The opulent silence of the Lockwood mansion was no longer a sanctuary; it had become a gilded cage, vibrating with the frantic, staccato rhythm of Kay's paranoia.
Inside his master suite, Kay Lockwood—the man whose face had graced a thousand billboards—was a hollowed-out version of his former self. His golden-blonde hair, usually styled to perfection, was tucked haphazardly behind his ears, and his fingers were perpetually at his mouth, his teeth worrying at his nails until the cuticles were raw.
He couldn't stop looking at the heavy, mahogany doors of his private wardrobe. Behind those doors sat a stack of currency he hadn't dared to touch—filthy lucre that felt more like a ticking time bomb than a reward. The anonymous benefactor who had offered him the bribe didn't care about the consequences, but Kay was drowning in them.
Standing by the door, a silent sentinel in the gloom, was Calder Ashborne.
Calder was a man of sharp, architectural features, his tall frame encased in a bespoke black suit that seemed to absorb the dim light of the room. A communication device was nestled in his ear, and his eyes were shielded by dark glasses, but beneath that professional exterior, Calder felt a heavy, visceral ache for the man he was sworn to protect.
He had watched Kay's descent all day. He had seen the way the actor's eyes darted toward the wardrobe, the way his breath caught at every distant siren. It was unusual. It was wrong.
Calder slowly reached up, sliding his glasses into his breast pocket. Beneath the lenses lay a pair of startling, glassy golden eyes—eyes that held a depth of loyalty that bordered on the religious. He cleared his throat, the sound a low, resonant rumble in the quiet room.
"Mr. Kay," Calder began, his voice steady. "You are vibrating with exhaustion. You should rest."
Kay spun around, his brown eyes wide and bloodshot. He looked at Calder as if the bodyguard were a ghost. With a ragged sob, Kay collapsed toward him, his knees hitting the plush rug.
Calder didn't hesitate. He dropped his professional distance, crouching beside his master. "Master Kay?"
Kay reached out, his hands trembling as he gripped the lapels of Calder's suit. The fabric groaned under the pressure. Calder gasped softly, his heart hammering against his ribs as he felt the sheer, unbridled panic radiating from the actor.
"Calder... I... I was on the set," Kay whispered, his voice cracking. Tears began to brim in his eyes, spilling over like a dammed river finally breaking its banks.
Calder's expression didn't waver, though a cold dread began to settle in his gut. He had suspected something was amiss from the moment Tristan Ashford had been struck, but to hear Kay's voice tremble with such specific guilt was a different kind of agony. He reached out, his large, warm hands covering Kay's smaller ones, rubbing them in slow, soothing circles.
"Don't worry, Kay," Calder murmured, dropping the formal title. "Nothing is going to happen. I am here."
"How can you be so sure?" Kay wailed, hiding his face against Calder's chest. The scent of Calder's cologne—something earthy and safe—briefly grounded him. "I changed the knife, Calder. I took the real steel and I... I put it there. I stabbed Tristan. And now... now everyone is attacking that penthouse. They're attacking Isidore. I was jealous, Calder! I was so jealous, but I never wanted it to go this wild!"
Calder went still. The confession was a physical blow, a jagged piece of truth that cut through his protective instincts. He felt a flash of anger—not at Kay, but at the world that had pushed him to this. He wrapped his arms around Kay, pulling the weeping man into a tight, possessive embrace.
"So you actually did it," Calder whispered into the blonde strands of Kay's hair. "You switched the prop."
Kay's body racked with hiccups and sobs. "I was greedy! They told me... they told me if I did this, I could be the one. I could be the one standing next to Tristan. I could be his Omega! I wanted to replace that scholar. I wanted the light to be on me!"
Calder's jaw tightened. The mention of Kay wanting to be Tristan's Omega stung more than he cared to admit. He had spent years in the shadows of this man, loving him with a quiet, hopeless intensity, only to hear Kay confess to a crime committed in the name of another Alpha.
But as he looked down at the shivering, broken man in his arms, the jealousy faded, replaced by a fierce, protective resolve.
"They manipulated you, dear," Calder said, his voice dropping to a hypnotic, comforting silk. "Don't you see? They used your heart as a weapon. Tristan Ashford already has his world. There have been rumors for years that his heart belongs to that Davenant Omega. They lied to you to get their hands dirty through yours."
Kay cried harder, his fingers digging into Calder's back. "I know! I see it now! It was always Isidore. And now I've hurt Tristan, and I've ruined everything! If anyone finds out... my career, my life... it's over, Calder!"
Calder pulled back just enough to look Kay in the eye. His golden gaze was fierce, unyielding. "No one is going to find out. I won't let them. I will scrub every shadow, every digital footprint, and every whisper. Do you hear me?"
"But the police... that detective with the violet eyes... they were at the studio," Kay hiccuped, his brown eyes searching Calder's face for a hope he didn't deserve.
"Let them search," Calder said, his hand moving to cup Kay's cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. "They have to get through me first. And I am a very difficult man to bypass."
Kay stared at him, the intensity of Calder's devotion finally beginning to pierce through the fog of his panic. For a moment, the ghost of Tristan Ashford faded, replaced by the very real, very present man who was currently holding his world together.
"Calder..." Kay whispered, his voice small. "Why are you doing this for me? I'm a monster."
Calder's smile was a sad, beautiful thing. "If you are a monster, then I am the cage that keeps the world away from you. Now, breathe. Just breathe, Kay."
Kay let out a long, shaky breath and buried his head back into the hollow of Calder's neck, seeking refuge from the storm he had created. Outside, the world was screaming for justice, but inside the Lockwood mansion, a bodyguard was preparing to go to war for a sinner.
In the sprawling, obsidian-toned sanctuary of Ansel Adams private study, Zavid Benediktov Volkovsky looked like a masterpiece of polished chaos.
His dark brown hair, thick and perpetually disheveled in a way that cost thousands of dollars to maintain, cascaded over a brow that housed eyes of a startling, majestic grey. Those eyes—sharp enough to cut glass but currently glazed with a whimsical curiosity—were fixed on the television screen.
The news was a cacophony of flashing sirens and shouting mobs outside the Davenant penthouse.
"What is actually happening with the Ashfords and the Davenants?" Zavid mused, his voice a melodic baritone that carried the faint, rhythmic lilt of his heritage. "It's like a Shakespearean tragedy, but with more expensive skin care."
Sitting across from him in a high-backed chair that looked more like a throne than furniture was Ansel Adams.
Ansel was a man composed of granite and quiet fury. His crimson eyes, rare and terrifyingly intense, remained fixed on the ledger in his lap. "Karma, I suppose," Ansel offered, his voice a dry, gravelly rasp.
Zavid blinked. His long brown lashes flickered with a practiced, cinematic innocence that had won him three international acting awards. "But why did someone do something to him, Addi? I thought Tristan was the golden boy of the industry."
Ansel's jaw tightened. The muscle in his cheek twitched—a rhythmic, tell-tale sign of a man who was approximately three seconds away from a violent outburst.
"Don't call me that," Ansel hissed, the crimson in his eyes deepening. "And he did plenty. Now, he is paying the bill for his own arrogance."
Zavid made a soft, thoughtful hmmm sound, his head tilting like a curious puppy.
A second later, the space where Zavid had been sitting was empty.
Ansel had just enough time to close his eyes and exhale a sigh of temporary relief before the air behind him shifted. He felt the sudden, overwhelming heat of a body pressing against the back of his chair, and then two strong arms were snaking around his shoulders in a restrictive, unwanted embrace.
Ansel jolted, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He looked up to find Zavid looming over him, a lunatic, radiant smile stretched across his handsome face.
"What is your problem?" Ansel barked, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "I let you into my house. Wasn't that enough? Now you are making it physically difficult for me to breathe!"
Zavid's face ignited with a sudden, playful blush. He didn't let go; instead, he squeezed tighter, burying his nose into the crook of Ansel's neck. "You like it when I call you by nicknames, don't you, Addi? It makes your heart go thump-thump."
Ansel slammed his hand onto his own face, sliding his palm down with a groan of pure, unadulterated misery. "I am not a child, Volkovsky! What do you think of me? A three-year-old boy? A toddler in need of a nap?"
Zavid's grey eyes sparkled with a dangerous, eccentric light. He reached out, grabbing one of Ansel's large, calloused hands and dragging it toward his own face—the dashing, symmetrical face that decorated every magazine from Paris to Tokyo.
"Don't worry, Addi," Zavid whispered, his voice dripping with a hilarious, faux-sincerity. "Just consider me as a woman for a moment. That way, you'll feel better about the physical proximity. It's a mental exercise. Very therapeutic."
Ansel's mouth twitched. His brain seemed to short-circuit as he stared at the actor. "What the hell is wrong with you? In what world would that help? Get your hand off me!"
Ansel wrenched his hand away from Zavid's grip, his face a mask of disgusted disbelief. Zavid, however, only smiled brighter, his cheeks turning a vivid shade of pink that suggested he was having the time of his life.
"Come on, Addi," Zavid chirped, his energy rising to a manic, golden-retriever level. "Let's have dinner together tonight. Just me and you. No news, no Ashfords, no screaming fans. Just two beautiful men and a very expensive bottle of wine."
Ansel couldn't stand it anymore. He stood up abruptly, his 197-centimeter frame unfolding like a predatory bird. He turned his back on the actor, his shoulders tense. "Just get the hell out of here, Zavid. Go back to your movie set. Go back to your fans."
Zavid stood up too.
Now, normally, Zavid was taller than most men in the room—a towering, lithe figure. But whenever he stood tall in front of Ansel, he felt the Alpha's irritation rise at the perceived mockery of his own height.
With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Zavid deliberately spread his legs into a wide, awkward split, lowering his torso until he was exactly the 197-centimeter height of Ansel Adams. He looked like a giant trying to disguise himself as a slightly smaller giant.
He leaned forward, his face inches from Ansel's shoulder, a wide, ridiculous smile on his lips. "Come on, darling. Let's have some dinner tonight.
Ansel refused to face him. He stared at the wall, his chest heaving. It was too much. The logic was too fractured, the behavior too childish, and yet, the sheer absurdity of Zavid Benediktov Volkovsky doing a power-squat just to be eye-level with him was almost—almost—enough to make the stoic Ansel Adams laugh.
"You look like an idiot," Ansel muttered, his voice cracking with the strain of suppressed amusement.
"I am a very handsome idiot, Addi," Zavid corrected, his voice full of warmth. "And the handsome idiot is hungry. Are we going, or do I have to carry you to the car? Because I will. I have the upper body strength of a man who does his own stunts."
Ansel finally turned around, looking down at the squatted, smiling actor. "If I agree to dinner, will you stop calling me 'Addi' for the rest of the night?"
Zavid's eyes sparkled. "I make no promises, but I will try my best for the first ten minutes."
Ansel sighed, a sound of total defeat. "Fine. Dinner. But if you do that height-thing in the restaurant, I'm leaving you with the bill."
Zavid stood up properly, his full height returning as he did a little victory dance. "It's a date! I'll go tell the driver to prepare the Bentley!"
As Zavid vanished toward the door, skipping like a schoolboy, Ansel Adams sank back into his chair and covered his eyes. "What have I done to deserve this lunatic?" he whispered to the silence.
But for the first time that day, the crimson in his eyes was replaced by a flicker of genuine, reluctant light.