Isidore sat upright in the center of his massive bed, looking less like a poised scholar and more like a ruffled, indignant bird. His face was a map of humiliation. The memory of his own frantic sobbing at the hospital played on a loop, fueling a bonfire of rage in his chest.
"Damn you! You absolute, wretched bastard!"
He grabbed a plush pillow and hurled it at the bedroom door with all the strength his slender arms could muster. It hit the wood with a pathetic thud.
"Toying with me like that and thinking you can just get away with it? I hate you! I hate you so much I could kill you with my own hands!"
He pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face in his palms. His heart was still doing that strange, rhythmic thuttering. He told himself it was residual adrenaline, but deep down, he was horrified that his body had reacted to Tristan's "death" as if the sun had truly gone out.
Outside in the hallway, the walls weren't quite thick enough to drown out the screeching.
Maurice stood with his arms crossed, staring at the door. "I specifically forbade him from indulging in stress. And yet, listen to that. It's like a theatrical performance."
Leon stood beside him, a weary, amused smile tugging at his lips. "Maybe he's just having a bad time. You know, like the 'bad time' you and I usually have in the hallway?"
Maurice's head snapped toward him, his green eyes flashing dangerously. "Shut the fuck up, Leon."
Leon chuckled softly, unfazed. "See? No difference. You're just as high-strung as he is."
Maurice's mouth twitched—a sure sign of an impending medical tantrum. "I will eventually teach you how to be polite, but now is not the time for your nonsense."
"Oh? And what kind of 'treatment' are you planning for me, Doctor?" Leon smirked, leaning in.
Maurice turned his back sharply, marching down the hall. "Patience, you fool. You'll regret asking."
Leon blinked at the doctor's retreating back, not quite understanding the threat but following him anyway like a loyal, curious shadow.
Downstairs, Zayn was sitting in the vast, sun-drenched living room. He was attempting to eat lunch, but the food tasted like cardboard. He kept replaying the look on Isidore's face at the hospital.
I shouldn't have let the joke go that far, Zayn thought, stabbing a piece of salad. But it's really that Ashford bastard's fault. I was just the script-reader.
Meanwhile, in the sprawling gardens, the atmosphere was much more wholesome.
Little Julian was crouched on the grass, his crystalline blue eyes—distressingly similar to Tristan's—focused with intense determination. He was examining every petal, every leaf.
"Little Master? What are you doing?" the maid asked, standing a few paces away.
Julian stood up, brushing dirt from his tiny knees. "Mama said it will be a beautiful baby.
I want to give Mama a beautiful flower so the baby blooms!"
The maid's heart nearly melted. It was too adorable for words. She knelt beside him, smiling. "Well, if your Mama said that, we must find the most perfect one in the whole garden."
Julian squealed with delight. After a very serious search, they settled on a vibrant, elegant Begonia. Julian laughed, clutching the flower like a sacred prize, his joy radiating through the garden.
"Dominion Enterprises: The Scandal?"
"Is the Empire Crumbling? Investors Panic over Accident!"
Isidore's eyes went wide. He scrolled frantically, but every single post was a chaotic wave of speculation, anger, and cornering tactics against Dominion enterprises company.
"What in the world is wrong with these people?" he muttered, his brows knitting together.
He threw the phone onto the bed and bolted for the door. He descended the grand staircase with such speed that his silk robe fluttered violently behind him.
Zayn jumped as he saw Isidore sprinting toward the foyer. "Davenant! What's happened? Why are you in such a hurry?"
"Do you even know what is happening?" Isidore demanded, waving a hand vaguely toward the digital world. "Everyone is after Dominion! The company is being torn apart in the feeds!"
Zayn immediately stepped forward, placing his hands on Isidore's shoulders in a calming gesture. "It's not a big problem, Davenant. It's just noise. It will be solved immediately. You need to rest—stress is bad for—"
Isidore shot him a look so murderous it could have stopped a heart.
Zayn cleared his throat nervously. "Trust me, Davenant. Just... breathe?"
Isidore shoved Zayn's hands off his shoulders. "I am not a baby! What do you think of me? Some fragile porcelain doll?"
"Okay, okay!" Zayn held up his hands in surrender, gulping. "I didn't mean to mock you. It's just... you're a mother, and stressing yourself only leads to health issues and—"
He stopped abruptly as Isidore's beige eyes flared with a lethal light.
"I'll stop talking now," Zayn whispered.
Isidore turned his head sharply, his pride wounded and his temper fraying. "It is utterly futile to talk to you. You're all in on it!"
The grand foyer, usually a hall of echoed footsteps and cold dignity, was suddenly flooded with the chaotic warmth of a child's mission.
Isidore had one foot on the first step of the staircase, his body coiled with the intent to flee back into his room, when the heavy oak doors swung inward. Julian burst through the entrance, sprinting with a frantic, uncoordinated grace.
The boy was cradling a ceramic pot containing a vibrant Begonia, his tiny fingers gripped so tightly around the rim that his knuckles were white. Behind him, the nanny-maid followed, her face beaming with the reflected glow of Julian's pride.
"Mama! Mama! Look! I bought you a beautiful flower!"
Isidore froze. The murderous glare he had been leveling at Zayn evaporated, replaced by a look of bewildered shock. Zayn blinked, his mouth falling open as he took in the sight of the Young Master.
Julian was a disaster. His pristine clothes were smeared with rich, dark garden soil, and a streak of dirt decorated his nose like war paint.
Isidore immediately crouched, his silk robes pooling around him on the marble floor. He reached out, his long fingers trembling as he brushed a smudge of earth from his son's cheek. "Julian... why did you make yourself like this? You're covered in filth."
Julian didn't care. He shoved the pot toward Isidore's chest, his crystalline eyes sparkling with an ancient, secret wisdom.
"Mama, give that water! And then the baby will came!"
The air in the foyer seemed to vanish.
Isidore's face didn't just turn red; it ignited.
A deep, scorching scarlet flooded from his collar to the tips of his ears.
Zayn, standing just behind them, felt his own cheeks heat up as he processed the sheer, unadulterated innocence of the statement.
"What... what do you mean by a baby, dear Julian?" Zayn asked, his voice cracking with suppressed amusement.
Julian squealed with delight, hopping on his heels. "Mama said! He said someone gives Mama a flower, and Mama gives it water, and then I came out! So I found a big flower for the new baby!"
Isidore turned into a pillar of salt.
The silence that followed was agonizing. The maid tucked her hands into her apron, smiling warmly at the floor, clearly moved by the boy's poetic understanding of life.
Isidore slowly, painfully, lifted his gaze to meet Zayn's.
Zayn was no longer looking concerned. A slow, wicked smirk was spreading across his face, his lilac eyes dancing with the kind of joy usually reserved for winning a war.
"Is that true, Davenant?" Zayn purred, his voice dripping with mock fascination. "Is that how it works?"
Julian, ever the helpful witness, nodded his head vigorously. "Yes! Mama kept his flower safe until I was born!"
"Stop it, Julian!" Isidore hissed, his voice a strangled octave higher than usual. "It's... it's not... it wasn't exactly..."
He couldn't finish. Isidore davenant was defeated by a three-year-old's biology lesson.
Zayn let out a soft, melodious laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's okay, Davenant. Truly. I never thought a man of your... intellectual caliber... would explain the complexities of pregnancy with such a beautiful, floral mythology. It's quite poetic."
"Shut the hell up already!" Isidore barked, his face now a shade of crimson that bordered on purple.
He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping on his own robe in his haste to disconnect from the conversation. He turned to the maid, his gestures sharp and frantic. "Get him clean! Immediately! Take him to the bath!"
Julian blinked up at his mother, his tiny brow furrowed in genuine confusion. He didn't understand why his gift of a "baby-maker" had sent his mother into a state of total atmospheric reentry.
"Mama?" Julian whispered, his bottom lip beginning to wobble.
Isidore couldn't even look at him. If he looked at Julian, he would have to look at Zayn, and if he looked at Zayn, he might actually have to acknowledge the "flower" Tristan had given him years ago.
He spun around and bolted for the staircase.
"Davenant! Wait!" Zayn shouted, his voice echoing with laughter.
"Tell me more about the watering process! I'm curious!"
Isidore didn't look back. He took the stairs two at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs in a rhythm of pure, unbridled mortification. He just wanted to vanish.
He wanted to melt into the floorboards and reappear in a different century—one where flowers were just plants and his son wasn't a biological whistleblower.
Down in the foyer, Julian watched his mother disappear with a sigh.
Zayn walked over and crouched down in front of the boy, patting his soil-covered shoulder. "Don't mind him, Julian. You are a great scientist. You've just discovered a very sensitive area of research."
Julian laughed, his spirits lifted by Zayn's praise, even if he didn't understand the words.
The maid stepped forward, gently taking the Begonia pot. "Come along, Young Master. Let's get you into the bath before you plant a garden in the living room."
Julian hopped toward the hallway, his laughter ringing out like bells, leaving Zayn alone in the foyer.
Zayn stood up, wiping a stray tear of laughter from his eye. He looked up at the empty landing where Isidore had vanished, his expression softening into something more thoughtful
"A flower, huh?" he muttered to himself. "Well, Tristan certainly was a reckless gardener."
The heavy oak door to his room didn't just close; it shuddered under the force of Isidore's fury, the click of the latch sounding like a final, desperate seal against the world.
Isidore leaned back against the wood, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon. His palms were pressed firmly against his face, but they couldn't contain the heat radiating from his cheeks.
"Fuck you, Tristan. God, just... fuck you!"
The curse echoed in the hollow silence of the room. He stood there for a long moment, the darkness of his eyelids providing no refuge from the mental image of Julian holding that wretched Begonia.
He slowly dropped his hands. His beige eyes were wide, flickering with a mixture of raw humiliation and a burgeoning, cold clarity. Cursing was a peasant's refuge. There was no point in shouting at the walls when the architect of his misery was currently lounging in a hospital bed.
"Revenge," he whispered, the word tasting like chilled iron. "That would be far more efficient."
He moved toward the bed with jerky, uncoordinated limbs, collapsing onto the silk duvet. He lay flat on his back, staring at the ornate molding of the ceiling, trying with every fiber of his being to suppress the memories of that night.
The hotel room. The scent of rain and expensive bourbon. The way the shadows had danced against the wall while Tristan's voice—low and ruinous—had dismantled every defense Isidore possessed.
Every time the memory flickered to life, it brought a sickening, electric discomfort that made his skin crawl. He didn't want to feel it. He didn't want to remember the "flower" or the "watering."
He clutched the high-thread-count sheets until his knuckles turned white, his breath hitching in his throat.
"I hate you, you bastard," he hissed into the empty room. "Because of you, I have to stand there and lie to my son. Because of you, I couldn't even tell Julian who actually gave me the 'flower'."
The thought of Tristan's smug, crystalline-blue eyes only made the blush deepen, spreading down his neck and under the collar of his robe. It was an unbearable, suffocating warmth.
"Just go to hell, Tristan Ashford," Isidore groaned, rolling over to bury his face in the pillow. "Just rot in that hospital and go straight to hell."
But even as he cursed the man, the image of Tristan "dead" on that hospital bed flashed in his mind, and his heart gave that same, disloyal throb of terror.
He was trapped. Trapped between a hatred that burned and a love that he had buried in a shallow, floral grave.
Isidore is reaching his limit, but the world outside isn't waiting for his recovery.