed, yet tinged with exhilaration. "It is an honor to finally welcome you to Dominion Enterprises Industries."
Tristan clasped his hand firmly, his smile widening. "The honor is mine."
And the room exhaled as though history itself had entered.
Isidore stood before the gilded mirror in his suite, his reflection a portrait of restraint. The platinum suit lay across his shoulders with faultless precision, the black silk beneath whispering elegance. He adjusted the thin bridge of his spectacles, the beige of his eyes glimmering with a strange fragility, though no soul alive would dare call him weak. His long hair, pale as ivory spun in sunlight, cascaded in disciplined waves across his shoulders. Yet the perfection of his attire did not hide the tremor in his breath.
The day had come.
The moment he had feared, despised, rehearsed in silence for years. To see him again—Tristan Ashford.
The low purr of the waiting car outside pressed against his nerves like a drumbeat. With one final, sharp inhale, Isidore descended the marble stairs of his penthouse. The driver, Leon, awaited at the curb. A Beta by nature, loyal by choice, Leon had long since earned his master's trust. He bowed slightly as Isidore approached, his gloved hand already sweeping the car door open.
"Master," Leon said softly, his voice touched with a loyalty that bordered on reverence. "It is not so difficult as you think. He is only a man. Nothing more."
Isidore paused, his polished shoes clicking against the wet pavement as he leaned upon the door frame. His eyes, cold as winter dawn, flicked toward Leon with a glare sharp enough to slice silence itself.
Leon's breath hitched. He lowered his gaze, hands tightening behind his back. "Forgive me," he murmured, a humble bow of the head. "I only wished you to feel… less nervous."
Isidore said nothing. Words were wasted when the heart was already beating too loud. He slipped into the car's interior, the leather swallowing him in its hushed luxury. Leon closed the door with solemn precision before moving to the driver's seat.
The journey was silent but for the steady rhythm of the rain tapping against tinted glass. Each drop seemed to echo Isidore's pulse, dragging him closer to the inevitable confrontation. Half a decade of carefully constructed walls would soon be tested by the man who had shattered him.
At last, the sleek black car rolled to a stop before the towering façade of Dominion Enterprises. Its steel-and-glass face clawed at the London sky, a cathedral of commerce and power.
Leon was first to move, stepping out into the drizzle to open his master's door. Isidore adjusted his glasses with slow precision, drew one more breath, and emerged into the storm.
Every step toward those glass doors was war
The mirrored doors of the lift slid open with a hushed sigh, revealing the corridor of Dominion Enterprises' executive floor. The carpet, thick and muted in tone, swallowed the sound of Isidore's polished shoes as he stepped forward. The weight of inevitability pressed upon his shoulders with every measured stride. He adjusted his glasses once, twice, though the lenses were already immaculate. It was not dust he fought against, but the storm rising in his chest.
"Sir," a voice called softly.
Isidore turned to find a young assistant approaching—an Omega, shorter by half a head, with warm brown hair and striking green eyes. There was a gentleness to him, a kind of eagerness not yet beaten down by the ruthless machinery of corporate life.
"Sir Tristan Ashford has already arrived," the assistant murmured, lowering his gaze respectfully as he fell into step beside Isidore.
The words landed like a stone in Isidore's gut. Already arrived. Already waiting. Already here.
Their footsteps echoed through the wide hallway, a canyon of glass and steel. At the end loomed the great double doors of the boardroom. Isidore adjusted his glasses once more, a ritual now, as if the gesture alone could shield him from the sight waiting beyond.
The doors parted.
Inside, the boardroom stretched like a coliseum of wealth. Polished mahogany gleamed beneath a halo of crystalline light, and tall windows opened to the restless sprawl of London below. Around the oval table sat men and women of rank, their pens scratching, voices murmuring, until silence fell at the sight of Isidore Davenant entering.
And at the head—Zayn Maverick.
"Isidore!" Zayn's voice rang with unrestrained warmth, his lilac eyes bright, his periwinkle hair catching the light like spun silk. He rose swiftly, his tall frame almost vibrating with pleasure. "You are so late. Do you mean to torment me?" His smile was brilliant, his tone a tease, but beneath it pulsed a thrill as sharp as lightning.
Isidore inclined his head, cool as glass, though inside his pulse clawed against its prison.
And then he felt it—that gaze.
Tristan Ashford sat a few seats away, broad shoulders encased in a tailored suit, his jaw sharpened by determination, his posture one of unshakable poise. Yet his eyes, light blue and mercilessly clear, were fixed upon Isidore with something far too intent to be dismissed. He had seen countless Omegas in his life, touched more than he could ever name, but none like this. None who carried fragility as though it were a crown, none who stood so ethereal and untouchable, yet carved from the quiet dignity of survival.
Something flickered across his mind, dangerous and sudden. His throat tightened. He swallowed hard.
Zayn, delighted to see the collision of fates, leaned in toward Isidore, his voice a conspiratorial whisper meant only for him. "Come now, cousin. How can you possibly let this chance pass?" His grin widened, eyes dancing.
The words slithered like fire beneath Isidore's skin. His jaw tightened, his body a fortress.
Zayn straightened, his expression one of theatrical innocence. "Ah, Tristan—allow me to introduce. This is Isidore Davenant, my right hand. Though he prefers to call himself my assistant, we are partners in all but title."
Tristan rose slightly, his hand extending across the polished table. His voice—deep, resonant, tinged with a velvet softness—curled through the air like roses blooming in winter.
"Pleasure to be meeting you," Tristan said, and though the words were practiced, his eyes betrayed an earnestness that unsettled him.
Isidore kept his gaze fixed on the table, as though to look into those eyes would summon memories best left buried. His hands remained at his sides, motionless.
Zayn's brow arched. With a quiet tap against his cousin's back, he urged him forward.
Isidore's lips thinned, his spine rigid. At last, reluctantly, he extended his hand, though his eyes remained distant. "Isidore Davenant."
The name was spoken like frost, clipped and unyielding.
For the briefest second, their hands met.
Tristan felt it like a spark searing through his skin. The man who had faced down countless Omegas, who had left them blushing, trembling, begging—now felt the heat rise unbidden in his own face. He had never blushed before. Not once. Until now.
"The pleasure is mine," Tristan said, his voice softer, his mask slipping as something unfamiliar coiled deep within him.
Zayn clapped his hands together, breaking the tension with a triumphant grin. "Well then! Shall we begin?"
The boardroom shifted into motion once more, but beneath the polished civility, three men sat at the same table—each with their own fire.
The conference room gleamed beneath the soft glow of suspended chandeliers, its polished table reflecting a dozen restless faces. Papers lay scattered like half-drawn battle plans; contracts, ink-stained and ominous, waited for a final stroke of commitment. The air was taut, trembling with expectation, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Zayn sat at the head of the table, his composure betrayed only by the slight tremor in his hand as he adjusted his tie. His eyes, sharp with suppressed hope, darted once toward Tristan. The man was—reclined, silent, and unreadable. His posture conveyed indifference, yet his gaze—oh, that gaze—rested with unnerving frequency upon Isidore, who sat two chairs away, deliberately studying the grain of the wooden table.
Tristan's manager, a weary man with shadows beneath his eyes, flipped through the final page of the contract. "All that remains," he said, voice hushed as though fearing to disturb something fragile, "is the signature."
Zayn inhaled sharply. "We've worked hard to ensure every clause meets Tristan's standards. This film will not just be another production—it will be an event, a legacy." His words tried to sound firm, yet they quivered like glass against stone.
A silence stretched. Tristan's fingers tapped lightly on the armrest, a rhythm steady as a heartbeat. Then, at last, he rose. The motion itself seemed to drag the room into slow motion; every gaze followed him, anticipation thick as storm clouds.
"I do not sign lightly," Tristan said, his voice low, velvet smoothed over iron. His eyes drifted again, unmistakably, toward Isidore. "But some things… demand acceptance."
Isidore's breath caught in his chest, though he did not lift his gaze. He could feel those eyes burning into him, tracing him as though the contract itself was written across his skin.
The pen was placed into Tristan's hand. He lingered, poised, then pressed it down in a swift, unwavering motion. Ink bled into paper, binding futures together with the weight of destiny.
His manager exhaled—long, defeated, almost relieved. "It's done."
Zayn, meanwhile, sat frozen. For a heartbeat, disbelief carved lines into his face. Then the reality struck him, a tidal wave of triumph crashing through the years of struggle, rejection, and exhaustion. His laughter broke forth, ragged with joy. "Finally," he whispered, almost to himself. "I did it." His eyes shimmered with something dangerously close to tears. "I actually did it."
Tristan placed the pen down with elegance, a faint curl of amusement at his lips. "You make it sound as though taming me was impossible."
Zayn, still dazed, managed a grin. "It was."
The room hummed with applause, subdued but sincere. And yet, in the quiet folds between celebration, Tristan's gaze once more sought Isidore. The boy's refusal to meet it, his quiet attempts to vanish into stillness, only deepened the intrigue.
A contract had been signed. An agreement sealed. But beneath the surface of ink and paper, something far more perilous had just begun.