The heavy oak doors of the master suite groaned softly as Zayn Maverick entered, a living silhouette of modern Alpha paternalism. On his back, Julian clung to his neck like a velvet burr, his small face alight with the kinetic joy of a child who had finally been granted access to his sanctuary.
Isidore was sitting upright, his spine a rigid line of defiance against the silk headboard. His beige eyes, once clouded by the medicinal fog of Maurice's sedatives, flared with a primordial intensity the moment they locked onto the boy. He looked like a king who had spent an eternity in exile, watching his only treasure return.
"Davenant," Zayn began, his voice a low, resonant baritone as he adjusted the boy's weight. "I see you're refusing to surrender to the pillows. How are you feeling?"
"I am fine," Isidore rasped, the word cracking like dry parchment. He reached out with trembling, bandaged hands—hands that had recently known the jagged violence of a boardroom brawl. "Let go of my child, Now."
Zayn hesitated, his lilac eyes narrowing with a clinical concern. "Davenant, look at yourself. You're still radiating heat like a furnace. If the boy catches whatever this is, or if you collapse while holding him—"
"I said," Isidore's jaw clenched, his voice dropping into a dangerous, subterranean register, "let him go."
Julian didn't wait for permission. He let out a tiny, melodic squeal, his small arms reaching out for the Omega. "Mama! Mama!"
Succumbing to the inevitable, Zayn sighed and leaned over, carefully transferring the small, warm bundle into Isidore's waiting arms. The transition was visceral.
Isidore didn't just hold the child; he claimed him, pulling Julian flush against his chest, burying his face in the boy's soft hair.
He breathed in the scent of Julian—milk, baby soap, and innocence—using it as an anchor to drag himself out of the dark aftercurrents of his nightmare.
"Julian," Isidore whispered, the name a prayer.
"Don't worry, Mama," Julian murmured, his small hand patting Isidore's burning cheek. "It won't hurt anymore. I'm here."
The sheer, unadulterated purity of the statement sent a sharp, agonizing ache through Isidore's chest. Beside the bed, Zayn watched the scene, the sardonic wit usually etched into his features softening into something approaching reverence.
The domestic bubble was briefly interrupted as a maid entered, the aroma of a delicate, clear broth and savory appetizers trailing behind her.
"I am not hungry," Isidore stated flatly, not even looking at the tray.
"And I'm not a fan of your stubbornness, but here we are," Zayn countered, stepping into Isidore's personal space. He leaned in, forcing Isidore to look up.
"Are you out of your mind? First, you play the part of a gladiator against a simple Ashford supporter, letting your blood pressure spike to astronomical levels, and then you crumble into a fever. You are a biological disaster right now, Isidore."
The maid placed the tray on the nightstand, a soft, knowing chuckle escaping her as she caught Zayn's exasperated expression. She exited quietly, the click of the latch echoing in the room.
You aren't taking care of yourself," Zayn continued, his voice dropping to a teasing, yet pointed, simmer. "And if this keeps going, Davenant, how on earth are you going to manage having more babies? You'd incinerate before the second trimester."
Isidore's eyes widened, a shock of volcanic crimson flooding his cheeks. Even Julian stopped fidgeting, his mouth falling open as he looked from his mother to his uncle.
"No!" Julian interjected, putting a thumb in his mouth before pointing it at the ceiling. "Mama will bring my sibling! Uncle Zayn said so!"
Isidore's gaze turned into a sharpened blade, his beige eyes flashing with a mix of fury and embarrassment at Zayn. "You... you told him what?"
Zayn, realizing he had just stepped onto a diplomatic landmine, took a strategic step back, his hands raised in a mocking gesture of surrender. "I was merely answering the boy's questions, Davenant. He has a very active imagination."
"It's true, Mama!" Julian chirped, tugging at Isidore's silk robe. "You will wait for... for..." He looked at Zayn, his brow furrowing as he forgot the math.
"Nine months," Zayn supplied with a wicked, effortless smirk. "Nearly nine long months of Mama being very, very careful."
Isidore opened his mouth to deliver a scathing rebuttal, but the words died in his throat. The proximity of his son and the sheer audacity of Zayn's flirtatious banter made his head spin. He was trapped between maternal warmth and Alpha-level annoyance.
Before the tension could escalate, a sharp, rhythmic trill cut through the air. Zayn reached into his pocket, his expression shifting from playful to professional in a heartbeat. He looked at the screen and sighed, a heavy, weary sound.
"Mr. Ashford," Zayn muttered. "What could the golden boy possibly want at this hour?"
Zayn straightened his suit jacket, his lilac eyes fixing on Julian. "I have to take this. Little Julian, I'm putting you in charge. Keep a better eye on your Mama than I have, okay? He's a flight risk."
Julian nodded in a state of quiet triumph, sitting up tall on the mattress. "I will, Uncle Zayn!"
As Zayn disappeared into the hallway to handle the Ashford storm, Julian turned back to his mother. He placed a tiny, lukewarm hand on Isidore's cheek, his expression becoming solemn and protective.
"Don't worry, Mama," Julian whispered. "When you get all better, we will take very good care of the new sibling together."
Isidore looked at his son—the porcelain skin, the innocent eyes that had yet to see the cruelty of the Ashford-Davenant war—and felt his heart finally settle. He leaned in, wrapping his arms around the boy in a crushing embrace. "Whatever you say, my baby. Whatever you say."
"Mama!" Julian pouted, his lower lip protruding in a mock huff. "I'm not a baby anymore! I'm the guard!"
He leaned down, his nose grazing Julian's neck, and began to tickle the boy's ribs. Julian erupted into a fit of effervescent laughter, his eyes turning teary as he squirmed against the silk sheets.
"Mama! It tickles! Stop! Stop!"
The marble hallway was a canyon of clinical silence as Zayn Maverick stepped away from the warmth of the master suite. He leaned against the cold stone, the weight of the night pressing into his tailored shoulders. His phone vibrated with a relentless, rhythmic urgency—a digital heartbeat that refused to be ignored.
He swiped the screen, his lilac eyes narrowing as he brought the device to his ear.
"What happened, Mr. Ashford?" Zayn's voice was a low, velvet rasp, stripped of its earlier playfulness. "Why are you calling me at this ungodly hour? I assume your hospital bed isn't comfortable enough for sleep."
On the other end of the line, the background noise was a cacophony of high-fashion chaos. Zayn could hear the sharp, rhythmic click of heels and the imperious flutter of silk.
"Sleep?" Tristan Ashford's voice came through the receiver, sounding frayed and dangerously thin. "I am at no mercy here, Zayn. I am trapped in a gilded cage of my own bloodline's making. My twin sister, Jane, has flown in from America—a crimson whirlwind of unsolicited advice and theatrical outrage. She's made it impossible to breathe."
Zayn blinked, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips despite himself. He could only imagine the "Scarlet Leviathan" Jane Ashford descending upon a sterile hospital room like a goddess of vengeance.
"And? She's your sister, Tristan," Zayn countered. "She must be worried about your precarious state. Most families consider that a virtue."
"Are you out of your mind?" Tristan snapped, his voice dropping into a growl. "Everyone is here, hovering, dissecting my choices like they're reading a script. I feel like a specimen under a microscope."
There was a brief pause, a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the line. When Tristan spoke again, the irritation had vanished, replaced by an obsessive, quiet intensity.
"Tell me... how is Isidore? Is he eating? Is he sleeping? My scent-sense is screaming, Zayn. I can feel the air shifting. Tell me how is my omega."
Zayn's grip on the phone tightened. He looked back at the closed door of the suite, where the muffled sound of Julian's laughter was a stark contrast to the desperation in Tristan's voice. He was hesitant, his protective instincts clashing with the raw honesty of the Ashford Alpha's inquiry.
"Well, Mr. Ashford..." Zayn began, his words measured. "Davenant was... he is sick."
The silence that followed was heavy, pregnant with the sudden, violent shift in Tristan's energy.
"What?"
The word wasn't a question; it was a bark. In his hospital room, Tristan jolted upright, his muscles coiling with a kinetic ferocity that defied the bandages wrapped around his torso. The monitors beside his bed let out a series of frantic beeps as his heart rate spiked.
"What is wrong with you, Tristan!" Jane's voice echoed in the background, sharp and scolding. "Try to be more careful with your wound, you fool! You'll tear the stitches!"
Tristan didn't even acknowledge her. He stared at the blank wall of his room, his crystalline eyes wide and reflecting a subterranean fire. Jane sighed, a sound of profound exasperation, and turned away to direct her fury toward a cowering Joshua.
"How could you not let me know?" Tristan hissed into the phone, his voice vibrating with a primal, protective rage. "How could you keep the fact that my... that Isidore is sick?"
"Everything happened so fast, Mr, Ashford," Zayn explained, his tone softening slightly as he heard the genuine tremor in the other man's voice. "I didn't have the luxury of a press release. His blood pressure spiked this morning—the stress of the Ashford fans, the media circus... it finally took its toll. By the afternoon, he had fallen completely ill. A systemic collapse."
Tristan's breath hitched. The "Global Icon," the man whose face was adored by millions, suddenly looked like a lost child. His eyes, usually so cold and piercing, grew glassy. A visceral, biological ache tore through his chest—the agonizing phantom pain of an Alpha whose mate was suffering out of reach.
"Can you..." Tristan's voice broke, the request sounding more like a prayer than a command. "Can you send me a photo of him? Please, Zayn. I can't breathe. I feel like the air in this room is being sucked out. I need to see him with my own eyes. Just one look."
Zayn was stunned into a rare moment of speechlessness. He had seen Tristan Ashford as start, a complication, and a celebrity, but he had never seen him as a man this utterly broken by distance. The "pleading" tone was so foreign to Tristan's character that it made Zayn's own heart skip a beat.
"There's no need to beg, Mr. Ashford," Zayn said quietly, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I'll do it. But listen to me—I have to take this picture secretly. If Davenant realizes I'm documenting his vulnerability for your benefit, he'll have my head on a silver platter. And probably yours as well."
On the other end, Tristan nodded his head frantically, his hand clutching the edge of the hospital mattress so hard the metal groaned.
"Just do it," Tristan whispered, his heart thudding against his ribs with a frantic, uneven rhythm. "Do it immediately. I'm waiting. I won't move until I see him."
Zayn slipped back into the master suite, his movements as fluid and silent as a shadow lengthening at dusk. The atmosphere in the room had shifted; the sharp, electric anxiety of the fever had been replaced by a heavy, saccharine exhaustion.
Isidore was a portrait of shattered sovereignty. He remained upright, but his beige eyes were half-lidded, veiled by a heavy curtain of fatigue that even his legendary stubbornness couldn't fully lift.
His head leaned precariously against the headboard, yet his arms remained a locked vault around Julian.
The child, oblivious to the political and biological warfare raging around them, was busy weaving his tiny fingers through the silk of his mother's hair, untangling the knots left by the sweat of the fever.
Isidore reached out, his movements languid and ghost-like, to brush a stray blonde curl from Julian's forehead. The contrast was striking—the sallow, ethereal paleness of the sick Omega against the vibrant, iridescent gold of the boy's hair.
Zayn stood at the foot of the bed, his lilac eyes narrowing as he observed the scene. He noticed the steam had stopped rising from the broth; the medicinal nourishment was indeed losing its temperature. But he had a more pressing directive from the Ashford Alpha to fulfill first.
With the practiced discretion of a high-level operative, Zayn reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone. He didn't just snap a picture; he waited for the cinematic alignment of light and emotion. He tilted the device, catching the way the soft lamplight accentuated the hollows of Isidore's cheeks and the protective, desperate way he clung to his heir.
Perfect.