The tension in the Davenant penthouse had subsided from a frantic roar to a low, medicinal hum.
Maurice stood by the bedside, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his lab coat. The crisis had been averted, the systemic collapse halted by a cocktail of high-grade antipyretics and stabilizers. He let out a long, weary sigh, his emerald eyes flickering with a mixture of professional relief and personal exasperation.
"It was just the sickness," Maurice murmured, though his voice carried the gravity of a warning. "A physical manifestation of a psychological fracture. His body simply quit."
He turned toward the door, his gaze landing on Zayn Maverick. The Alpha was a silhouette of exhausted loyalty, his fingers still white-knuckled around an empty coffee mug. Beside him, tucked into the crook of his arm, was Julian, whose crystalline eyes were wide with a silent, haunting worry for his mother.
"Davenant always does these things," Zayn muttered, his voice a low vibration of frustration. "He charges into the sun and wonders why he's burning. He never listens."
Maurice stopped at the threshold, casting a sharp, predatory glare back at Zayn. The doctor's patience had evaporated hours ago.
"And you," Maurice began, his voice dropping into a dangerous register, "should take better care of him. I am giving you a clinical warning, Zayn. If he pushes past this red line again, I won't be able to pull him back. Do you understand?"
Zayn shifted Julian's weight, the child's small hand clutching the lapel of his jacket. He nodded solemnly, his lilac eyes softening as they drifted toward the bed where Isidore lay. "Yes... I know. I'll take care of him. He won't leave this bed until you say so."
"Uncle Zayn?"
The tiny voice broke through the heavy atmosphere. Julian looked up, his lip trembling slightly. "Will Mama wake up and have dinner with me? I made him a drawing of a flower."
Zayn felt a sharp pang of empathy in his chest. He looked at Isidore, who was pale and motionless under the silk sheets, then back at the boy. He shook his head slowly, kneeling so he was eye-level with the child.
"Mama is very sick right now, Julie," Zayn said softly, his voice lacking its usual corporate edge. "He needs to sleep so his body can fight the 'mean' germs."
Julian's expression crumpled, a shadow of genuine sadness washing over his small features. Seeing the impending tears, Zayn pivoted instantly, his mind racing for a distraction.
"But don't worry," Zayn added, forcing a small, conspiratorial smile. "Isn't Uncle Zayn here? I'm going to join you for dinner tonight. We'll have the grandest feast in the city."
Julian looked at the bed, then back at Zayn, his brow furrowing. "But... I want to eat with Mama."
Zayn cleared his throat, the sound slightly hollow. "I have a better idea. How about we go eat first—to keep our strength up—and then, once we're full, we'll come back and check if Mama is ready for a snack? We can't have two hungry Davenants, can we?"
The logic seemed to settle in Julian's mind, though the spark of joy wasn't fully restored. He nodded slowly.
"Okay," Julian whispered. "And after that, I want to show Mommy the flower for my baby sibling."
Zayn blinked, his heart stuttering. He looked at Julian, who was currently staring at his own tiny fingers, counting them with intense concentration.
"The baby sibling will come out in..." Julian paused, his face scrunched in thought as he wiggled his digits. "...nine? Nine months whole day's"
Zayn let out a short, surprised huff of laughter. Despite the darkness of the night, this little "mischievous bear" never failed to find the light. He felt a surge of fierce, protective pride.
"It's still nine months left, little Julie," Zayn corrected, gently bopping the boy's nose. "Not days. We have a long time to wait for the new arrival. Now, let's go get that dinner."
Julian laughed as Zayn hoisted him up onto his broad back. The child's giggles echoed through the hall as they moved toward the grand staircase, leaving the silence of the sickroom behind.
Inside the master suite, the air was thick with the scent of lavender and antiseptic.
Isidore lay beneath the weight of the medicine, his consciousness adrift in a sea of chemical fog. But the nightmare—the cameras, the screaming reporters, the image of Julian running away—had finally dissolved.
In its place, a memory began to bloom, vibrant and warm.
It was a sun-drenched afternoon from almost 4 years ago. The dream was so vivid Isidore could feel the prickle of the grass beneath his feet. He saw himself, younger and less burdened, kneeling on a plush rug.
Beside him was Zayn, his large hands hovering just inches away, providing a safety net of muscle and bone. And there, in the center of the frame, was a tiny, waddling Julian.
Isidore watched his dream-self reach out, his beige eyes filled with a raw, unshielded love that he usually kept locked behind a vault of steel. Julian took his first, shaky steps, his small hands clutching Isidore's fingers for balance.
In the dream, Isidore's heart filled with a golden, liquid warmth—a sensation of pure, uncomplicated belonging. He rocked the toddler in his arms, whispering a low, melodic lullaby that seemed to harmonize with the wind.
The lullaby faded. The sun-drenched rug vanished.
Isidore's head thrashed once against the pillow, his subconscious fighting the transition back to reality. His eyelids felt like they were weighted with lead, sticking together as he struggled to reclaim his senses.
Slowly—agonizingly slowly—his beige eyes fluttered open.
The ceiling was a blur of cream-colored plaster and recessed lighting. His vision was swirled with a thick, medicinal haze, making the world feel like it was underwater. He blinked once. Twice. The dryness in his throat felt like he had swallowed sand.
"Julian..."
The name was a broken rasp, barely a whisper. He reached out a trembling, bandaged hand, patting the space beside him where the warmth of his son should have been.
But the silk sheets were cold. The room was unnervingly silent.
The dining hall of the Davenant estate was a cathedral of marble and gold, but tonight, the atmosphere was uncharacteristically domestic.
Zayn Maverick sat at the head of the obsidian table, Julian perched upon his lap like a tiny, porcelain prince. Zayn, an Alpha who approached everything—from hostile takeovers to five-course meals—with epicurean precision, handled his silver fork with effortless grace.
He chewed with a calculated delight, making the act of eating seem like a high-stakes performance for the child's benefit.
Between his own bites of herb-crusted lamb, Zayn deftly fed Julian, ensuring the boy's plate remained a colorful landscape of nutrition.
Zayn's gaze drifted to the center of the table, where a small, vibrant Begonia sat in a crystal vase. Its petals were a deep, defiant crimson, mirroring the Davenant fire.
"Is this the flower our little Julian was so concerned about?" Zayn asked, his voice a warm baritone that vibrated against the boy's back.
Julian nodded vigorously, his mouth full of mashed potatoes. His eyes sparkled with a sudden, renewed energy. Zayn couldn't resist; he reached out and playfully pinched Julian's soft cheeks until the boy erupted into a fit of melodic squeals and giggles.
Turning to the maid standing like a silent sentinel in the shadows, Zayn's expression shifted back to a mask of cool authority. "Check on Mr. Davenant. See if the medicine has allowed him a peaceful exit from his slumber."
The maid bowed her head and vanished into the hushed corridors of the penthouse.
In the master suite, the air was heavy with the scent of lavender and the vestigial heat of a broken fever.
Isidore threw back the silk sheets, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. His heart was a frantic bird trapped in a cage of ribs, hammering a rhythm of pure, unadulterated panic. Every instinct screamed a single name: Julian.
He staggered toward the door, his vision swimming in a sea of medicinal haze. Just as his hand reached for the handle, the heavy oak door swung inward. The sudden momentum sent Isidore sprawling backward, his weakened legs giving way.
"Mr. Davenant!" the maid gasped, dropping to her knees beside him.
Isidore looked up, his beige eyes bloodshot and wild, his face still flushed with a lingering, ethereal warmth. "Where... where is my son where is he? He was here. Julian was right here."
"The little Master is safe, sir," the maid reassured him, her voice a soothing balm. "He is downstairs, having dinner with Mr. Zayn.
The tension drained from Isidore's posture like water through sand. A sigh of profound relief escaped his parched lips, the ache in his chest finally subsiding into a dull throb. The maid gently took his hand, her touch firm as she guided the fallen King back to the safety of his bed.
Isidore didn't lie back down. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his spine curved with exhaustion but his gaze sharp with intent.
"Tell Zayn to bring him up," Isidore commanded, his voice a fragile rasp. "I want him here. I want him to sleep with me tonight."
The maid nodded, her eyes reflecting a quiet empathy for the man who spent his life pretending he didn't need anyone. She retreated from the room, leaving Isidore to close his eyes and listen to the silence of his own recovery.
Downstairs, the evening was drawing to a close. Servants moved with surgical efficiency, clearing the table of its finery. Zayn was busy wiping a stray smudge of sauce from Julian's chin when the maid reappeared at the foot of the grand staircase.
"Mr. Zayn," she announced softly. "Master Davenant has awakened. He has requested the presence of the little Master."
Zayn stood up instantly, Julian still clutched in his arms. The boy let out a cheer, waving his precious Begonia like a banner of victory. "Mama is awake! Mama is awake!"
Zayn's lips quirked into a rare, genuine smile, but his mind remained on the clinical reality of the situation. He turned to the maid with an air of command.
"Prepare a bowl of healthy broth—low sodium, high protein—and a pair of soft-boiled eggs for Davenant. Ensure it is brought up within the next ten minutes. He needs to replenish his strength, not just his spirit."
The maid bowed and hurried toward the kitchen. Zayn turned back to the stairs, Julian's laughter echoing against the high ceilings as they began their ascent back to the heart of the estate.
Meanwhile Maurice sat at the mahogany desk, the blue light of his tablet casting a ghostly pallor over his sharp features.
The medical files before him—filled with Isidore's fluctuating vitals and the Davenant family's cursed lineage—seemed to vibrate under his gaze.
For the first time in his career, the ink felt heavy.
The data felt like a monumental burden rather than a puzzle to be solved.
He wasn't working. He was simply existing in the space between focus and collapse.
Across the room, Leon stood in the shadows, his mismatched eyes tracking the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of Maurice's shoulders. He had been watching the doctor for a "quite time," a silent, obsidian sentinel gauging the cracks in Maurice's clinical armor.
"What's bothering you, Mr. Doctor?"
Leon's voice was a low, gravelly vibration that cut through the silence like a dull blade.
Maurice didn't look up. He placed both hands flat on the desk, his fingers splayed against the wood as if trying to anchor himself to the earth. He let his head drop, his chin nearly touching his chest.
"I felt... sleepy," Maurice admitted, his voice lacking its usual razor-sharp precision. It was a rare confession of human frailty from a man who treated sleep as an optional luxury.
Leon didn't respond with words. Instead, he moved. He didn't walk; he drifted, his massive frame silent across the plush rug. He stepped into the light, coming to a halt directly behind Maurice's chair.
Before Maurice could process the shift in the room's energy, Leon reached out.
His hands—large, descended onto Maurice's shoulders. The contact was sudden and firm, a visceral intrusion into Maurice's personal sanctuary.
Maurice let out a sharp, audible gasp, his spine snapping straight as adrenaline surged through his weary system.
"What... what are you doing?" Maurice stammered, his emerald eyes flickering with a mix of shock and a strange, unnameable heat.