Morning After the Party
The penthouse was quiet that morning an elegant hush broken only by the muffled hum of traffic far below and the distant sound of waves curling along the coastline. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, flooding the open-plan living space in soft, golden light. Pale wood floors gleamed beneath the morning brightness. Art pieces hung tastefully along the walls, and plush cream furniture, minimal yet inviting, adorned the space with quiet wealth.
The Hart brothers had lived here together for nearly three years now, in a three-bedroom suite that spanned the whole top floor of an exclusive tower in the heart of West Hollywood. It had been Joan's idea an act of protection . Their parents hadn't wanted Elián to live alone, not with the world constantly circling him like wolves. But Joan, steadfast , had offered a compromise. He would live with Elián. And so he did.
It was almost noon when Joan padded barefoot down the hallway, stopping outside his younger brother's door.
"Elian," he called, tapping gently on the dark oak panel, "breakfast is ready. Come on out."
From inside came a groggy, half-muffled voice. "Coming…"
A few seconds later, the door creaked open, and Elián appeared, still wrapped in the soft folds of a grey cotton two piece night wear , hair disheveled and eyes heavy with sleep.
"You look like a mess," Joan teased, slinging an arm around his brother's shoulders.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Elián muttered, rolling his eyes as he allowed himself to be steered toward the kitchen.
They entered the bright dining space where the scent of warm bread lingered faintly in the air. A plate of toasted sandwiches sat at the center of the marble dining island, cheese visibly oozing from the crusts. A jug of orange juice sweating with condensation waited to be poured into two tall glasses.
"This is it? 'Breakfast'?" Elián said, raising his fingers in sarcastic air quotes.
Joan smirked. "What's wrong with it? You're sounding ungrateful now."
"You should've left it for the cook when she comes," Elián said, plopping down onto the stool with theatrical exhaustion. "But thanks for the effort, bro."
"Yeah, yeah. Dig in, your majesty," Joan said, pushing a plate toward him.
They ate in easy silence at first. The kind of silence that only comes from people who know each other too well to fill every space with talk.
"You don't have practice this morning?" Elián asked, taking a sip of juice.
"Later in the afternoon," Joan replied. "Figured I'd spend the morning with my whiny little brother."
"I'm not whiny."
"You're extremely whiny. Eli."
Elián scoffed. "Next time, go spend your morning with one of your numerous partners."
"At least they'd be grateful I made breakfast," Joan replied with a dramatic sigh, grinning.
Their laughter bounced softly off the walls. this kind of morning was not rare between the brothers, and for a moment, the world outside their glass castle felt far, far away.
But then Joan's phone buzzed on the table, sharp and insistent. He glanced at the screen. The name Mark Reddington his friend/ teammate flashed across it.
He swiped to answer. "Yo! Red, what's up?"
From the other end came an almost panicked voice. "J, did you see the news? What's your brother's connection with the mafia?! It's blowing up everywhere, man!"
"Mafia?" Joan's face creased. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Hold on, I'm sending you a link. You need to see this right now."
A notification pinged. Joan tapped it and was directed to a breaking news article on a top entertainment site.
He read the headline once.
Then twice.
Then blinked, as if trying to shake the letters into making sense.
> BREAKING NEWS: Head of the Dale Conglomerate Sends 600 Pink Camellias to Pop Star Elián Hart's Studio. Romantic Gesture or Mafia Marking?
Joan froze. "What the hell…?"
Elián, who had been lazily peeling the crust from his sandwich, looked up at the sound of his name.
"What?"
Joan turned the screen toward him wordlessly. Elián leaned in to read.
The color drained from his face. "Six hundred… pink camellias?"
Joan lowered his voice. "Elian, do you know Lucian Dale?"
There was a pause.
Elián blinked. "Lucian Dale? Who's that?"
"He was at the VIP party last night. With his sister, I think."
"Oh Celeste's brother?" Elián's brows furrowed. "We barely spoke. Honestly, I hardly remember him. It was his sister who made an impression."
Joan stood, restless now. "Call your studio. Ask them what's going on. This isn't just fan gossip.
Elián nodded and retreated quickly to his room. His bedroom was a sanctuary of soft greys and ivory textures, with a grand piano nestled in one corner and heavy blackout curtains still drawn shut. His phone, lying on the nightstand, was already blinking with a sea of notifications.
When he powered it on, the messages flooded in.
From his manager. His producer. The head of PR. Even their mother.
—Elián, call me now.
—We need to respond before this spins further.
—The studio is crawling with reporters.
He returned to the living room with the phone pressed to his ear, eyes distant, voice quiet.
"I think something's started," he said softly, meeting Joan's gaze across the morning wreckage of half-eaten sandwiches and untouched juice.
Joan frowned, crossing his arms.
"And you really don't remember him? You didn't give him… anything?"
"No," Elián whispered. "I didn't give him a thing."
Outside the glass windows, the world glittered in the sun deceptively calm. But the storm had already touched down.
Elian stood in the center of the room, barefoot, still in his nightwear, the soft fabric brushing against his calves. His phone was cold in his hand when he finally dialed Lily White, his manager.
She picked up on the first ring.
"Elian," she blurted before he could say a word, her voice taut and climbing, "what is going on? How do you know Lucian Dale? This is bad. Bad for you. For the label. For the brand oh my God, this can't be happening"
"Lily, breathe," Elian said, calm but firm. "I don't know what's going on either, but we'll figure it out, okay?"
Silence hummed on the other end.
"Where are you?" he asked.
"At the studio, but I'm coming over."
"No, don't. Joan will drive me down there"
"Fine. Be safe," she murmured and hung up.
Elian sighed and immediately placed another call this time to their mother.
"Elian?" came Mrs. Hart's soft but worried voice. "What's happening? There are reporters all over the street outside our house even. What's going on with Lucian Dale?"
"Nothing," Elian said quickly. "At least... not that I know of. I'm heading to the studio now to sort it out. Joan's taking me."
"Put him on."
Elian handed the phone to his brother, who grinned. "Hello, beautiful woman."
Mrs. Hart chuckled. "Stop it. Joan, I'm trusting you with your brother."
"You always can. No one's touching him Mom."
"i will tell your father everything's fine and call me the moment you can, I love you both so much ."
"We love you too," the boys said in unison before ending the call.
They disappeared into their rooms, reemerging in casual wear, Elian in tailored joggers and a dark oversized sweater, Joan in black slacks and a bomber jacket. Without delay, they made their way to the underground parking garage.
Fortunately, Elian's residence was off the radar.
But by the time they reached West Hollywood's beating heart, the calm was replaced by chaos.
DAWN Entertainment was a towering, futuristic marvel: sixty floors of glass and brushed steel that shimmered in the sunlight. The building housed rehearsal studios, recording booths, corporate offices, and private lounges reserved only for the highest-tier celebrities. It was as much a business empire as it was a beacon of stardom, known for nurturing the biggest names in the industry including Elian Hart himself.
As they approached, the paparazzi chaos was already visible from several blocks away flashes igniting like wildfire and reporters clustering behind security barricades.
"Elian! Over here!"
"What's your relationship with Lucian Dale?"
"Did he spend the night at your place?"
"Are you two in a secret relationship?"
The questions came like a hailstorm, relentless and loud.
Elian and Joan stepped out of the car, their security team eight tall, muscular men dressed in tactical black forming a protective shield around them. The brothers walked in perfect sync, sharp and elegant. Elian's hair caught the light just right, his beauty magnetic even in a hoodie. Joan walked beside him like a trained wolf relaxed, but ready to bare his teeth.
Once inside, Lily met them near the reception. Her power suit was sleek, her blonde hair twisted into a tight bun, iPad clutched in one hand.
"Thank God," she breathed, nodding at Joan before turning to Elian. "Come. You need to see this."
They took the private elevator to the 30th floor the rehearsal wing and were escorted into Elian's personal practice room.
The moment the doors opened, Elian froze.
The room usually an echo chamber of soundboards and mirrors was now a sea of pink. Hundreds of camellias bloomed softly, arranged in flowing lines across the space. The fragrance, light and dreamlike, hung in the air like a whispered secret.
At the center of it all, a small ivory envelope lay perched atop a white lacquered stool.
No one had touched it.
Elian approached the letter, heart suddenly unsteady. He opened the flap and pulled out the single card inside. The handwriting was firm, elegant, and masculine.
> Elian,
I've never known need like this. But, from the moment I saw you under those lights, commanding the world with your voice, I knew I'd spend the rest of my life regretting silence if I said nothing.
I sent these flowers not to overwhelm, but to offer beauty in return for the beauty you gave me that night.Your voice didn't echo through the room it poured through me, note by note, like light spilling into a place I'd long kept dark. And as I watched you, I realized something terrifying and beautiful: I want to be your safe place,your forever.
Even if I only get to stand at the edge of your light…
It will be the most sacred place I've ever known.
I am not a good man, Elián.
But you make me want to be.
And if you let me , I'll spend my whole life learning how.
— Lucian
Elian read it twice before lowering the card.
"Let me see it," Joan said, holding out a hand.
Elian passed the note to him.
Joan's expression twisted almost instantly. "Hell no. This isn't happening. No, Lucian Dale is the worst of the worst
Elian chuckled, amused. "Oh? And what about you, Saint Joan?"
"I never pretended to be boyfriend material," Joan retorted. "But him? He's... he's a walking scandal. No long-term anything. No accountability. Just power, and chaos."
Elian sat on the piano bench. "I haven't even spoken to him. You're jumping ahead."
"Fine. What do we do?"
Elian turned to Lily. "Put out a statement. Frame it as a gesture of thanks. Professional admiration. Make it elegant."
She was already typing.
---
DAWN ENTERTAINMENT OFFICIAL STATEMENT:
> "This morning, internationally acclaimed artist Elian Hart received a floral tribute from Mr. Lucian Dale in appreciation for his performance at the 'Live' concert. We want to clarify that this gesture was unsolicited and not indicative of any ongoing personal relationship between the two parties,Elian remains fully focused on his upcoming tour and music projects. We kindly ask the media and fans to respect his privacy during this time.
—DAWN Management Team"
The press release was out within the hour, sent to all major outlets and posted on DAWN's official channels. It didn't stop the rumors nothing ever did but it gave them breathing room.
Back in the practice room, Elian glanced at the pink ocean once more,he couldn't explain it yet not even to himself but something in that letter... in the simplicity and restraint of Lucian's words... had shaken something loose.
And for the first time in years, Elian Hart felt curiosity.
Genuine, dangerous curiosity.