The bathroom was too bright.
Too clean.
Too quiet.
Isidore braced both palms against the marble counter, his breath trembling in the mirror's reflection. His eyes — usually poised, cool, untouchable — were rimmed with a faint, furious shine.
He clenched his teeth, forcing the words through them like splinters.
"He has no right to hold my child."
His own voice startled him. Low. Bitter. Cracked.
The memory of Julian's joyous laugh — toward Tristan of all people — echoed like a slap across his chest. Jealousy surged, a sharp, humiliating heat.
"That wouldn't make me forgive him," he hissed. "Not after what he did."
His knuckles whitened as he gripped the counter.
"He's my child. Mine. I shouldn't have left him with that bastard."
The image of Julian smiling, pressed against Tristan's chest, twisted something sharp inside him. His throat constricted. A single tear wavered at the corner of his eye before he blinked it away with violent determination.
"I should've taken him back immediately… I should've…"
He didn't finish. Couldn't.
A breath shuddered out of him, and he stared at his reflection — pale, furious, unraveling.
Meanwhile, Tristan was pacing with Julian still in his arms. His usual suave, unbothered persona was completely shattered.
"Jesper, where is he?" Tristan snapped, voice shaking despite his best effort. "He's been gone too long."
The manager stood beside him, attempting calm professionalism but failing.
"Mr. Ashford… please wait in the car. I'll search for Mr. Isidore myself ."
I can't just sit here, Jesper," Tristan muttered. "Not when he's upset."
He cut himself off, jaw tightening. His grip on Julian softened as the child tugged at his collar.
"Hero… where's mama?" Julian whispered, eyes glimmering with confusion.
Tristan exhaled slowly, gentling his tone. "Mama's somewhere close, buddy. He'll come back soon."
Julian's tiny fingers curled into Tristan's shirt, trusting and warm.
Tristan felt his heart stutter painfully.
Jesper stepped forward, voice firm.
"I'll go find him, Mr. Ashford. You can trust me."
Tristan hesitated… then nodded, defeated. "Fine. But hurry."
Jesper guided him toward the back exit where their car was waiting. Tristan climbed in reluctantly, still holding Julian, eyes fixed anxiously on the restaurant entrance.
Only after ensuring Tristan was safely inside did Jesper return, heading back into the bustling restaurant.
He scanned every corner. Every hallway. Every quiet nook.
"Mr. Isidore…?" he called softly, not wanting to attract attention.
Nothing.
Then — a small movement in the corner of his eye.
Jesper exhaled in relief as he spotted the pale-haired omega standing in front of the mirror, rigid as stone.
"Mr. Isidore," Jesper said carefully.
Isidore blinked, eyes darting up to meet his reflection in the mirror, rather than looking at Jesper directly.
"Mr. Ashford is waiting in the car," Jesper continued gently. "He's… very worried."
"I'm not going back," Isidore said sharply.
Jesper froze. "Pardon?"
Isidore's voice trembled with barely restrained emotion. "That bastard always takes what's mine. Today he took my child away from me."
He turned his head sharply, another tear threatening to fall but held ruthlessly in place.
Jesper softened.
"That's not true, Mr. Isidore. Yes, Mr. Ashford is arrogant. Yes, he's reckless. But he is not… malicious. He isn't trying to steal anything from you."
Silence.
Jesper took a step closer.
"He is… truly sorry for what he did back then."
Isidore's gaze finally dropped, lashes trembling.
A long moment passed.
Then softly — almost inaudibly — he whispered, "Lead me to the car."
Jesper offered a small, relieved smile. "Of course. Come with me."
They walked together toward the exit. Jesper opened the door.
Inside, Tristan immediately leaned forward, tension slicing across his face.
The moment he saw Isidore, the breath left his chest in a visible rush.
"Finally…" Tristan exhaled, voice hoarse.
But Julian squirmed in his lap, brow furrowed with worry.
"My Mama where's my mama?" the boy called softly.
Tristan stroked Julian's hair. "He's here. Look."
Jesper opened the car door fully, and Isidore slid inside — stiff, controlled, expression unreadable.
The moment Julian saw him, he reached out with both small arms.
"Mama!"
Isidore's eyes softened. He lifted his child into his arms, holding him tightly, protectively, as Tristan watched with a quiet smile.
Julian pressed his cheek into Isidore's chest.
"I'm sorry, mama…"
Isidore blinked at the fragile voice.
His own cracked in reply. "It's okay, darling. I'm not angry."
Julian giggled with relief, clutching him tighter.
Tristan leaned back, warmth blooming in his chest.
"Did our Isidore get jealous?" he teased softly.
Isidore's jaw clenched. "None of your business."
Tristan chuckled, cheeks tinged a shy pink. "Just kidding, dear."
Isidore refused to look at him.
Jesper, now seated beside the driver, exhaled in relief.
"Shall we go now?" the driver asked.
Isidore spoke immediately. "Drop me to my home."
"Just as you wish," Jesper replied.
The car rolled forward.
But Jesper's brow furrowed.
Something felt… off again.
The driver, usually calm and professional, kept glancing suspiciously at the rear-view mirror. His shoulders were tense, his posture stiff, like someone forcing normalcy.
Jesper lifted his tablet, pretending to check schedules.
But behind the cold glow of the screen, his eyes narrowed.
The driver was acting strange again.
Too strange.
The car rolled to a gentle stop in front of Isidore's penthouse.
Leon was already there. Leaning against the car, phone in hand, he looked composed, but the subtle tension in his posture betrayed him. His eyes flicked up as Isidore emerged, Julian cradled carefully in his arms.
"Mr. Isidore," Leon said smoothly, stepping closer. "See what's happening around the world."
Isidore frowned, brow furrowing. "What… what is it?"
Leon held out his phone. The screen glowed, displaying a dozen images — Tristan holding Julian, laughing, playful, the boy pressed against his chest. Headlines flashed: "Tristan Ashford's Secret Child Revealed!"
Isidore's jaw tightened. His beige eyes widened, then narrowed, and he blinked rapidly. Tristan. The images burned into him. The boy, the laugh, the joy — all of it Tristan's doing.
He clamped his teeth together, lips pressing into a thin line. Before he could speak, the engine behind him roared to life. The car had already started its retreat.
"He— that bastard…" Isidore spat through clenched teeth, fury and helplessness mingling.
Julian stirred sleepily, laying his small head against Isidore's shoulder. Innocent, trusting. The weight of the boy soothed a fraction of the fire in Isidore's chest.
Leon's voice was low, almost conversational, but edged with warning. "Paparazzi these days… insatiable. See what they write under the photos. Everyone wants a piece of this—Mr. Ashford's secret child."
The words struck like an unexpected blow. Panic fluttered in Isidore's chest. His son. His Julian. The chaos Tristan had unleashed.
But the boy stirred again, murmuring softly, curling closer into Isidore's arms. There was no malice in Julian's gaze, only innocence and dependence.
Isidore swallowed hard. He shifted the child more securely, taking a deep breath. "It's okay, Julian. Mama's here. We'll be safe."
The front door swung open as they arrived. A maid, poised and courteous, stepped forward immediately, bowing deeply.
"Good evening, Mr. Isidore," she said softly, eyes flicking to Julian. "How may I assist you?"
"I'm tired," Isidore said, voice low, restrained. "Prepare a bath for me."
The maid hesitated, then gestured toward the child. "And Young Master? He's… asleep, on your shoulder."
Isidore glanced down at Julian, soft blonde curls brushing his cheeks, the small rise and fall of his chest betraying deep slumber. A faint, weary smile tugged at Isidore's lips.
"It's fine," he murmured. "I'll take him to his room myself."
The maid nodded in understanding, stepping aside to allow them passage.
Isidore moved slowly, carefully, up the grand staircase. The marble beneath his feet echoed faintly, each step measured, deliberate. Julian stirred slightly, pressing closer, a tiny sigh of contentment escaping him.
The city beyond the penthouse windows shimmered in gold and silver, oblivious to the private storm inside. Isidore's grip tightened gently around Julian, an anchor against the chaos that Tristan had set loose.
Reaching the corridor that led to Julian's room, Isidore paused. He inhaled, steadying the boy.
A shadow shifted near the doorway. His personal bodyguard, tall and vigilant, stepped back instinctively the moment Isidore reached the door. There was a flicker of hesitation in the guard's eyes — a silent acknowledgment of who truly held authority here.
Finally, Isidore entered the room, placing Julian carefully on the bed. He tucked the blankets around him with meticulous care, brushing stray curls from the boy's forehead. Julian stirred slightly, murmuring in his sleep, pressing closer to the safety of his father's—or rather, his omega's—presence.
Tristan sat back in the leather seat, pouting as he spoke.
"Why did you suddenly call to start the engine?" His tone was sulky, almost theatrically wounded. "I didn't even have time to say goodbye to my beloved."
Jesper exhaled, a mixture of patience and exasperation etched into his posture. He didn't look up, eyes fixed on his tablet as he spoke.
"You know nothing about the outside world, Mr. Ashford."
Tristan tilted his head, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his lips, unbothered. Jesper scrolled through his tablet again, and this time, the images stopped him dead.
It was everywhere. Tristan. Julian. The delicate omega with them — Isidore. The pictures had gone viral, exploding across screens around the globe. Headlines screamed, millions of eyes glued to the chaotic intimacy of their moment.
Jesper blinked rapidly. "Mr. Ashford… you've already made trouble." He turned the tablet toward Tristan, who leaned forward casually, curious but faintly amused.
Tristan took it, brows raised, scanning the images of himself, Julian, and Isidore smiling, laughing, He smirked.
"What's actually wrong with it?" he asked lightly, blue eyes glinting. "Let the world know. The child is mine, so is Isidore."
Jesper pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know nothing. Mr. Ashford. This… chaos isn't some mere situation. You have no idea how this will spiral."
Tristan's grin widened. He whistled softly, carefree, unconcerned. "Chaos? Jesper, this isn't chaos. This is… pride."
Tristan's lips curved into a fond smile, thoughts drifting uncontrollably. The scene replayed in his mind: Isidore, delicate yet unyielding, stealing bites of velvet cake, cheeks flushed, lips trembling with sweet, secret indulgence.
His own cheeks warmed at the memory, a rare flush of vulnerability hidden beneath his usual bravado.
Jesper groaned softly, looking at Tristan like he had lost all patience — but also knowing it was pointless to argue. Tristan had always been impossible when it came to matters of the heart.
The driver's gaze never wavered. Dark eyes, deep and unreadable, followed Tristan's every subtle movement.
He said nothing. Not a word. Just observed.
Outside, the city blurred past, neon lights and towering screens reflecting in the tinted windows. Tristan's attention was elsewhere, soft blue eyes tracing the world beyond the glass, cheeks faintly flushed. He whistled a low, careless tune, a private melody for a moment that felt impossibly his own.
Jesper, seated beside the driver, didn't notice Tristan. His focus was locked on the tablet, scrolling, scanning, cataloging. Every headline, every viral image, every comment on the unfolding chaos — he absorbed it like a man mapping a battlefield.
The car slowed. The engine hummed low, a purr beneath tense silence.
"Everything is according to the plane," the driver said finally. Voice smooth, unshaken. But there was something in the curl of his lips — a subtle, dangerous amusement.
Tristan didn't heard him, distracted by the city lights sliding past, by the memory of Isidore's flushed cheeks, the soft laughter of Julian, the stolen sweetness of a private moment.
Jesper's gaze didn't lift. He didn't flinch. But inside, tension coiled like a snake.
Tristan, oblivious, leaned closer to the window, whistling again, blue eyes distant. The warmth in his chest for Isidore and Julian burned quietly beneath the rising storm outside.
The driver smiled, faint and predatory, a shadow of intentions yet to unfold. The plan, the deceit, the perfect framing — all waiting, ready to strike.
And in the back of the car, Jesper and Tristan remained unaware of just how close the danger had already crept.