The atmosphere in the private suite was suffocating, a curated silence that felt heavier than the mountain of secrets buried within the mahogany walls. Kay sat on the plush velvet couch, his skin slicked with a cold, frantic sweat. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like a gunshot to his frayed nerves.
The door swung open with a rhythmic click. Ansel Adams entered, his presence dominating the room like an eclipse.
Kay flinched, his body reacting before his mind could. He scrambled to his feet, his voice trembling like a reed in a storm. "I... I want nothing! Please, just let me go. I promise, I won't tell a soul. I'll vanish!"
Ansel, his hair shimmering like dark sapphire under the recessed lights, merely smirked. His ruby-red eyes tracked Kay with the clinical detachment of a predator watching a wounded bird. He approached with slow, measured steps.
Kay backed away, his legs tangling until balance failed him. He collapsed back onto the couch, shivering as Ansel leaned in, the scent of expensive spice and ozone filling Kay's lungs.
Ansel reached for the blindfold. With a sharp tug, he ripped it away. Kay winced at the sudden influx of light, his eyes darting wildly.
"Easy, easy," Ansel murmured, his voice a low, dark honey. "It's not like I'm going to fuck you."
He smirked at the crude honesty, watching Kay shiver. Kay's vision finally cleared, and he blinked, his breath catching. Standing before him was a man of such staggering, statuesque beauty that he rivaled the Ashford lineage.
The fine, sharp features and the towering 197 cm frame were a masterclass in genetic perfection.
Against his will, a hot blush crawled up Kay's neck. He opened his mouth to stammer a response, but Ansel flicked his fingers—a sharp, dismissive snap.
From the shadows, a sleek, black carbon-fiber briefcase was slammed onto the table. It hissed open to reveal stacks of high-denomination currency. Kay's eyes nearly bulged from their sockets.
Ansel turned his back, his long coat swirling around his heels. "Now, everything is dismissed between us. Consider our contract fulfilled."
Kay's fear momentarily flickered into greed; he wanted to say more, to perhaps linger in the orbit of such a powerful, dashing man. But the grace period was over. Before he could utter a syllable, the guards surged forward.
The blindfold was shoved back over his eyes. A gag was forced into his mouth, silencing his protests into muffled groans. They hoisted him up, dragging him out like yesterday's refuse.
Ansel didn't look back. He sank into his high-backed leather chair and exhaled a long, weary sigh.
"How long do you intend to crouch there and watch us?" Ansel asked, his voice echoing in the now-empty room.
From behind the heavy velvet curtains, a figure emerged. He was a vision of Russian elegance—an Alpha who stood at an unbelievable 205 cm, his presence so massive he seemed to shrink the room.
At twenty-six, Zavid Benediktov Volkovsky moved with a serene, feline grace. His eyes were the color of a winter frost, piercing and grey, and his dark brown hair was styled to a perfection that cost thousands.
"I truly thought you might actually do something to him this time," Zavid said, his voice a smooth, operatic baritone.
Ansel pinched the bridge of his nose, the headache of the day finally catching up to him. "Stop talking nonsense, Tell me why you're here."
Zavid didn't answer immediately. Instead, he crouched down beside Ansel's chair—a mocking, submissive pose for a man of his stature. He looked up at Ansel with an expression that was dangerously tender.
"You know I can't just leave you alone in this den of vipers," Zavid whispered. He reached up, his hand hovering over Ansel's sharp, handsome face as if to trace the line of his jaw.
Ansel's hand shot out, catching Zavid's wrist in a crushing grip. "Don't."
Zavid blinked up at him, unsurprised by the violence. A small, knowing smile played on his lips.
"You are an actor, Zavid," Ansel spat, his voice low and threatening. "A world-renowned star. If you keep hiding in my shadow, if you keep neglecting your career to haunt my house, I will ruin you. I'll pull the strings and watch your fame turn to ash."
Zavid chuckled, the sound deep and melodic. He didn't pull his hand away.
"Come on, Addi," Zavid teased, his frost-grey eyes sparkling. "Stop being so dramatic. Just tell me that you love me and be done with it."
Ansel's expression shifted into one of pure, unadulterated disgust. He yanked his hand away as if burned, especially when he realized Zavid was leaning in to press a kiss to his knuckles.
Zavid's face fell into a mock-pout, a flash of genuine sadness flickering in those light eyes. "Adam, you know very well that I didn't sign your management contract just to become a top-tier actor. I have enough money to buy thousands of studios"
Ansel frowned, his crimson eyes narrowing. "Then why the fuck won't you leave me alone?"
Zavid leaned in, his massive frame looming over the desk, his voice dropping to an intimate, possessive growl. "Because I can't let anyone else have you. I signed that paper so I could own the air you breathe."
Ansel stood up abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor. "You're an Alpha, Zavid! Daring to play these pathetic tricks on another man..."
But Zavid was faster. As Ansel tried to stride away, Zavid glided behind him. He didn't hesitate. He wrapped his powerful arms around Ansel's torso, pulling the shorter man—though still tall by any other standard—against his broad, warm chest.
"Take your hands off me, you bastard," Ansel hissed, his body rigid as stone.
"No," Zavid replied simply, the word carried on a breath that fanned against Ansel's collarbone.
Instead of retreating, Zavid tightened his embrace. He nuzzled his head against Ansel's shoulder, shifting his focus to the pulse point behind Ansel's ear, greedily drinking in the scent of his perfume. To Zavid, this was a quiet moment of peace between two lovers. To Ansel, it was an intolerable delay in his grand design.
"Zavid, I swear to God," Ansel growled, his hands coming up to grip Zavid's powerful forearms. He dug his nails into the expensive fabric of Zavid's coat, trying to pry the Alpha's hands apart.
Ansel exerted every ounce of his strength, his muscles straining against the human mountain holding him. He twisted and turned, trying to slip free from the hold, his crimson eyes flashing with a predatory rage
But Zavid didn't budge. He was a force of nature, immovable and serenely stubborn. He merely hummed a soft, melodic tune, the vibrations of his chest rumbling against Ansel's back, refusing to let his "Adam" go.
"Stop struggling," Zavid whispered, his voice dripping with a terrifyingly pure kindness. "You're always so tense. Whatever business you're doing, it can wait. Stay like this for just a moment."
Ansel stopped fighting, but not because he was pacified. He stared at the reflection in the dark window—the image of a powerful mastermind being held like a doll by a man who didn't even realize he was hugging a monster.
A cold, dark irony settled in Ansel's chest. He was ruining lives and shattering families, and yet he couldn't even manage to get his own lead actor out of his office.
"You really are a fool," Ansel muttered under his breath.
Zavid only smiled against his skin, his eyes closed in blissful ignorance. "If loving you makes me a fool, then I never want to be wise."
Meanwhile, Tristan sat huddled on the clinical white expanse of the hospital bed, his frame appearing deceptively fragile beneath the weight of his bandages. His crystalline-blue eyes, usually brimming with an insufferable, dashing confidence, were now trembling—shimmering with the sudden, agonizing weight of his own hubris.
He had orchestrated a farce, and the curtain had fallen on his own heart.
A single, crystalline tear escaped, tracking a path down his cheek. But before it could fall, a hand intervened. Joshua, ever the observant hawk, reached out and hold his hand underneath Tristan's chin, his fingers acting as a dam against the encroaching tide of sorrow.
"Stop crying, brother," Joshua murmured, his voice a sharp blend of mockery and pragmatic comfort. He smirked, the expression lacking its usual bite. "By the way, you should know—this catastrophe was entirely your own design."
Tristan didn't snap back. Instead, he let out a choked, pathetic sob, sounding more like a wounded child than a titan of industry.
"I... I just wanted to see," Tristan stammered, his voice thick with salt and regret. "I just wanted to know if he really loves me. If there was anything left behind that wall of his."
Joshua rolled his eyes, though he kept his hands steady beneath Tristan chin, refusing to let his brother single tear collapse into himself.
"Well, you idiot," Joshua sighed. "You saw it with your own eyes, didn't you? You saw the wreckage of a man who thought his world had burned down."
Tristan stopped, his breath hitching. He blinked up at his brother, his long lashes damp. "How... how do you know? How do you know that weather he he loves me or not?"
Joshua's smirk sharpened into something pitying. "You are as naive as you were when you were a boy, Tristan. Did you not see the urgency? The way he stormed this room as if he were ready to fight God himself to bring you back?"
Tristan let out a soft snuffle, his mind replaying the image of Isidore in the doorway—pale, frantic, and utterly shattered.
"He didn't come here for a social call," Joshua continued, standing up and smoothing the wrinkles of his coat. He turned his gaze toward the window, his profile silhouetted against the hospital lights. "He came for his soul. And then you showed him it was all a prank."
Joshua exhaled, a sound of weary finality. "Don't cry like a child anymore. I'm going to investigate the 'accident.' It wasn't just a glitch in the road, Tristan. Someone really want to ruin your career. Now Rest."
As Joshua's footsteps receded and the door clicked shut, the silence of the room rushed back in, heavy and suffocating. Tristan sat in the dim light, wiping his face with the back of his hand, his thoughts spinning like a frantic compass.
Does my Isidore really love me?
The question burned in his mind. If the love was there, why had Isidore fled? Why had he looked at Tristan with eyes that seemed to close a door forever?
"He's running," Tristan whispered to the empty room, his jaw tightening with a newfound, desperate resolve. "He's running just like he did before. Because the truth is too terrifying for him."
A sudden, fierce heat ignited in Tristan's chest, overriding the dull throb of his physical injuries. He couldn't let it happen. He couldn't allow the distance to grow until Isidore became a ghost once more.
"I won't be able to live without him," he muttered, his fingers curling into the hospital sheets until the fabric groaned. "I have to stop him. I can't let him slip through my fingers again."
The playfulness was gone. The "deadly handsome" games were over. In their place was a raw, primal possessiveness that bordered on the sacred.
"I will marry him," Tristan vowed, his voice gaining a hard, crystalline edge. "I will make him mine so completely that he'll never have to run again. I won't make him uncomfortable... I'll make him feel safe. I want to love him with a ferocity that obliterates his fear."
He looked at his trembling hands, then stilled them. He would heal. He would rise. And then, he would hunt down the man who held his heart, not as a prankster, but as a man who had finally realized what he was willing to lose.
Isidore Davenant had tried to say goodbye to a ghost. Tristan Ashford was determined to prove he was very much, and very dangerously, alive.
Tristan is now fueled by a desperate, almost obsessive love. But while he plans a future, Ansel Adams is still moving the pieces on the board.