The television's glow painted the child's face in shifting golds and blues.
Julian blinked up at the screen, his small fingers curled around the hem of his maid's dress.
"Nanny," he whispered, voice soft and curious. "Why is my hero with a beautiful lady?"
The maid exhaled, weary, closing her eyes as if gathering patience from the air.
"Actors do things like that, young master," she murmured.
Julian sucked his finger thoughtfully, eyes still wide and blinking, the reflection of Tristan's smile flickering across them like a spell he couldn't understand.
After a moment, he tugged at her dress again. "I want to see Mommy."
"Of course," she said gently. "Come, let's go to see your mama."
Upstairs, steam still drifted from the open door of the bathroom.
Isidore emerged, hair damp and robe loosely tied, the faint scent of soap and lavender clinging to his skin. The bath had drained him more than refreshed him. He felt hollow, heavy.
The door burst open with a small thud.
"Mommy!" Julian ran in, his voice bright and breathless. "Mommy—my hero! He—he with pretty lady!"
Isidore froze, the words pricking straight into his chest.
Of course. That bastard again.
He pressed his fingers to his temple, forcing calm into his tone. "Let him do whatever he wants, sweetheart."
"But Mommy," Julian whispered, lower lip trembling, "he's my hero… why he with that pretty lady?"
"You don't understand, dear," Isidore murmured, kneeling to meet his gaze. His voice was quiet, yet sharp beneath the softness. "We don't need him. He may be a hero on the screen, but in reality…" He paused, lips tightening. "…he's the villain."
Julian blinked, confusion soft in his eyes.
"No, Mommy…" he whispered, shaking his head. "He my hero. I wanna see him…"
"Julian, we can't."
The words slipped out sharper than Isidore intended — a sudden crack in the calm.
Silence followed.
A still, fragile thing.
Julian's eyes lifted to him — wide, crystalline blue, rimmed with disbelief.
He didn't move at first. Just stood there, small and trembling.
"Mommy?" His voice was small, like a thread that might snap if pulled.
Isidore's chest tightened. He'd meant to sound firm — not cruel. But the air between them had already changed, heavy now, brittle with hurt.
Julian's lower lip began to tremble. His lashes fluttered, damp with gathering tears.
Then came the sound — soft at first, a broken little whimper.
Another breath, and it cracked open into sobs.
Small, aching sobs that filled the room and sliced through Isidore's chest like glass.
"Oh, my darling—"
Isidore's voice cracked as he reached for him. He gathered Julian close, his arms trembling as if afraid to hold too tightly. "I didn't mean it, my love, I didn't—
But Julian twisted in his embrace, small fists pushing weakly against his chest. His sobs came in jagged bursts, each one tearing through the quiet.
"I want to see my hero!" Julian cried, hiccups breaking his words. "Mama's a bad person!"
The words struck like a blade — soft, innocent, and merciless.
Isidore froze. For a heartbeat, he couldn't breathe. His throat burned, his eyes stung, but he forced a fragile smile through the pain.
"No, no, sweetheart," he whispered, voice trembling. "Mama's not angry. Mama's just… tired."
Julian kept crying, his little body shaking against him.
Isidore rocked him gently, one hand smoothing the boy's curls, the other clutching his small back as though he could shield him from the very world he'd created.
"Hush now," he murmured, pressing his lips to Julian's damp temple. "Hush, my darling. Forgive Mama… please."
The tears didn't stop — not right away.
They came in soft, uneven waves, soaking into Isidore's robe. But he only held Julian closer, rocking gently, whispering fragments of lullabies between his quiet apologies.
Little by little, the sobs faded into broken sniffles.
"Alright," he murmured at last, his breath warm against Julian's curls. "Alright, my little Julian wants to see his hero… then fine."
A weary sigh slipped through his lips, more to himself than to the child. "Mama will take you to see him."
Julian blinked up, lashes heavy with tears, his round cheeks flushed and glistening. He gave a tiny hiccup — half cry, half relief.
Isidore's heart clenched. He brushed a thumb over the boy's damp cheek, then leaned in to kiss away the salt.
"Hush now, my darling," he whispered, his voice tender and tired all at once. "No more tears."
Julian's breathing steadied at last, his small hands clutching at Isidore's robe as though to anchor himself.
Inside, Isidore's thoughts spiraled.
Even my son insists on seeing you…
Why do you haunt every corner of my life, Tristan?
The question burned quietly, like a match he could never quite snuff out.
Julian shifted in his arms, lifting his head from Isidore's chest. His voice came small, tremulous, but certain.
"Mama," he whispered, "I want my hero."
The words struck deeper than they should have — soft, innocent, yet merciless.
Isidore's expression gentled. A flicker of pain crossed his eyes before he managed a faint smile.
"Alright, dear," he murmured. "We'll see your—" He faltered, the word snagging in his throat. "…your hero."
He almost said Daddy.
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them — delicate, fragile, weighted with everything unsaid.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath, as if aware of what was nearly spoken.
Then Julian laughed — a clear, bell-like sound that shattered the heaviness, bright and guileless. He reached for his mother's face, small hands brushing against Isidore's cheek.
Isidore smiled despite himself. The exhaustion that had clung to him all morning seemed to ease, if only for that moment.
He would endure anything — anything at all — if it meant keeping his baby laughter alive.
Isidore stood by the window now, Julian in his arms, his fingers tracing idle circles on the child's back. The boy had stopped crying, though his lashes still shimmered with the remnants of tears.
"Alright, my darling," Isidore murmured. "Let's see what we can do about your hero."
He reached for his phone, balancing Julian against his hip. The glass screen lit up with familiar numbers. He hesitated — just a breath, a heartbeat — then pressed call.
Zayn picked up after two rings, his voice as crisp as the static between them.
"What is it, Davenant?"
Isidore glanced at Julian, whose small hand was now tugging gently at his robe.
"Zayn," he said smoothly, though there was an edge beneath his calm. "Can you ask that bastard if he's free or not?"
arched a brow, amusement creeping into his tone.
"Huh. You're calling him a bastard and yet you want him to free himself from work?"
"I just said whatever it is," Isidore replied dryly, his patience already thinning.
At the name — bastard — Julian frowned, lower lip trembling again.
"Sorry, dear," Isidore whispered quickly, brushing the child's hair from his forehead. "I didn't mean that."
From the phone, Zayn sighed. "Alright, davenant. I'll let you know."
"Good," Isidore said, the word clipped and final. "Then do immediately."
He ended the call, exhaling softly. For a moment, he simply stood there — the phone cooling in his hand, his son's weight warm against his chest. The silence was thick with things he refused to name.
Across the city, the afternoon light struck glass towers like a blade.
Inside the Studios, the air was taut with precision — crew members rushing across the floor, headsets crackling, scripts flipping, and camera cranes gliding into position.
Tristan stood near the window, coat undone, tie loosened, fatigue softening the edges of his otherwise magnetic face. Outside, the stage lights dimmed as the director's voice barked something about retakes and missed cues.
Jesper was speaking again — tablet in hand, tone brisk.
"You've got one more scene before lunch, Mr. Ashford. Then a live interview, and—"
Tristan wasn't listening. His gaze had drifted somewhere far beyond the glass, to where the city gleamed in lazy gold.
Jesper sighed. "You can't keep zoning out during shooting. The production schedule's already tight."
Tristan turned his head slightly, the faintest smirk ghosting his lips.
"Maybe it's the script," he said. "Maybe it's dull."
"Or maybe," Jesper replied dryly, "you're just thinking about someone again."
The comment landed — lightly, but it stuck.
Tristan's smirk faltered. He said nothing.
And then the phone rang.
Tristan turned, half-grateful for the interruption, and answered with his usual drawl.
"Yes, Zayn. What is it now?"
On the other end, Zayn's voice carried a faint smirk.
"Well, this might sound rude, but… are you free now, Mr. Ashford?"
Tristan frowned. "Why are you asking me that?"
"Because," Zayn replied lightly, "Davenant wanted to see you."
The words hit him like a stone dropped into still water — a sharp ripple through the calm he had so carefully built.
Tristan froze. His hand tightened on the phone. His heart gave a traitorous, foolish thud.
"What are you talking about, Zayn?" he said, voice suddenly low, rough around the edges. "You're asking if I'm free?"
He laughed under his breath, the sound almost breathless.
"Of course I'm free."
Zayn hesitated. "Well, I was just going to—"
"Tell him," Tristan interrupted, voice slipping into that old velvet arrogance, "that Tristan is ready whenever his omega wishes to see him."
Zayn's sigh crackled faintly over the line. "Alright. I'll tell him."
"Then what are you waiting for?" Tristan said sharply, a hint of boyish impatience breaking through the mask. "Hang up and tell him. Tristan Ashford is ready."
Before Zayn could respond, the call was cut.
Jesper blinked at Tristan, That how Mr, Ashford suddenly came alive.
"Jesper," Tristan said, already turning away from the desk, "clear my schedule today."
Jesper stared. "Sir, the shoot isn't over yet—"
"I don't care."
"Mr. Ashford—"
"I said," Tristan snapped, though his eyes were bright now, almost boyish, "clear it. I'm going on a date."
Jesper blinked. "A… date?"
"With my precious omega," Tristan said, straightening his tie, that reckless smile flashing like the memory of a sin well-loved.
Jesper let out a long, world-weary sigh. "Nothing can be changed about you, Mr. Ashford."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Tristan murmured, clapping his assistant on the shoulder before striding toward the door.
The hallway was a blur — voices calling, cameras flashing, a dozen people trying to stop him. But Tristan didn't slow. His heart beat too fast, too loud. The thought of Isidore — that cool, infuriating, untouchable man — burned behind his ribs like a fever.
By the time he reached the lobby, Jesper was still behind him, muttering about contracts and madness.
"Tell them I'll finish the shoot tomorrow," Tristan said without turning.
"You can't just—"
"I am just," Tristan said, pushing through the glass doors into the sunlight. "And Jesper?"
Jesper groaned. "Yes, sir?"
"Don't wait up."
The car was waiting. Tristan slid inside, the city sprawling ahead like a challenge.
He loosened his cuffs, eyes gleaming.
"isidore wants to see me," he murmured, half to himself. "And I can't waste that chance."
Across the city in davenant penthouse, Isidore sat by the mirror, brushing Julian's soft blonde curls — sunlight glimmering through them like threads of spun gold. The boy giggled, clutching his little toy car, his reflection blinking up beside his mother's pale one.
The phone rang.
He sighed, setting the brush aside before answering. "Yes?"
Zayn's voice came smooth and practiced on the other end. "Davenant, Mr. Ashford said that he's free."
Isidore pinched the bridge of his nose, his brows knitting faintly. A quiet breath escaped him — half irritation, half resignation.
"Of course he is," he murmured. "When is he not?"
Julian turned, curious. "Who's that, Mommy?"
"No one, darling," Isidore said softly, then into the receiver: "Tell him I'll be leaving home with Julian. You can send the place once it's settled."
"Understood," Zayn replied. "I'll let Mr. Ashford know where to meet you."
"Fine," Isidore said, his tone light but distant. "And, Zayn—" He paused, eyes flicking to Julian's smile in the mirror. "Don't make it sound like I'm chasing him."
A faint laugh from the other end. "Wouldn't dream of it, Davenant."
The call ended. Isidore exhaled slowly, brushing the last strand of Julian's hair back into place.