the sun reigned mercilessly overhead, gilding every glass tower in blinding brilliance. The city shimmered like a jewel under the weight of noon, its avenues humming with polished cars and restless crowds.
From the balcony of his wealthy hotel suite, Tristan Ashford stood wrapped in a silk robe, his red hair a disheveled flame against the blinding daylight. The marble floor behind him glowed with sunlight pouring through wide, spotless windows, casting long golden streaks across the velvet carpets.
The world outside glittered with wealth, a theater of power and speed. But Tristan's gaze was hollow, his chest heavy. Even in the brilliance of day, shadows haunted him.
That Omega.
That damn Omega.
He spat the word into the night. "Damn it!" His voice cracked against the cityscape.
Every time he closed his eyes, Isidore's face burned brighter in the dark. Soft, untouchable, aggravatingly beautiful. He could almost taste the man's defiance, that aristocratic poise that mocked him without a single word.
Tristan slammed his palms against the railing. He wanted to breathe, but the air itself seemed poisoned by memory.
"Ahhhh—what is wrong with me?" He raked his fingers through his hair, pulling at the crimson strands until his scalp stung. "Why him?"
The robe slipped further from his shoulders, exposing the taut lines of his chest, but even his reflection in the glass failed to soothe him. All he saw in that reflection was Isidore's ghost staring back.
Enough.
He stormed back inside, robe dragging behind him, and seized the golden telephone from the nightstand. His voice was harsh, desperate, hungry.
"Send me some Omegas," he barked.
"Now."
The receptionist's voice faltered before smoothing into obedience. "Yes, Mr. Ashford. Right away."
Tristan threw himself onto the velvet couch, sprawling like a prince sickened by his own kingdom. He leaned his head back, shutting his eyes with the arrogance of a man who believed the world owed him relief. But instead of relief, that face returned.
Isidore.
Damn him.
Damn that porcelain skin, those eyes that looked at him like he was beneath dust.
Tristan swore. He swore if he ever saw that face again, he wouldn't wait. He would go to his house, that Omega's house, tear down every wall, and take what haunted him.
A knock broke through his fevered thoughts.
He smirked. "Come in."
He expected sweet laughter, the perfume of bodies sent to distract him. But when the door opened, it was not Omegas—it was his men.
The air shifted.
Tristan sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. "What?"
The two spies exchanged looks, hesitation clear. They bowed low before stepping inside. The first one spoke carefully. "Master, we've brought the things you asked us to observe."
Tristan's interest sharpened. "Give it here."
A stack of photographs spilled across the table, glossy paper catching the chandelier light. Isidore. Zayn. The child.
Tristan's hand moved like lightning. He snatched the pictures, flipping through them with greedy eyes. The first photo stopped him cold—Isidore.
His crystal-blue eyes widened, heat crawling unbidden up his neck. His lips parted. His chest tightened.
"So… beautiful," he whispered, almost against his will.
The spies stiffened. The first one shot the second a warning glance, as if to say: don't.
But Tristan didn't notice them anymore. He lifted the photo higher, kissed the glossy surface with an unholy tenderness, and laughed under his breath like a man unraveling.
The spies' expressions soured into disgust.
"Master," the second tried, his voice edged with disdain, "you are only looking at him. Perhaps you should look at the rest—"
"Shut the hell up." Tristan's eyes never left the picture.
The first spy sighed and slid another photo forward.
This one is Zayn, tall and imposing, with Julian in his arms.
At first Tristan scoffed, ready to toss it aside—but then his gaze dropped to the child. He blinked, frowning, lips parting in confusion.
"Huh.... A child?"
The room froze.
Both spies stared at him with open disbelief, their mouths twitching as if they couldn't believe what they'd heard.
"Master Tristan…" the second one said through clenched teeth, "can't you see? That is Isidore Davenant's child."
Tristan blinked again, stunned, like someone slapped him with a wet glove. "Huh? What do you mean by his child?"
The first spy groaned softly, rubbing his forehead.
But Tristan was already on his feet, photo crumpled in his grip. "Don't tell me… Isidore… is already marked by someone?" His voice cracked, torn between rage and disbelief.
The spies exchanged looks again, as if begging the heavens for patience.
"Of course," the second said at last, exasperated. "The child is living proof that he was marked by an Alpha."
Tristan's blood roared. His body trembled with fury. He surged forward, seizing the second spy by the collar, hauling him up so their noses almost touched.
"Do you want to tell me—" his voice thundered, "that Zayn Maverick is his Alpha?"
The spy's throat bobbed, eyes darting toward his companion for help. "We… we still haven't confirmed… but—"
"But what?!" Tristan's grip tightened, veins straining along his arms.
The spy gasped, struggling. "But why is Zayn projecting himself like the father?"
The words hit him like a blade. Tristan's grip faltered. He shoved the spy back the spy staggered behind his companion, Tristan dragging a hand across his face. His hair fell in wild strands over his eyes.
"Damn it…"
The word escaped him ragged, broken.
His heart was chaos. Rage and longing twisted together like serpents. He could see Isidore's face, hear his laugh, smell the trace of his presence, and yet—there was Zayn, looming, claiming space that wasn't his.
Tristan sank into the couch again, photos scattered across the floor like confessions he couldn't burn.
Everywhere he looked, Isidore. In his dreams, in his mind, even in the faces of strangers. He wanted to erase it, crush it, but the more he resisted, the deeper it carved into his soul.
The first spy dared to clear his throat. "Master, should we continue the surveillance?"
Tristan didn't answer. He only pressed both hands against his head, as though trying to keep it from splitting open. His laughter cracked, bitter and strange, echoing through the gilded suite.
"Isidore…" he whispered, voice trembling between obsession and despair. "You're driving me mad."
The midday sun burned down upon the gleaming parking lot of Imagine Station, and even the glass of Zayn Maverick's car seemed to shiver under its glare. The air rippled with heat, and yet the chaos of toys spilled like a small mountain beside the trunk, refusing to fit inside no matter how the driver shoved and adjusted.
Zayn's mouth hung wide open, a picture of exaggerated disbelief. He dragged a hand across his periwinkle hair, his jaw slack as though someone had just told him the sky had fallen.
"What the hell…" he muttered, kicking lightly at the bumper, "I indeed bought the entire store. No, scratch that—it looks like the whole toy kingdom staged a rebellion and decided to live in my trunk."
His driver kept struggling, but the toys bulged out like stubborn soldiers refusing to retreat. Zayn turned, his gaze sweeping toward the refined figure standing a few feet away.
Isidore Davenant.
The omega stood poised, his back straight despite the beads of sweat gathering at his temples. His chest rose and fell just a fraction too fast, though he tried to disguise it beneath the calm dignity of a nobleman. He refused weakness, even when weakness pressed insistently against his ribs.
And in his arms, little Julian wriggled like a jubilant prince, squealing, his round cheeks flushed with excitement. The child hugged the giant teddy almost larger than himself, as if it were a living guardian. His giggles rang out, scattering across the parking lot like scattered pearls.
Zayn clicked his tongue. "Davenant," he called, narrowing his eyes at the subtle tremor in Isidore's stance. "Let me carry Julian. You sit inside the car. I'll deal with this circus."
Isidore's eyes turned on him, cold and sharp despite the sheen of sweat on his forehead. "I am fine." His voice, calm and clipped, cut the air like a blade.
Zayn groaned, theatrically clutching his chest. "You always say that, and yet you look like you'll faint if the wind so much as kisses you. At least let me—"
"I said I am fine."
The words brooked no argument, but Zayn's jaw clenched. He wanted to snap back, to push, to insist—but the truth was, he understood that pride. That silent armor Isidore wrapped around himself was heavier than steel.
So instead, Zayn lifted a hand, waving impatiently as he called out to his driver. "Fine, then. But I'll call the other car. Let's see if that trunk can tame this toy apocalypse."
Ten long minutes crawled by. Zayn tapped the heel of his polished boot against the asphalt, every beat sharp and impatient. He rolled his eyes at the sun above, muttering curses under his breath. Julian, meanwhile, shrieked happily.
And in the background, the kidnapers, hovered too close to the heap of toys. Their faces wore the polite masks of workers, but their eyes—hungry, watchful—flicked again and again toward the child. This wasn't their original game plan. Yet opportunities never knocked twice.
Zayn, oblivious for now, noticed Isidore swipe discreetly at his temple, his breaths heavier. A flicker of alarm tightened Zayn's chest. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Davenant, your head is sweating. Don't play the immovable statue now. Sit in the car. I'll handle this mess."
Isidore's lips curved in the faintest scowl. "I told you. I can walk."
"Walk? You're taking slow steps as if the ground might swallow you whole." Zayn's tone sharpened, though his hand twitched with the urge to simply grab Julian and force Isidore into the car. "If you collapse in this heat, don't expect me to carry both you and the mountain of toys."
But before Isidore could answer, another sleek car rolled to a stop in front of Imagine Station. Its polished doors gleamed, and Zayn let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.
"Finally!" he barked, snapping his fingers toward the disguised men. "Hey, come on you two! Yes, yes—you. Fill this trunk with the rest of the toys. Every last one. And don't you dare scratch the boxes."
The men nodded quickly, lowering their heads. Their eyes, however, gleamed beneath their lashes.
Zayn no longer spared them a second glance. Already, his hand guided Isidore's shoulder gently, though the omega resisted the touch. "Come on, Davenant. The car's open."
Isidore's steps were deliberate, slow. Pride and exhaustion wrestled silently inside him, but he reached the car where Zayn's driver had swung the door wide.
"Sit," Zayn ordered. His voice, for once, was devoid of jest.
Isidore slid into the leather seat, Julian bouncing in his lap. The child clapped his hands wildly.
"Dear Julian," Isidore murmured, brushing sweat-damp hair from his son's forehead, "didn't you have enough fun? Let Mommy rest a little."
But Julian squealed, unrepentant, and leaned forward to plant a sloppy kiss on his mother's cheek. His joy was uncontainable, pure, the kind that pulled reluctant smiles from even Isidore's weary lips.
"Come on, darling," Isidore coaxed gently.
The car dipped slightly as Zayn slid in beside them. He leaned close, his grin softening as he extended his arms. "Come, Julie. Let Uncle play with you. Give your mama some rest."
Julian's little hands flapped with excitement, and he lunged toward Zayn, clapping as though the world had handed him the greatest treasure. Zayn caught him easily, lifting him into his lap.
"That's right, little prince," Zayn cooed, bouncing him. "Now your mama can lean back and close those heavy eyes for a bit. I'll take care of your mischievous."
Isidore's eyelids fluttered, a sigh slipping from his lips. "I'm only nodding off for a moment…" His voice thinned into the quiet hum of fatigue.
Zayn watched him lean against the seat, finally surrendering to the exhaustion he had fought so fiercely to hide. His lashes cast faint shadows over his pale skin, and his head tilted ever so slightly toward the window.
Zayn exhaled, almost inaudibly, as he looked at him. "Stubborn man…" he muttered, tightening his hold on Julian.
Julian giggled, patting Zayn's cheek with sticky little fingers. Zayn forced a grin, pressing his nose against the boy's in playful defiance. "Don't worry, little prince. Your uncle's here. Mommy can rest, and you—" He lifted Julian, ignoring the sharp glare Isidore would have thrown him if he'd been awake. "—you can laugh as much as you like."
The boy's laughter spilled out, loud and unbroken, filling the car like sunlight.
And outside, beyond the tinted glass, the disguised kidnappers loaded the toys one by one, their eyes flickering toward the resting omega and the child in Zayn's arms. Opportunity. Temptation. Danger.
But inside the car, for a fleeting moment, Zayn allowed himself to believe that all was safe. That he could shield them both—omega and child—just as he always had.
Even as shadows crept closer, the sound of Julian's laughter rang like a fragile promise.
But then around Isidore Darkness coiled around him.
No—too familiar.
Not darkness.
That night.