The studio lights burned white-hot against Tristan's cheekbones, tracing clean angles across his face as though the cameras already claimed him—even before the director yelled a single cue.
He leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed loosely over the other, boredom dripping from every inch of his posture.
Dominion Enterprises had swallowed the entire production today, from equipment to actors to the inevitable waves of gossip. And Tristan Ashford—superstar, headline-maker, chaos-bringer—had the audacity to look bored about it.
The set buzzed, cables snaking like veins across the floor. Assistants rushed past, lugging props, makeup kits, and armfuls of scripts. The air throbbed with heat, caffeine, and the quiet panic only film crews possessed.
But all Tristan cared about was one man sitting far away at the back table.
Isidore Davenant.
Omega. Quiet. Cold as marble. Crisp as winter wind. And currently pretending Tristan did not exist.
Tristan's jaw tightened.
Not for long.
Kai Grayson had been circling the mirror like a moth drunk on its own reflection. Bright brown eyes, soft blond waves, lips smudged beautifully by makeup—the picture of delicate, eager omega star-power. He tugged his loose shirt down, exposing the fake bruise applied to his collarbone.
"Oh, Mr. Ashford won't be able to handle this look," Kai muttered, hands cupping his cheeks dramatically. "He'll say I look too fragile… or too beautiful… or maybe he'll—"
Zayn Maverick, towering, impossibly immaculate in a black suit, cut him off.
"Stop fantasizing about your co-stars," he said dryly. "Your makeup is done. Stand straight. Try looking less like you're about to faint from your own imagination."
Kai pouted, offended. "I'm just preparing mentally for my scene. And… what if Tristan compliments me? I should look ready."
Zayn exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"You won't get anything from him. Mr. Ashford's mind is occupied. He's—how do I say it politely—having complications."
Kai's eyes widened. "Complications?"
Zayn raised both hands in the air, theatrical as only he could be.
"Romantic ones."
Kai gasped, scandal blooming in his eyes like fireworks. He glanced toward the table where Isidore sat, flipping through files with cold precision.
"You mean… your assistant is truly… involved with him?"
Zayn groaned. "No. Isidore is just doing his job. Mr. Ashford is the one chasing him like an untrained wolf pup."
Kai blinked, stunned. Then, jealousy sparked sharply, viciously.
"Ridiculous," he muttered. "I'm far more breathtaking than him. My body's smoother, my lips are more delicate—"
Zayn made a face. "Please. Don't list your physical attributes to me."
Kai huffed and stomped off—but not before stealing another poisonous glare at Isidore.
On the other side of the studio, Tristan rose slowly, stretching his arms in a lazy arc.
His gaze locked on Isidore.
And like a gravitational shift, the entire world tilted.
Isidore sat with his legs crossed, His hair fell over his temple in a soft silver sweep. Omega pheromones coiled faintly around him — restrained but there — a scent Tristan could track blindfolded in a hurricane.
He walked toward him.
Whistling.
Soft. Dangerous. Entirely Tristan.
Isidore's back stiffened, but he didn't look up.
Tristan leaned over him, voice dropping low.
"What are you doing, dear?"
Isidore's jaw clenched. He turned a page without acknowledging him.
Tristan smiled.
"So my baby is ignoring me today?"
Isidore's head snapped up, eyes flashing. "Don't call me that."
"Mmm," Tristan leaned closer, breath brushing Isidore's ear. "But it suits you."
"Tristan," Isidore warned. "This is a workplace."
"And I'm working very hard," Tristan whispered. "At winning your attention."
Isidore's breath hitched—barely—but Tristan caught it like a thief catches shadows.
Kai saw everything.
His heart sank. His stomach twisted. Jealousy carved an ugly grin inside him.
He stormed off toward the changing rooms, face flaming.
Zayn watched him go and muttered, "And here I thought today would be peaceful."
"Mr. Ashford."
Zayn approached, clapping a hand on Tristan's shoulder with forced enthusiasm.
"Everything is ready. The cameras, the stage—just waiting on your grand presence."
Tristan tilted his head smugly. "Who else could fill my place of course it will be me"
Behind him, Kai approached, starstruck and trembling slightly.
"I—it's an honor to meet you, Mr. Ashford," he stuttered. "I'm Kai Grayson. I play the supporting role in your—"
"Mm. That's great," Tristan said flatly, not even glancing at him.
Kai blinked, wounded.
"But Mr, Ashford —"
"can't you see we are busy."
Tristan walked away, bored beyond belief.
Kai stood frozen, humiliation crawling up his neck.
Zayn sighed. "Don't take it personally."
Kai snapped, "But why was he so rude to me?!"
"He's been… distracted lately," Zayn replied. "Emotionally."
Kai's voice sharpened. "Do you mean… he really is in an affair?"
Zayn made a helpless gesture. "It's not Isidore's fault. Mr. Ashford simply can't control himself. He's glued to Davenant like a toddler gripping a candy stick."
Kai nearly choked.
"That plain assistant?"
Zayn chuckled humorlessly. "Plain? Isidore is an omega that half the elite would pay to breathe near. Classy, calm, infuriatingly composed. That's exactly why Mr. Ashford—"
Kai cut him off. "Whatever. I'm more stunning."
"Debatable," Zayn said.
Kai scowled and stormed away again.
Meanwhile, Tristan hovered behind Isidore like a persistent, overgrown shadow.
"Still ignoring me?" he teased, leaning dangerously close.
"You greedy bastard," Isidore hissed, eyes fixed on his paperwork, "Just get the hell out of here."
"I'm going to check the lighting arrangement," he muttered.
"Again You're running away," Tristan said softly.
Isidore didn't deny it. He simply walked off, jaw set.
Tristan watched him go.
Every step, every sway of breath, every quiet note of his omega scent pulled Tristan tighter, deeper, hungrier.
He wanted him—no, he ached for him.
Near the studio exit, another pair of eyes watched Tristan too.
The driver.
Dominion Enterprises' assigned transport. Dark eyes, darker intentions. He had driven Tristan, saying nothing, listening to everything.
Now he leaned against the doorway, expression unreadable.
Tristan and Isidore.
Zayn.
Kai.
Jesper.
He had observed it all.
His lips curved slowly.
Once this day ended—
once Tristan left the studio—
he knew exactly what to do.
Framing Zayn Maverick would be easy.
And chaos?
Chaos was already on set.
He slid out of sight as Tristan whistled again, cheeks tinged faintly pink, picturing Isidore's flustered expression.
The driver whispered to no one:
"Perfect."
Kai slammed the door of the changing room behind him, breath coming out in frustrated puffs. The mirror caught his reflection instantly—a beautiful omega with porcelain skin, honey-blond hair, and soft lips shaped for compliments.
He glared at himself.
"I'm perfect," he muttered. "Absolutely perfect. I'm more delicate than him. More graceful. More omega."
His hands flew up to his face as if reaffirming the truth.
"Tristan Ashford likes delicate omegas. Everyone knows it. Then why—" his voice cracked with indignation, "—why is he falling for Isidore? That plain, cold, unbothered little—"
A sound snapped the air behind him.
Kai froze.
He turned slowly, heartbeat thumping up his throat.
"…Who's there?"
Silence. Then, a shadow detached from the corner.
The driver stepped into the dim light.
Kai blinked, taken aback. He didn't recognize the man's clothes—simple black, sleeves rolled, collar unremarkable. But his eyes were wrong. Too calm. Too sharp. Like someone who spent a lifetime observing chaos and learning how to shape it.
Kai stiffened. "W-who are you?"
The driver smiled faintly. "No one."
Kai's brow furrowed. "Then why are you here? This area is restricted. How did you even get in?"
"I have a special offer," the driver said, strolling closer, slow as a dark tide. "One I think would be… perfect to your liking."
Kai backed up instinctively, hitting the makeup table.
"What offer?" he demanded, voice trembling with suspicion.
The driver tilted his head. "Something simple. Something you've already been wishing for."
Kai scowled. "Speak clearly."
"You want Tristan Ashford to notice you," the driver said, voice smooth as oiled silk. "You want him to look at you the way he looks at… Isidore."
Kai's heartbeat hitched.
"That's none of your business,"
"You hate Isidore," the driver interrupted calmly, stepping closer. "Don't you?"
Kai clenched his jaw. His eyes dropped. Shame and fury twisted inside him.
"Yes," he whispered. "I hate him. But that's my problem, not yours—"
"My boss," the driver said softly, "is willing to make you a brighter star. One even Ashford won't be able to ignore."
Kai looked up sharply.
"Your boss?"
"He's very generous," the driver murmured, "especially toward those who want more attention… more admiration… more spotlight."
Kai hesitated. "And what would I need to do?"
The driver leaned in, his smile stretching into something thin and chilling.
"I'll tell you," he breathed. "But listen carefully."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Outside on the main floor, Zayn sat on a wide studio couch, flipping through pages of the production binder. His foot tapped rhythmically against the marble tile—impatient but composed.
He lifted his head.
"Davenant, come here."
Isidore adjusted his round glasses, brushing a stray lock of silver hair from his forehead before walking over.
"What happened now?" he asked. His tone remained even, but the slight tension tightening his shoulders had Zayn smirking internally.
"When will the shooting begin?" Isidore continued.
"In a moment," Zayn said. "We're just waiting on Kai."
Isidore frowned lightly. "I've never heard of him before. Is he new?"
Zayn nodded. "Brand new. I want fresh faces in this project. A full revamp of the cast lineup."
Jesper, seated nearby with a tablet balanced on one leg, was typing out Tristan's updated schedule when he noticed Isidore flipping his file for the tenth time.
He approached quietly. "Mr. Davenant… is something bothering you?"
Isidore didn't look up. "Ask your client."
Jesper sighed deeply. "I know, I know. Mr. Ashford is… sometimes insufferable."
Isidore snorted softly. "Sometimes?"
Jesper's expression wilted. "…Most times."
Isidore's lips twitched, barely, but it vanished instantly. He closed the file sharply.
"He's shameless," he muttered under his breath.
Jesper pressed both hands to his temples. "I'm aware. But what can we do? He's—Tristan."
Zayn glanced. "Davenant, don't let him get under your skin. He thrives on attention."
Isidore's brows knitted. "He thrives on being a nuisance."
Jesper made a sympathetic noise. Zayn stifled a laugh.
Across the room, Tristan was admiring himself in the tall mirror, running fingers through his styled hair. He looked every inch the star—effortless charisma, confident stance, too aware of his own beauty.
He winked at his reflection.
Jesper groaned under his breath. "And that only proves my point."
The director's voice cracked across the studio—
"Positions! Cameras ready! We're rolling as soon as Kai arrives!"
Crew members scrambled like bees kicked from their hive. Lights flared. Microphones dropped into place. Tristan strolled toward the set leisurely, one hand in his pocket, expression cool.
Only one thing disrupted the rhythm of the shoot:
Kai wasn't there.
Not even close.
Jesper checked the time. "He should have been here ten minutes ago."
Zayn exhaled sharply. "Where the hell is he?"
Isidore adjusted his glasses again. Something cold slithered up his spine—a sensation he couldn't place.
A premonition.
A warning.
A shift in the air.
Kai stumbled backward until his spine struck the cold vanity table. His breath hitched, eyes blown wide.
"W–what the hell are you talking about?" His voice trembled. "Me? Harm Mr. Ashford? Are you insane?"
The driver didn't flinch. He leaned in slowly, the shadow of his smile slicing across his face like a second mouth.
"The choice is yours," he murmured. "But I am never wrong in my predictions."
Kai shook his head. "N–no. That's… that's too much. I'm an actor, not some criminal—"
"You're an omega," the driver cut in, "who's been overlooked. Rejected. Humiliated."
Kai's throat constricted.
"And you," the driver added softly, "are tired of being invisible."
Kai swallowed hard. Greed, jealousy, and the intoxicating idea of attention warred inside him. His pulse hammered in his ears.
"If… if I did something," he whispered, "would Mr. Ashford—"
The driver lifted a hand, silencing him.
"Nothing will happen to Tristan Ashford," he said sharply. "He won't die. He won't be ruined. He may not bleed too much."
He reached into his coat.
"And you—"
A metallic click.
"—will become unforgettable."
He tossed something onto the dressing table.
Kai stared at it.
A knife.
A real one.
Not the rubber props used on set.
Not a toy.
The air froze.
"I—I can't," Kai croaked. "I don't even know how—"
"All you need," the driver murmured, stepping close enough for Kai to smell the faint scent of gasoline and winter air, "is a little bit of strength. A single moment. Enough to startle him. Enough to stain Dominion Enterprises' perfect little image."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"You won't kill him. You'll simply… shift the narrative."
Kai trembled. His fingers twitched. His heart was a chaotic drum.
"You will be paid later," the driver added, already turning toward the door, "in fame."
And then he slipped out—silent as a closing coffin lid.
Kai was left alone.
Alone with a weapon.
Alone with a task he didn't know he could bear.
Alone with the echo of a promise he desperately wanted to believe.
He stared at the knife.
One breath.
Two.
His reflection in the mirror looked back at him—fragile, trembling, but under that… hungry.
"If I do it…" he whispered.
"Mr. Ashford won't die. He'll just… look at me."
His chest rose in a shudder.
"Only me."
Slowly, his hand reached out.
His fingers curled around the handle.
The cold metal sent a jolt straight up his arm, but he didn't release.
And with a shaky breath turning into a twisted confidence, Kai lifted the knife—his eyes gleaming with a new, reckless certainty.