The meeting dissolved like mist in morning light. One by one, the executives gathered their papers, offered shallow bows, and vanished through the tall glass doors. Laughter, congratulatory remarks, and murmurs of astonishment trailed after them.
Zayn Maverick lingered only long enough to clasp Tristan's shoulder, his lilac eyes alight with triumph.
"Today marks history," he declared, almost giddy. "The elusive Tristan Ashford finally concedes. Dominion Enterprises will rise beyond imagination."
He laughed, a bright unrestrained sound, then turned to his cousin. "Isidore, don't drown in paperwork. You deserve a drink tonight. Perhaps even two." His gaze flicked between Isidore and Tristan with deliberate mischief, a spark of cunning hidden in his grin. "I shall leave you both to… acquaint yourselves."
And with a sweep of his periwinkle hair, Zayn exited, trailed by his entourage. The heavy doors closed with a resonant thud that left the room shrouded in silence.
Isidore remained seated for a moment, staring unseeingly at the polished table, his hands clenched so tightly the knuckles blanched. His chest rose and fell in quiet disorder. Then—abruptly—he stood. The chair scraped sharply against the floor, a sound that cracked through the stillness.
Across the table, Tristan leaned back in his seat, his crystalline eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"Why so mad?" Tristan asked, voice velvet edged with iron. He rose slowly, his height imposing, the tailored suit sculpting his frame like a second skin. "I only just met you. Yes, you're an Omega—I can respect distance if that is what you prefer. But tell me…" He exhaled, his gaze sharpening. "Why the cold shoulders?"
Isidore's jaw tightened. His beige eyes flicked briefly toward him, then away like a blade glancing off armor. "None of your business," he said curtly, his voice chilled as winter stone.
Tristan's eyes widened a fraction, then softened with something dangerously close to amusement. The corner of his lips lifted into a smirk. "I like that style of yours."
Isidore turned, intent on leaving, but Tristan moved faster. In one fluid step, he closed the distance and caught Isidore's wrist. The contact burned—searing, undeniable. With a sudden tug, he dragged him forward.
Isidore gasped, stumbling against the solid wall of Tristan's chest. His forehead struck the hard plane of muscle, and for an instant the world tilted.
"Let go!" he hissed, twisting, but Tristan's grip only tightened.
The actor's head bent, his lips dangerously near the pale column of Isidore's throat. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply. The scent that greeted him was intoxicating—sweet, rich, unbearably alluring. It clung to Isidore's skin like silk steeped in honey, an Omega's pheromone laced with something rare, something Tristan could not name.
"Delicious," Tristan whispered, his voice roughened by a hunger he had not expected. His other hand rose, sliding deliberately around Isidore's narrow waist, pulling him closer as though possession had already been decided.
Isidore froze, his eyes widening in a mixture of fury and fear. His breath came sharp, ragged, as he spat, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Tristan's eyes, half-lidded with something primal, flicked down to meet his. "Why… are you so familiar?" His chest expanded as he inhaled again, deeper, unwilling to release. "This scent—I know it. I've breathed it before."
Isidore's pulse thundered, panic sparking beneath his cool façade. With a violent shove, he pushed against Tristan's chest. The grip around his waist loosened just enough for him to break free.
"Stay away from me," Isidore snapped, his voice quivering despite his iron will. His eyes flashed like lightning across a midnight sea before he turned sharply toward the doors.
"Wait—" Tristan's voice broke through the charged silence, desperate and raw, but the Omega did not pause.
The doors flung open beneath Isidore's hands, and he vanished into the corridor with long, urgent strides. His pale hair, his scent, his presence—all vanished beyond the threshold.
Left alone, Tristan raked his fingers through his tousled red hair, pushing it back from his flushed face. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, each one dragging remnants of the lingering perfume deeper into him. He closed his eyes, exhaling a curse.
"Damn it," he muttered, his voice low and strained. "Why are you so familiar?"
His gaze slid toward the door Isidore had stormed through. The sweet fragrance still lingered, haunting him, curling in invisible tendrils through the air. He clenched his fists, the smirk fading into something more conflicted.
"I've met you before," he whispered to himself, conviction carving each syllable. "I know I have."
The room was empty now, but for him and the ghost of Isidore's scent. And in that ghost lay the seed of obsession—one Tristan Ashford could neither ignore nor explain.
The corridor outside the boardroom stretched wide and silent, yet to Isidore it felt suffocating, a narrow passage pressing against his ribs. He strode forward with rigid steps, each echo sharp as a blade striking marble. His breath, however, betrayed him—stuttering, uneven, rasping like a bird's wing caught in a snare.
Hatred coiled in his chest, a venomous knot that throbbed with every heartbeat. Tristan Ashford had dared—dared—to touch him. To breathe him in as if his body were some intoxicant meant for consumption.
"I despise him," Isidore muttered beneath his breath, the words scraped raw against his teeth. His fingers clenched tighter until his knuckles burned pale.
And yet.
The warmth of that chest still lingered on his forehead. The iron grip around his waist haunted the curve of his body. Worst of all—the betrayal of his own response. That shudder, that heat spiraling low in his stomach when Tristan leaned near. It had not been chosen. It had not been welcome. And yet it existed.
"Damn it," he hissed, halting abruptly at a juncture in the corridor. His chest rose and fell in jagged bursts, as though oxygen itself had become scarce.
He pressed his back against the cold wall, shutting his eyes for a fleeting instant. But Tristan's face bloomed behind his lids regardless—crystalline eyes, that infuriating smirk, the way his voice lowered when he whispered familiar.
Isidore's lips curled in disdain. "You know nothing," he whispered, his voice brittle as glass. "Nothing of me."
Still, his pulse refused to calm. His body—traitor that it was—had absorbed every brush, every inhalation, every syllable. And somewhere in the marrow of his bones, he feared what that recognition in Tristan's gaze might mean.
His jaw hardened, cutting through the fog of sensation. No. He would not allow himself to be toyed with, nor reduced to a memory of scent and skin.
Pushing away from the wall, he adjusted his glasses with steadying precision, each movement deliberate, controlled. His steps turned sharply down the left corridor, away from the lingering fragrance of Tristan Ashford, away from the weight of his eyes.
But though his body moved, though his expression reset into impassive stone—inside, a storm raged still.
And Isidore knew with cruel certainty: this was only the beginning.
The iron gate of the Davenant Penthouse whispered shut behind him, and for the first time that day, Isidore exhaled as though he had returned from the battlefield. His body ached with exhaustion, his mind still stained by the memory of Tristan's nearness, but the moment he opened the door, a sound cut through all weariness—pure, bright, untainted.
"Mama!"
Tiny feet pattered against the wooden floor. A small figure launched forward, arms outstretched, curls bouncing like spun gold in the evening light.
Julian.
The storm in Isidore's chest broke apart instantly. His gaze softened, beige-colored eyes brightening with a warmth they reserved for only one soul. Kneeling low, he opened his arms wide. "Come here, my sunshine."
The boy collided against him, squealing with delight. Isidore scooped him up effortlessly, the familiar weight grounding him, soothing the chaos inside. Julian's little hands clung to his neck as if afraid he might vanish again.
"Up, up, mama!" the boy repeated, burying his face into the crook of his mama shoulder.
"Yes, up," Isidore murmured, pressing his lips against the crown of Julian's hair. "Always up for you."
The scent of his child—milk, soap, and something inherently innocent—washed away the bitter trace of Tristan's intrusion. Here, at least, no one could touch him.
But Julian was not one to sit quiet for long. Pulling back, his crystalline eyes sparkled with mischief. "Mama… teddy! You promise! Teddy, teddy, teddy!" His words tumbled in a sweet cascade, half babble, half command.
Isidore chuckled softly, shifting the boy higher in his arms. "All right, all right, my dear. We'll get your teddy. Patience, sunshine."
Julian squealed, triumphant, and nestled closer, his face burrowing into the curve of Isidore's neck. His tiny fingers clutched at the collar of Isidore's shirt as if it were his anchor.
Isidore stroked his back gently, the storm of the day finally losing its teeth. For this—this small, radiant soul—he could bear anything.
Yet beyond the sanctuary of those walls, shadows stirred.
Across the street, obscured by the thick veil of ivy climbing an abandoned fence, two figures crouched low. One held binoculars pressed against his eyes, gaze fixed sharply upon the warm tableau inside the Davenant home. His breath quickened, and before he realized it, small shapes had begun to flicker in his pupils—hearts, like crimson ink blooming in water.
"Look at him," he whispered, voice dripping with fascination. "The Omega and the child… they're perfect."
Beside him, the other stranger wrinkled his nose. "Tch. Don't tell me you're into that sappy stuff."
The first man did not lower the binoculars. His grin widened instead. "Eww, huh? You say that, but you haven't seen him properly." He shoved the binoculars toward his companion, expression hardening. "Look. Look carefully at the little one."
The second man huffed in irritation, but curiosity won. He lifted the binoculars reluctantly, focusing through the narrow lens.
And then he froze.
Inside, Isidore was brushing Julian's curls into neat waves, his long, slender fingers tender as he murmured something the child answered with delighted squeals. Julian wriggled and giggled, the sound audible even faintly through the glass pane, his joy uncontainable.
"Ohhh…" The second man's tone shifted, softening despite himself. "He really is… cute." His eyes, too, glimmered with hearts now, reflecting the innocent joy of the boy. "You weren't exaggerating."
The first smirked, leaning back against the rough wood of the fence. "Told you. He's not just cute—he's valuable."
The second man lowered the binoculars, narrowing his eyes. "So our target…that little one?"
A small, leather-bound notepad flicked open with a snap. Inside, scrawled notes and sketched diagrams marked their plans. The first tapped a finger against the page. "Of course. They're wealthy. The Davenant name still carries weight. If we snatch the child, the payout will be monumental."
A silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint laughter drifting from the house. Both men tilted their heads upward, hearing the distant squeals as Julian begged again, "Teddy, mama, teddy!"
The second man shut the notepad and glanced sideways. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"serious as death," the first replied, lips curling into a predatory smile.
They clapped hands once, sealing their silent pact. Then, as though swallowed by the ivy itself, both figures melted back into the darkness, their silhouettes vanishing into the street.
Inside, unaware of the gaze that had lingered so long upon him, Isidore lifted Julian high into the air. The boy squealed louder, laughter ringing like bells, and Isidore allowed the corners of his lips to curve, if only for a moment.
Yet the shadows had already marked their prize.
And danger, cloaked in silence, was drawing closer.
Julian's little fingers tangled in the silken fall of his mama's beige hair, tugging with the determination of a prince commanding his court. His curls bounced as he leaned forward, eyes wide, lips forming the word that had possessed his every waking thought.
"Mama—teddy!" he chirped, his voice bubbling with impatience. "Let's go, let's go buy teddy now!"
Isidore winced softly at the insistent pull on his hair, though a faint smile curved his lips despite the sting. He cradled the boy closer, brushing his thumb along Julian's cheek. "Ah, my sunshine," he murmured, tone both weary and amused. "We are going. I promised, didn't i?"
Julian pouted, cheeks puffed like ripened fruit. "But you always say 'soon,' and then no teddy comes." His little fists balled in Isidore's hair again, tugging harder.
"All right, all right!" Isidore relented with a hushed laugh, rising to his feet. "We are going now. No more delays."
Julian squealed, triumphant, and wrapped his arms tight around his mama's neck. His laughter spilled as he pressed his warm cheek against Isidore's shoulder.
Together, they stepped toward the door—light against looming shadows.