The plates arrived with a soft clink — silver domes lifted, steam curling upward like warm ribbons.
Julian gasped first.
Tristan smiled second.
Isidore… froze.
Because right in front of him sat a slice of velvet-red cake, lush and perfect, its cream catching the chandelier light like soft snow.
His cake.
His absolute favorite.
His beige eyes widened for a single, traitorous second — a spark of wonder flickering through them — before he shoved it down, schooling his face into neutrality so hard his jaw twitched.
Tristan noticed.
Of course he did.
He scratched the back of his neck, trying to sound casual. "Uh… why aren't you eating?"
Isidore kept his gaze locked on his lap, cheeks warming. "I'm not hungry."
A bold-faced lie. His stomach growled at that exact moment — audibly.
Julian was too busy inhaling half the table to notice.
Tristan, unfortunately, was not.
He leaned a little closer, eyes glimmering. "Isidore… isn't that your favorite cake?"
Then — the crime.
The audacity.
Tristan picked up the fork.
He approached the cake.
Isidore's head snapped up, his glare sharp enough to cut marble.
Tristan froze mid-slice.
"Okay, okay!" he surrendered instantly, hands up. "I'm not eating it!"
Isidore stilled.
He didn't move a muscle, but desire flashed in his eyes — raw, hungry, unguarded.
But he refused to reach out.
Not in front of Tristan. Not when pride was the only armor he had left.
Tristan… understood that too.
And because he was Tristan, he improvised.
He grabbed his phone and turned discreetly away.
"Hello? Yes. I'm busy right now."
He wasn't busy.
He wasn't talking to anyone.
He was giving Isidore an opening.
And Isidore — poor, starved, stubborn Isidore — took it.
The moment Tristan angled his body away, Isidore swooped forward in a movement quick enough to be criminal. He dragged the entire plate toward his side of the table, slipped the fork between his fingers, and—
A tiny lick of his lower lip.
Lightning fast.
Sweet, involuntary.
Tristan nearly dropped his damn phone.
Isidore took the first bite.
A small, quiet sound escaped him — barely audible, soft as breath.
But Tristan heard it.
Every hair on the back of his neck stood up.
Isidore's cheeks flushed a delicate pink, his lashes lowering as he took another bite, savoring every crumb like he'd never tasted sweetness before.
Tristan swallowed.
Hard.
He pretended to continue his phone call, but his eyes kept sliding sideways, stealing glances.
His Isidore — adorable, blushy, lost in a velvet-red dream — eating cake like it was forbidden treasure.
And Tristan's heart, the stupid traitor, skipped a beat.
For the first time ever, Tristan didn't mind acting.
Didn't mind pretending.
Didn't mind playing the fool.
Not when Isidore's hidden softness was right there — glowing, irresistible, real — for him alone to witness.
He tilted the phone and whispered under his breath, a smile tugging at his lips:
"…If this is what it takes to see him like that… I'll act every damn day."
Julian's laugh rang out, sticky and triumphant. His entire mouth was smeared with chocolate, crumbs clinging to the corners like tiny trophies.
"Mama!" he crowed, deliberately pressing his small, messy face toward Isidore. The gesture was demanding, playful, innocent — an invitation for care.
Isidore's beige eyes softened, a fleeting warmth breaking through the usual restraint. He reached for a napkin, tenderly wiping at Julian's chocolate-streaked lips, his fingers brushing lightly against the soft skin of his son's cheeks.
The plate before him was empty. Every last crumb of the velvet cake had vanished, leaving only the faint scent of cocoa and sweetness lingering in the air. Isidore's fingers still glistened with remnants of the cake, and he licked them discreetly, caught between pride and indulgence.
Tristan's gaze had been fixed elsewhere, finishing the pretending of a phone call, but now he noticed. The faint smear at the corner of Isidore's lips, subtle yet betraying.
Before Isidore could wipe it himself, Tristan leaned forward, precise and deliberate. His fingers brushed against Isidore's mouth, removing the tiniest crumb.
The contact was electric. Tristan froze, heat rushing to his cheeks. The blush burned, a quiet storm beneath his composed exterior.
Isidore's eyes widened, caught entirely off-guard. He turned sharply, gaze snapping away, his own cheeks blooming with color. A delicate tension filled the space between them, charged and intimate.
Tristan straightened, slowly, deliberately, letting his hand fall, but the flush remained. His movements were careful now, shy in a way that contrasted with his usual confident poise.
"There was… something on your…" he began, voice low, hesitant, the words tumbling out with uncharacteristic vulnerability.
"I can clean it myself," Isidore interrupted, tone clipped but soft at the edges. His fingers absently wiped at his mouth, betraying the faint tremor in his composure.
Tristan's smile widened, a dangerous mix of amusement and quiet triumph. He leaned back just enough to regain control, but the warmth in his gaze never wavered.
His blue eyes held Isidore's with an unspoken admission: I've noticed. I'm enjoying every little moment of you.
Isidore's hands stilled for a fraction of a heartbeat, just enough for Tristan to see the hesitation, the subtle surrender behind the veneer of restraint. Then, reluctantly, he turned his attention back to Julian, cheeks still tinted, lips still glimmering with sweetness.
Tristan exhaled softly, savoring the stolen intimacy, and for once, the act of pretending — the charade he had so expertly maintained — felt like the truest thing in the world.
Julian, oblivious to the charged quiet, giggled again, smearing chocolate across his little chin.
"Again! Mama! More cake!"
Isidore sighed, brushing a hand through his hair with a tender exasperation. Tristan, still flushed, leaned just slightly closer, catching the faint scent of chocolate and sugar, and smiled — wide, unapologetic, and utterly captivated.
The world outside the restaurant, with its noise and chaos, ceased to exist. Here, in this quiet cocoon, the three of them shared stolen moments of sweetness, laughter, and small, perfect touches that no one else could witness.
Tristan leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over it with easy arrogance, his voice slipping into a velvet drawl.
"So I just turn on my phone for a moment," he teased, "and suddenly the plate looks like it was washed clean."
Isidore's cheeks shot scarlet.
He jerked his head away so fast his glasses nearly slid off.
"None of your business," he muttered, too sharply, too defensively.
Tristan blinked—then flushed himself, the red climbing all the way to the tips of his ears.
"I was just kidding, darling," he said, half-laughing, half–sure-he-was-about-to-be-stabbed-with-a-fork. "Why are you so furious?"
Julian answered with a squeal, oblivious to the tension weaving between his parents.
"Mama! I want to play with my hero!"
Isidore turned toward his son, face softening but still pink.
"No, darling. We should get going."
Julian shook his head with the full stubbornness of a tiny king denying an empire's decree.
"No, Mama! I want to play with my hero!"
Tristan smirked over the child's head, a slow, wicked little curve of lips aimed directly at Isidore.
Isidore clenched his jaw in return, the look of a man enduring the world's most glamorous migraine.
"Up! Up!" Julian shouted, grabbing Tristan's sleeve.
"Whatever you say, dear," Tristan chuckled.
He lifted Julian into the air effortlessly.
"Mama, look!" Julian giggled, flailing with joy as Tristan held him higher.
Isidore stiffened instantly.
"If my child gets hurt," he hissed, "I'll kill you."
Tristan laughed softly, completely unfazed.
"Take it easy, dear. I'm not letting my child get hurt."
Isidore froze.
My child.
The words hit him like an unexpected blow.
He looked at Tristan—really looked—and Tristan wasn't even aware he'd said anything monumental. He was too busy hoisting Julian higher, making him shriek with delight.
The sound of their laughter—deep and bright, father and son—filled the vastness.
Isidore blinked, long and slow, something fragile twisting in his chest.
He turned away, lips thinning, voice barely a whisper meant for no one at all.
"You shouldn't have done anything from the beginning…"
He didn't realize a paparazzi camera had clicked from somewhere across the restaurant.
A child in Tristan's arms.
An omega sitting beside them.
The perfect secret family portrait.
Tristan lowered Julian slightly.
"Is that enough?" he asked the little boy with a grin.
But Julian clung to his shirt, shaking his head.
"I want you to stay with me," he babbled, the words innocent and heartbreakingly earnest.
Both Tristan and Isidore froze.
Isidore whispered sharply, "Julian. Come on. Let's go," reaching out.
But Julian nestled deeper into Tristan's chest.
Tristan's voice softened into something painfully gentle.
"Do you want your hero to stay with you, hm?"
Julian nodded, curls bouncing, the same crystalline blue eyes as Tristan's widening with pure adoration.
Isidore's breath hitched.
He couldn't drag Julian away—not when his son looked that happy.
But watching them—watching Julian cling to Tristan with that fierce, instinctive attachment—sparked something hot and unwelcome inside him.
Jealousy.
Sharp, humiliating, and impossible to hide.
His lips pouted unconsciously, cheeks burning as he tore his gaze away, pretending to focus on absolutely anything else. A salt shaker. A napkin. The overpriced chandelier.
Tristan noticed all of it.
His smirk softened into something far warmer.
"Then we'll have some fun, hm?" he told Julian.
Isidore snapped his gaze toward him, offended and flustered all at once.
"Let go of my child. I want to take him back."
"Let us have some time," Tristan countered, voice calm but firm.
Julian pleaded softly too—
"Please, Mama…"
Isidore's breath stuttered.
The child's face—Tristan's eyes, Tristan's trembling lower lip—was too much to bear.
Julian's mouth wobbled.
His crystalline-blue eyes grew shiny, quivering like glass about to crack.
And then—
He cried.
Tiny, soft sobs muffled against Tristan's shirt as he burrowed deeper into the man's chest.
Tristan froze for a second—but then instinct took over.
"Hey, hey… don't cry, dear," he whispered, bouncing Julian gently. "I'll play with you. Don't cry."
The guilt slammed into Isidore like a blow.
He'd made his baby cry.
His lungs tightened. His hands trembled at his sides.
He felt trapped—caught between pride, fear, and an emotion he didn't even want to name.
Tristan met his gaze over Julian's small shaking shoulders.
Blue meeting beige.
Accusation meeting agony.
Want meeting guilt.
Finally, Isidore swallowed, voice low and defeated.
"…Fine. Do whatever you want."
He turned—turned away too quickly, too abruptly—as if escape was the only choice left to prevent his heart from spilling out of his ribcage.
And then he ran.
Not dramatically, not with a scene—
but with quiet desperation, slipping between tables, disappearing into the restaurant's marble corridors like a ghost fleeing the light.
"Isidore!" Tristan called, shifting Julian to one arm.
"Isidore, wait!"
But his omega didn't stop.
He didn't even look back.
Tristan took a step after him—
but Julian whimpered in his arms, clutching tighter.
Tristan froze in place.
He looked down at the trembling little boy.
Then toward the direction Isidore vanished.
Caught.
Stuck between two people he loved more than breath itself.
"Where is mama?" Julian sniffed, voice small as a teardrop.
Tristan exhaled.
His heart was now split down the middle—
between the child who clung to him
and the omega running from him.
And he had no idea which one needed him more.
Tristan stood frozen in the private dining hall, Julian curled tightly against his chest, small fingers fisted in his shirt.
The room felt suddenly too bright, too exposed.
He couldn't go after Isidore—not like this.
Not when one step into the main hall would have half the restaurant shrieking his name, flashing cameras like a firing squad.
And not when he had a trembling child in his arms.
His pulse hammered.
He fumbled for his phone with one hand, nearly dropping it as Julian whimpered.
"Shh… it's alright, darling," Tristan murmured, kissing the boy's hair before pressing the call button.
Jesper answered immediately, voice crisp.
"Have you finished your lunch, Mr Ashford?"
"yes." Tristan's tone cracked with impatience.
"Jesper, I need you inside. Now."
A pause.
"…Inside the restaurant?"
"Yes," Tristan hissed. "I have Julian in my hands and—" His voice dropped, frayed with worry.
"—Isidore got away. He ran off. I don't want anything happening to him."
Jesper straightened on the other end; Tristan could hear it.
"Understood, Mr Ashford. I'm coming right away."
The line clicked off.
Tristan exhaled sharply, bouncing Julian gently as he paced a small circle.
Seconds crawled like torturous hours.
His mind spiraled with images—
Isidore stumbling, lost, cornered, crying—
He gritted his teeth, throat tight.
I can't lose you. Not even for a minute.
"mama where is mama?" Julian whispered, rubbing his eyes against Tristan's collar.
Tristan held him closer.
"Don't worry, sweetheart… we'll find him. I promise."
But inside, his heartbeat wouldn't calm.
Jesper needed to hurry—
because Tristan Ashford, adored by millions, envied by half the world, was shaking like a man afraid of the dark.
And the only darkness he feared
was a world where Isidore wasn't in sight.