The corridor was hushed, sunlight slanting faintly through the tall windows, scattering dust like golden flecks of sleep. Julian stood near the doorway, his little teddy dangling by one paw, its fur brushing against the polished marble. His glassy eyes blinked, curious and trusting, as he watched two unfamiliar men carrying boxes—his toys—into the house.
In the living room, Isidore lay slumped on the couch. One hand pressed to his temple, his body curled faintly inward as a sharp ache tore through his skull. His head throbbed mercilessly. His breaths were shallow, uneven, mind swirling with pain and exhaustion. He barely noticed the faint echo of footsteps at the entrance.
That moment of weakness was all it took.
The first stranger crouched near Julian, his smile stretched too wide, too eager. His voice softened into something almost coaxing.
"Hey. Hey, little guy."
Julian's head tilted, curls bouncing as he giggled. His teddy swung in rhythm with his tiny steps as he shuffled closer. He didn't hear the danger in that voice, didn't see the hunger behind those eyes. He only heard a man calling him like an old friend.
"Come on," the stranger urged gently, leading him toward the open door. "Let's play outside."
Julian's laughter chimed through the hall. He followed obediently, a bird chasing crumbs, unknowing of the trap.
The man glanced down, his heart hammering. Up close, Julian was smaller than he imagined—fragile, beautiful, unbearably innocent. His little lips parted in a smile, his cheeks round with baby softness.
Unable to resist, the stranger scooped him up. Julian squealed in surprise, tiny arms flailing before looping instinctively around the man's neck. His giggle bubbled against the silence, lighting it with warmth.
The kidnapper's breath caught. Something sharp and unnameable struck his chest as he held the boy tight.
From behind, his companion's voice snapped, sharp with disdain.
"We almost have him. Hurry up!"
The man cradling Julian ignored the irritation, pressing his cheek against the boy's hair. "Little baby do you wants some ice cream, hmm?" His tone was awkward, forced into sweetness.
Julian's eyes lit instantly. He clapped his small hands, his voice tumbling out in broken blabber.
"Ice… squeeem!"
The man's chest tightened again, strange heat rising to his face. His cheeks flushed red. His eyes burned, wide and unsettled.
His partner curled his lip in disgust.
"Pathetic. Look at you. Shameless—cooing like that."
"You'll never understand," the one holding Julian muttered darkly, hugging the child closer.
Outside, the waiting car slid smoothly to the curb, its engine rumbling. Their driver tapped the wheel impatiently, eyes darting nervously across the empty street.
The two men hurried down the marble steps. The one carrying Julian moved carefully, protectively, as though the child were precious glass. Julian nestled against his shoulder, still babbling, enchanted by the thought of "sceeem."
The companion opened the door with a hiss of urgency. "Get in. Quickly."
The man shifted Julian against his chest and climbed into the backseat, the boy perched on his lap. Teddy fell onto the leather floor, forgotten. The other slammed the door shut behind them.
The car jolted forward, tires scraping the gravel. Within seconds, the building slipped away, swallowed by distance.
Julian didn't understand. He only knew he was going somewhere new, with strangers who gave him promises and smiles. His little eyes sparkled with innocence, trusting even when he shouldn't. He hummed softly, clutching at the man's shirt.
Behind them, high above in the penthouse, Isidore stirred faintly on the couch. His chest tightened suddenly, breath catching in a phantom shiver. The silence around him was wrong, hollow. Somewhere deep in his instincts, he already felt it—something precious had been torn from him.
At the threshold of the open door, the stillness screamed.
The little boy who once filled the air with laughter was gone.
Julian's presence had vanished.
The suite was thick with silence, broken only by the faint clink of crystal against glass. Tristan Ashford lounged on the velvet couch, a half-empty goblet of wine in hand, when his men filed in. Their boots were hushed against the carpet, their posture rigid as steel.
One of them bowed slightly.
"Master… it has been confirmed. The child—Isidore Davenant's child—was taken."
Tristan's fingers stilled. The stem of the glass glimmered between his knuckles, fragile as bone. He set it down with deliberate grace on the polished oak table. A soft tch escaped his mouth, sharp enough to cut.
"So," his voice drawled, cold and biting. "They really dared to do something like that." His crystalline blue eyes darkened, glassy with contempt. "And tell me… how did Isidore—fool that he is—allow his son to be taken so easily?"
The thought of it twisted inside him, deeper than anger. The vision of Isidore—so easily marked, so easily touched, so easily claimed—gnawed at him. And now his child, just as easily, stolen away. Tristan's jaw clenched hard enough that the muscle jumped. Jealousy flared, raw and uninvited, searing through his chest.
He leaned back on the couch, one leg crossed languidly over the other, though his hand raked impatiently through his crimson hair. His men exchanged quick glances, unsure whether to speak or hold their tongues.
"Get out," Tristan murmured, almost lazily, though the sharpness in his tone was undeniable.
They bowed once more, vanishing from the room like ghosts.
The moment the door shut, Tristan reached for his phone. His thumb tapped the familiar number without hesitation. The call hummed in the silence, connecting.
---
In Isidore's bedroom, the air was heavy with antiseptic and worry. Zayn sat rigid in the chair beside the bed, his lilac eyes flickering constantly toward Isidore's pale face. The doctor, Maurice, hovered with his usual scowl, muttering under his breath as he adjusted his instruments.
Then the phone buzzed.
Zayn frowned, glancing at the screen. His heart nearly stopped. Tristan Ashford.
His throat went dry. He almost dropped the device, fingers trembling. Gathering every ounce of composure, he forced his voice into something even, something calm.
"Mr. Ashford," he greeted, "how may I help you?"
On the other side of the line, Tristan swirled his wine lazily, lips curving into a dangerous smirk.
"Maverick. Tell me—did your cousin's child just get abducted?"
The question sliced through Zayn like a blade. His eyes widened in horror, breath catching. He nearly stammered, nearly gave himself away, but forced the words out smoothly:
"No, Mr. Ashford. Who told you such a thing?"
A vein pulsed at Tristan's temple, his jaw tightening with visible anger.
"Maverick. Don't play with me." His voice dipped, a growl beneath the silk. "I know. I know Isidore has a son. Are you really that shy, that you couldn't tell me?"
Zayn's blood drained cold. He tried to keep steady. "Never, Mr. Ashford. I would never hide such a thing from you."
"Good," Tristan purred, though his tone was venom. Then, without hesitation: "So tell me—which alpha is the father of Isidore's child?"
The world seemed to tilt. Zayn's breath locked in his chest, his lilac eyes blowing wide as if the air had been stolen. His expression faltered—just for a second. And that second was enough.
Across the line, Tristan's face hardened. Fury coiled like smoke in his veins. His instincts hissed the truth he didn't want to accept.
"It's you, isn't it?" His words cracked with restrained rage. "You."
Zayn's lips parted, desperate to protest. "Mr. Ashford, please—listen to me. There isn't anything between me and Davenant—"
The line went dead.
Tristan tossed the phone aside, his hand curling into a fist. His breath was ragged, uneven, poisoned with jealousy that seared hotter than the wine on his tongue.
"So. That pretty face… claimed by Zayn Maverick." His laugh was short, humorless, broken. "Good. Too good."
He leaned back, closing his eyes, but the fire in his chest only roared higher.
---
Meanwhile, Zayn stared at the silent phone in his hand, his pulse drumming violently in his throat. His chest tightened with fear—not for himself, but for Isidore. How on earth had Tristan discovered Julian?
A sudden sound split his thoughts.
Screams.
He jolted, rushing to the bedroom door. Isidore was thrashing faintly on the bed, glassy-eyed, his voice raw. Maurice hovered at his side, barking in irritation.
"Stay still! Do you want to collapse again?"
But Isidore shoved at him, desperation burning through his frail body. His voice cracked, hoarse and wild.
"Step away! I want to see my child—let me see my Julian!"
Zayn crossed the room in an instant, crouching beside the bed. His hand hovered, uncertain, above Isidore's trembling arm.
"Davenant, please," he said urgently. "Calm yourself."
Isidore's eyes, wide and glassy, turned to him with the weight of all his terror. "Where is my Julian?" His voice broke, raw and trembling. "Where is my son?"
Zayn's heart clenched. He wanted to promise, to soothe, but the words tasted like ash. "We will rescue Julian, Davenant. On time. Please—trust me."
But Isidore was inconsolable. He struggled to sit up, shaking his head violently.
"No! I can't wait. What if—what if they hurt him? What if something happens to my child?" Tears brimmed in his eyes, though they refused to fall. "I must act. I must gather the money now."
Maurice muttered, scowling, "This is madness. I'll resign before this chaos kills me."
Isidore swung his legs weakly from the bed, determination trembling in every line of his body. But Zayn caught him by the elbow, voice rising in uncharacteristic fury.
"For Julian's sake, Isidore Davenant, calm yourself!"
The words cracked through the room.
Isidore froze, staring at him with wide, wounded eyes. His mouth pressed into a thin line, lips trembling faintly. Glassy beige shimmered under the dim light.
Shame pierced Zayn's chest immediately. He loosened his grip, his voice softening, broken.
"I… I'm sorry, Davenant. I didn't mean to raise my voice."
Isidore tore his arm away and fell back against the mattress, his head bowing low, pale hair spilling across his face. His shoulders quivered faintly, though his voice came hollow and flat.
"I don't care what it takes. I only want Julian. My Julian. Nothing else matters."
Zayn stood beside the bed, chest heavy with guilt and fear. His own hands shook as he whispered:
"I promise… we'll bring him back. On time."
But the promise hung in the air like smoke—fragile, thin, and already broken.
The silence after Zayn's promise barely lasted a breath.
Isidore, suddenly pushed himself up from the bed with more strength than anyone thought he had left. His pale frame wavered, but determination steeled his every step.
"Davenant—" Zayn moved instinctively to steady him.
Isidore shoved him aside with surprising force, his breath harsh, his eyes restless. His bare feet struck the cold marble as he crossed the room and went straight to the tall ivory-and-gold wardrobe. His hands shook, but his movements were mercilessly precise as he fitted the key into the hidden lock.
The click of the mechanism echoed like a gunshot.
He flung the doors wide. Rows of silken garments swayed like ghosts, but Isidore ignored them. His hands plunged to the back, pulling open a chest concealed beneath the folds of velvet. Stacks of crisp notes glimmered faintly in the light. He seized them, ruthless in his urgency, and began cramming them into a leather bag he had dragged from the shelf.
Zayn stepped forward, voice tense.
"Davenant. Didn't I tell you—we'll figure this out."
The sharp snap of Isidore's head silenced him. His beige hair whipped sideways, silken strands catching the lamplight. His soft beige eyes blazed like dust, cutting straight through Zayn.
"Step back, Zayn." His voice cracked with authority, trembling with rage and grief. "Julian is my son. And I should be the one to rescue him."
The words hung in the air, heavy and final.
Zayn's chest tightened. He lowered his gaze, guilt burning at the edges of his composure.
Behind them, Doctor Maurice folded his arms, exhaling through his nose in sharp disapproval. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw set in a scowl. "Madness," he muttered under his breath. "Every visit to this house shortens my life. I should resign before it swallows me whole."
Isidore didn't hear him. His hands worked quickly, methodically. He gathered the last of the money, forcing the bulging bag closed with trembling fingers. His breath came in shallow bursts, sweat glistening faintly at his temple.
He paused—just for a heartbeat—before the bedside table. His gaze fell on the silver frame perched there. Julian's little figure beamed back at him, frozen in joy: hair the same soft beige as his own, eyes crystalline blue, too bright for the world.
Isidore's throat closed. His fingers hovered over the frame but did not touch. Instead, he clenched the handle of the bag tighter.
Without a word, he strode forward. He brushed past Zayn, who instinctively reached to stop him.
"Wait, Davenant," Zayn urged, his voice breaking against the rising storm. He followed quickly, desperate to catch him before he did something reckless. "Listen to me—just once, listen."
But Isidore's steps never faltered. His resolve had hardened into something unshakable. He didn't want comfort, nor patience, nor anyone's counsel.
All he cared about was Julian.
Nothing else.