The tension in the Desrosiers manor had shifted since Acheron's breakdown. The air felt heavier. The silence was no longer comfortable; it was brittle.
The lights in the living room were dimmed to a low golden glow, the only sound coming from the occasional creak of the old pipes or the wind brushing against the windows. Ivy sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a lukewarm mug of herbal tea she hadn't touched in over an hour.
Oaklen leaned against the doorframe, watching her in silence. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the lines on his face deeper than usual. Neither of them had spoken since Eron slammed the bathroom door hours earlier. The sound of him retching still echoed faintly in their ears.
"He's still in his room," she murmured.
Oaklen moved to lean against the counter beside her, arms folded tightly over his chest. His usually composed expression was tight with guilt.
"I checked on him. He's not crying anymore, but... he didn't want to talk."
Ivy exhaled, placing the mug down with a soft clink. "He said he was barely holding himself together. I can't get that out of my head."
"I don't know what I'm doing," She continues, her voice tight, like it had been wound too tightly inside her chest.
Oaklen moved to sit across from her, his eyes tracing the steamless rim of her cup. "You're trying to hold this family together," he said softly. "You always have."
She laughed bitterly. A soft, exhausted sound. "And look where that's gotten us."
Oaklen looked away. "He's hurting, Ivy. And we're... helpless. That's the part no one ever warns you about, isn't it? The part where you can't fix it. No matter how much you want to."
"I'm not trying to fix it," she snapped, but her voice cracked halfway through. She inhaled shakily and dropped her gaze. "I'm just trying to keep us moving forward. If we don't push through this, we'll drown in it."
Oaklen rubbed his palms over his face, the stubble rasping against his hands. "Maybe he needs time. Maybe he's not ready to go to court. Or see Sauveterre again. Maybe—"
"We don't have time, Oaklen," Ivy interrupted, her voice hardening. "We have influence now. The moment we pause, the Blackwells bury everything. Evidence disappears. Witnesses back out. We need momentum."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, quietly, "But at what cost?"
Ivy looked up at him not in anger, or in defence, but in worn rawness.
"I see him, Oak," she murmured. "I see how he flinches when I speak too loudly. How he forces himself to eat in front of us. I know I'm pushing him. But if I stop... I'm scared I won't know how to reach him anymore."
Oaklen reached across the table and took her hand in his, warm and calloused. She didn't pull away.
"We'll figure it out," he said, gently. "Maybe he just needs space."
She shook her head. "Space isn't enough. We're trying so hard to fix everything, but all we're doing is cornering him."
Oaklen was silent for a moment, the guilt in his posture deepening. "We should have pulled him out of that school earlier. The moment we noticed something off."
"I was scared," Ivy confessed. "Scared of overreacting. Scared of making him feel like he was broken. But I think… I think I broke him anyway."
Oaklen stepped forward, pulling her gently into his arms. "He isn't broken, Ivy. He survived. He's still here. That has to count for something."
Her grip tightened. "I just want him to feel safe again."
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Eamon Sauveterre sat in his office, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he read through a pile of case documents. His golden eyes were fixed, focused, calculating.
The low buzz of fluorescent lighting hummed in the background as Eamon tapped his pen against the edge of a thick folder. The Sauveterre Law Firm rarely slept, especially not in the upper floors where the higher-profile cases landed.
A different case lay before him now: a land dispute between two Omega entrepreneurs and a wealthy Alpha investor trying to backdoor them out of their own property. The matter was clear-cut, but Eamon's notes were thorough. He flipped a page, added a question mark beside a name, then leaned back in his chair.
He should be focused. Normally, this was his zone: scrutinising numbers, memorising dates and signing paperwork. A familiar and comforting pattern.
His eyes couldn't help but drift to the corner of his desk. There sat a separate file, one thinner than the others but hauntingly heavier. Desrosiers is written in bold on the front cover.
He hadn't intended to get so invested.
Yet here he was, checking his phone every hour for an email from Ivy. For a message confirming Acheron had reviewed the documents. For a request to move forward. But it had been silent.
He pulled the file closer.
Acheron Desrosiers. Eighteen. Omega. Victim of brutal assault. Healing physically, but... emotionally?
Eamon ran a hand down his face, then opened the drawer to his right and pulled out a small voice recorder. He clicked it on and began dictating softly.
"Note: Client family has yet to reach out to schedule next meeting. The timeline is slipping. Based on psychological evaluations, trauma may be impeding progression. Consider reaching out directly… or not. Risk of overstepping. Monitor another week before follow-up..."
He clicked the device off.
The silence afterwards sat heavily in the room. He stood, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window. From here, the city looked like a galaxy split across black marble, glittering lights, distant movement and unknowable lives.
Somewhere in that sea of lights was a boy curled around a sketchbook and a family teetering on the edge of implosion.
For reasons he didn't dare name yet, Eamon cared. More than he should.
Just as Eamon returned to his seat, his office phone rang, the internal line. He answered it out of habit.
"Mr. Sauveterre," his assistant's voice came through, calm but clipped. "There's a visitor downstairs asking for a meeting without an appointment."
He frowned. "Name?"
A brief pause. "Tobias Blackwell."
Eamon's jaw tightened. "Let him up."
It only took a minute. The elevator chimed, and the door opened to reveal a tall man with striking features and the unmistakable poise of wealth inherited, not earned. Tobias Blackwell, father of the accused. A man who wore his suits like they were armour and carried his last name like a loaded weapon. A thick layer of pheromones clung to him like a shield.
Eamon stood, but did not offer his hand.
"Mr. Blackwell," he said flatly.
Tobias smiled, all teeth and condescension. "Eamon. You're certainly growing into your father's reputation."
Eamon gestured toward the two leather armchairs across from his desk. "I'll skip the small talk. What do you want?"
Tobias sat, crossing one leg over the other with the ease of a man who was used to being welcomed anywhere.
"I'm here," he began smoothly, "to ask, politely, that you recuse yourself from the Desrosiers case."
Eamon's golden eyes narrowed.
"And if I don't?"
The older man's smile didn't falter. "Then I imagine both your professional and personal life may get unnecessarily… complicated. I'd hate for your firm to lose other high-value clients. Or for your private life to be dragged through the courts."
Ah. There it was. The threat. Delivered with satin gloves and poison underneath.
Eamon leaned forward slowly, bracing his elbows on the desk.
"You're threatening me," he said coolly.
"I'm offering you the kind of deal people in your position dream of." Tobias stood again. "I'm sure you understand the stakes. My son has a bright future. It would be a shame to see it tarnished over a… misunderstanding."
Eamon rose too. The fury in his blood was quiet, precise.
"You should go."
Tobias only adjusted his cufflinks. "This isn't over."
"No," Eamon said, voice cold, controlled, lethal. "It isn't."
Tobias gave a tight nod and walked out, not looking back.
When the door clicked shut, Eamon didn't move for a long moment. Then he picked up the Desrosiers file again, this time with a purpose.
He knew now.
This wouldn't be just a legal battle.
It would be war.
As the door clicked shut behind Tobias Blackwell, Eamon remained perfectly still. His reflection glinted in the dark window — unmoving, but far from calm.
A flick of his wrist turned the lock on his office door. He walked back to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer, which he rarely touched. From it, he withdrew a thick black binder marked S-Clients (RED). These were cases flagged as high-risk. Cases where people tried to bury evidence, intimidate witnesses, or use money as a weapon.
He opened to a fresh page and wrote:
BLACKWELL INTERFERENCE — 15:32
Tobias Blackwell visited unannounced. Requested that I recuse myself from the Desrosiers case. An implied threat to the firm's clients + my personal life. Subtext: Extortion via reputation sabotage.
He shut the binder and placed it back in the drawer; this time, he added a coded lock. Once sealed, he sat back and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Tobias's arrogance didn't worry him, but the reach of the Blackwell family did.
Although Tobias didn't count on Eamon being just some ambitious upstart clinging to reputation. He was a strategist, and he had wanted more of a challenge; there wasn't much for him to lose.
Within the hour, his office became a hive of silent coordination. Eamon placed three calls:
The first one to an independent forensics lab. He expedited the DNA verification to a far more secure lab, which operates outside normal law enforcement channels, just in case the Blackwells try tampering.
The third call to a cybersecurity expert. Which the firm had on retainer, he instructed her to start tracing and flagging any activity around Acheron Desrosiers' online presence, anything as little as trolling, leaks, or attempted hacks. If Tobias planned to discredit the victim, Eamon wants to catch it early.
The final call to a PI in his father's network. He didn't want them to dig up dirt, but to watch the Blackwells' movements. Following the law as closely as possible, but still silently recording everything from a distance.
Afterwards, he notices Acheron's open file. He didn't read it this time, but the photo that clung to the inside flap caught his attention. Acheron's delicate features, bruised but unyielding, stared back at him.
Eamon tapped the photo lightly.
"You picked the wrong Omega to try and erase," he murmured to no one. Not only because he believed in his own skill, but he could see a glint of determination in Acheron's eyes, even if the little Omega doesn't recognise it himself.
But he will.
***
The night settled like a heavy quilt over the Desrosiers' home. The hallway was quiet, the voices from earlier having faded into memory.
Acheron sat on the floor of his bedroom, back pressed to the side of his bed, sketchbook propped loosely against his knees. His pencil had long since stopped moving, but he hadn't noticed.
The drawing had started as nonsense, just a way to distract himself. But now, shapes had formed. Gentle lines cut through the mess of scribbles forming a figure, it was tall and faceless, standing beside a smaller one, their fingers almost, but not quite, touching.
He didn't know who it was meant to be.
Maybe it was no one.
Maybe it was everyone.
He leaned his head back against the bed, the bandages at his throat tight but familiar now. His stomach still hurt. His chest still ached from the previous shouting. But for the first time in days, he didn't feel like collapsing.
He felt hollow, yes, but not quite empty as before. Something lived in that space; it wasn't gentle, but the first signs of a strong breeze preparing for a storm.
He reached forward, smudged the edge of the page gently with his thumb, then closed the sketchbook.
He didn't cry. Nor did he smile, but at least his breathing is steady.
His mom had been right; he had been running. He didn't yet know how to stop.