The car hummed softly, idling under the afternoon sun. Julian's small legs bounced on the seat, eyes bright and eager, fingers drumming against Isidore's arm.
"Mama," he chirped, voice high and lilting, "where's my hero?"
Isidore's chest tightened. He almost cursed under his breath, that bastard — but stopped. He didn't want Julian's small heart to falter.
"He'll be here soon, darling," Isidore said, forcing a tired smile, his voice steady but carrying the weight of weeks spent chasing shadows.
Julian's smile didn't falter, but Isidore's expression darkened. Why was Tristan always appearing at the wrong moment? If not for his child's insistence, he wouldn't be here, now wrung with frustration.
He leaned back in the seat, brushing a hand through his hair. "What should I do…" he murmured to himself, voice low.
Across town, Tristan finally allowed himself a long breath. Jesper's tablet still buzzed with reminders, but Tristan waved a hand.
"The car's waiting," Jesper said, voice dry, tired eyes narrowing.
"I know," Tristan muttered under his breath, hands tightening on the leather seat. I can't believe Isidore wants to see me…
He slipped into the waiting car, the leather warm beneath him. "Come on, Jesper," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "We can't keep him waiting."
Jesper groaned. "Just like you say, sir," he murmured, resigned.
The engine purred to life.
Back in the car, Julian wriggled, small belly grumbling.
"Mama, I'm hungry."
Isidore glanced down at him, brushing a stray curl from the boy's forehead. "Alright, let's find the nearest café, then."
Julian squealed, clapping his tiny hands.
Isidore stepped out, cradling Julian against his chest. "Leon," he said to the driver, voice clipped but calm, "wait here. If he—" he caught himself, that bastard again. "If Tristan arrives, tell him to come to the café."
Leon nodded silently, eyes careful.
Inside, the café was plain, almost austere, a stark contrast to the bustling streets outside. Isidore had never visited a place like this before, but Julian's hunger left no room for fuss.
They took a seat at a corner table. Isidore ordered a few pastries, careful to keep Julian entertained. The boy stood on the chair, clutching a small fork.
"Where's my pastry?" he demanded, eyes sparkling with anticipation.
"In just a moment, my love," Isidore said, brushing Julian's cheek with a thumb.
But something in the café felt off. Eyes flicked toward them from across the room — too many, too deliberate. Isidore noticed the slow, purposeful movements. Men approaching.
Instinct sharpened. He placed a protective hand on Julian's shoulder.
"Hello," one of the men said, voice smooth, too practiced. "What a lovely day."
Julian stiffened, small fingers clutching Isidore's suite jacket. He pressed his face into his mother's neck, tremors of fear rippling through him.
Isidore's hand smoothed Julian's back, fingers tightening in silent promise. "Don't worry, dear. Mama is here."
The men circled closer, deliberate in their approach, their gaze cold and assessing.
Isidore's heart stuttered with rising fury. Calm was a fragile thing now. He reached for his phone.
One of them grabbed it, fingers iron-strong.
"Give me that," Isidore said, voice sharp and low, trembling with contained heat.
"Why?" the tallest one said, a smirk curling his lips. "We just wants to be friendly."
They leaned closer. The smell of cheap cologne and danger filled the space.
"A single mother with a child alone," the man murmured, eyes glinting, "is a treasure."
Isidore's hand shifted, curling into a subtle, deadly precision over Julian's back. "Stay away from us." he said, voice low, unwavering. His beige eyes burned, each word a fuse ready to ignite.
The café quieted. The other patrons lowered their heads, avoiding confrontation. They knew — they could feel the danger, and it wasn't a bluff.
Julian's little hands pressed into his mother's chest. "Mama?" he whispered, voice soft, afraid.
Isidore bent his head, brushing hair from his forehead. "It's alright, my darling. Mama is right here. Nothing will happen."
The men paused, sensing the resolve behind the calm. Isidore wasn't threatening — he was simply steel wrapped in skin, a protective storm no one could breach.
The men leaned closer, shadows cutting sharp against the dim café lights. The scent of coffee soured into something heavier — the stench of arrogance.
"Give me my phone back," Isidore snapped, voice low but edged with command. "Or else."
One of them barked a laugh, tipping his head mockingly. "Or else what? You'll bite me?"
Julian flinched at the cruel tone. Isidore's jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening as he fought the urge to strike.
"If my child weren't in my arms," he said, every word trembling with fury, "I would beat you to death."
That made them pause. Surprise flickered — brief, disbelieving — before one smirked, baring teeth. "Oh, I'm terrified. An omega who wants to fight. How cute."
Another joined in, his voice dripping venom. "Watch your tongue, darling. You omegas can't do anything but spread your legs for alpha's."
The world went silent.
Julian was too young to understand, but he sensed the shift — the way his mother's body went still, the air suddenly too sharp to breathe.
Then, without thought, Isidore's hand moved.
The crack echoed through the café like thunder.
The man staggered, half-dropping the phone. His hand shot up to his cheek, eyes wide, disbelief flashing into rage. Around them, chairs scraped, whispers died. Every head turned, then quickly bowed. No one dared interfere.
"You—" the man choked, trembling. "You dare to slap me?"
Isidore's voice cut through the tension like glass. "You should pay attention to what you say, you bastard."
The insult struck harder than the slap. The man's jaw flexed. His composure fractured.
He lunged, grabbing Isidore's wrist in a bruising grip. "An omega," he hissed, "daring to slap me? And then talk back?"
Isidore gasped, twisting against his hold, but refused to lower his gaze. His heart hammered, Julian pressed tightly to his chest, trembling.
"Mama…" Julian's voice broke, small and frightened.
Isidore turned his head, forcing calm into his tone even as pain tightened his throat. "It's nothing, darling,"
His words, quiet as they were, carried a cold finality — the kind that didn't need volume to command.
The café had become a cage of breathless silence. Even the air seemed to brace itself for what would come next.
Outside, the sleek black car rolled to a halt. The city's heat shimmered against its glossy surface as Tristan Ashford stepped out — coat unbuttoned, hair slightly tousled, sunglasses low over his eyes. He looked too expensive for the street he stood on.
He turned toward the vehicle, noting the familiar license plate. His lips curved.
"Ah," he murmured, amused. "My Isidore."
The driver — Leon — glanced at him through the rearview mirror, a cigarette lazily perched between his fingers. "Mr. Ashford," he said, voice gravelly, "Mr. Isidore's inside. That café."
Tristan blinked once, then laughed softly under his breath. "A café?" His tone was half incredulous, half indulgent. "What's my wife doing in a place like that?"
He adjusted his cufflinks, a faint smile tugging his mouth. "No matter. I'll take him somewhere far better myself."
Turning to Jesper, who stood nearby with a tablet in his hands and the weary patience of a man used to chaos, Tristan said, "Jesper, wait here. My Isidore's apparently hungry. Once he's done, we'll go to a proper restaurant."
Jesper exhaled through his nose, eyes closing briefly. "Just as you say, Mr. Ashford."
"Good." Tristan's grin widened, bright and foolishly proud. He had no idea what waited for him beyond that glass door.
He stepped inside the café.
The bell above the door chimed — a delicate, trembling sound that cut through the low murmur of fear inside. The first thing he noticed was the air: tense, wrong. Then he saw the faces — turned away, bowed in avoidance.
And then—
He froze.
Across the room, Isidore was standing, one arm wrapped protectively around Julian, the other caught in the iron grip of a stranger. The child was crying softly into his mother's chest. The scene was wrong in every possible way — wrong enough to make Tristan's pulse erupt in his throat.
Something dark uncoiled in him.
He didn't think. He moved.
By the time the men realized someone had approached, Tristan was already behind them. His hand came down on the nearest man's shoulder — deceptively light, but his smile had vanished.
"What," he said, voice cold as a drawn blade, "the hell do you think you're doing?"
The man turned, sneering. "Don't meddle in my business—"
Tristan's shove cut him off, sending him stumbling into a chair. "Looks to me," Tristan said evenly, "like you're meddling in mine."
He looked past them — at Isidore. At the red marks blooming on his wrist where fingers had held too tight. At the way Julian's small hands clung to his suit jacket. Something inside him snapped quiet and clean.
"You dared," he said softly, dangerously, "to lay your filthy hands on my wife?"
The men blinked — the word wife registering too late.
Isidore's breath hitched. His eyes lifted to Tristan — confusion, relief, and something else flickering faintly behind the exhaustion. Julian, however, reacted first.
"Mama—my hero!" he squealed, wriggling in Isidore's arms, face lighting up with joy.
Isidore tightened his hold, saying nothing, though the faintest pink traced his cheeks.
Tristan's gaze returned to the men. All trace of charm had vanished. His expression had sharpened to something predatory. He seized the nearest one by the collar and yanked him forward until their noses nearly touched.
"Stay exactly where you are," he growled. "You'll be arrested in less than five minutes."
He shoved the man back, pulled his phone from his pocket, and dialed a number. His voice dropped low, each word clipped with authority.
"Joshua. There are creeps at a café on Rosamund Street. They've just laid hands on my wife. I want them arrested now."
A sigh came from the other end — long-suffering, weary. "Understood, Brother," Joshua said. "I'll send a unit."
"Good."
Tristan ended the call and looked back at the men, eyes glinting with the satisfaction of a predator closing its jaws. "You'll see what happens when you touch what's mine," he said quietly. "You disgusting creatures."
The café had fallen into a stunned silence. Chairs remained still. Cups sat untouched. And now, recognition began to ripple through the air like wildfire — someone whispered his name.
"Tristan Ashford," another gasped.
The realization spread — the famed actor, the Tristan Ashford, in a run-down café, fury burning like a storm around him.
No one dared move closer. Not even to ask for a photo.
The men who'd mocked Isidore now stood paralyzed, pale as ghosts.
Tristan, meanwhile, crouched slightly, his tone softening as he turned back toward Isidore. "Are you alright, dear?"
Isidore turned his face away, his voice barely above a murmur. "I'm fine."
Tristan's chest ached at that — the defensive tremor, the avoidance. But when he looked back at the men, the sorrow melted again into something fierce and merciless.
Outside, police sirens began to wail in the distance.
And Tristan, hand still trembling faintly from rage, whispered under his breath, "You all will pay for what you did."
The sirens drew closer — a rising wail slicing through the thick tension that still clung to the café walls.
Julian's little squeal broke through the noise first. "Mama, look!" his voice bubbling with relief.
The door swung open just as the men turned to flee. Two uniformed officers stepped in, calm and precise, their movements practiced. "No one leaves," one of them said sharply. The sound of metal cuffs followed, snapping tight around wrists that had only moments ago grabbed and jeered.
Julian tugged at Isidore's hand, his blue eyes bright and wet. "Mama, my hero!" he whispered, wriggling toward Tristan.
Isidore hesitated. He glanced at Tristan — then at his son — and in that quiet, tired moment, he loosened his hold.
Tristan stepped forward, arms open, his voice lowering into something soft. "Are you alright, little one?"
Julian squealed again, joyous this time. "My hero!" he giggled, flinging his arms around Tristan's neck.
Tristan caught him easily, one hand supporting the boy's small back, the other brushing away the traces of tears on his cheeks. "Come on now," he murmured, pressing a light kiss to Julian's temple. "I'll take you and your mama somewhere better than this."
Isidore pulled down his sleeves, adjusting the fabric to hide the faint red marks on his wrist. He didn't look at Tristan at first — didn't trust his voice not to tremble.
"Come on, dear," Tristan said gently. "I can't let you stay behind me."
"You don't need to," Isidore replied quietly, eyes fixed on the floor.
The words made Tristan still — speechless for a heartbeat. His throat tightened, but he said nothing.
He simply fell into step behind them as Isidore walked toward the door, Julian's laughter still ringing faintly in the air.
Tristan's gaze flicked back once more to the men now pinned against the counter, their wrists bound, their faces drained of arrogance. Only then did his chest ease.
He followed them out — his family — leaving the café behind, the echo of sirens fading into the bright, merciless afternoon.