The world came back to him in pieces.
A dim ceiling. A chandelier that hummed faintly with light. A pain — sharp, burning — threading through his hands like hot wires.
Isidore blinked. Once. Twice. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and smoke. He tried to move, and every muscle answered with ache.
Then the memory hit him — the call, the building, the kidnappers—
"Julian."
His voice cracked. He jolted upright, breath cutting short as panic tore through the haze. The sheets slipped from his shoulders; he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold, marble veined with gold. Everything around him looked too polished, too silent — a room that was wrongly luxurious for a man who'd just walked through hell.
He pushed himself to his feet, heartbeat punching at his ribs.
"Julian!"
No answer.
He stumbled toward the door, hands trembling as he reached for the handle. Before he could turn it, the door burst open.
Tristan Ashford filled the doorway like a scene staged just to irritate him — calm, tall, wearing that infuriatingly expensive coat. And in his arms—
Julian.
The boy was munching on a half-eaten cookie, crumbs on his cheeks, wide eyes lighting up when he saw his mother.
"Mama!"
Isidore froze. Relief crushed his chest, almost painful. Then fear replaced it — fear and fury, burning together.
"Julian—!"
He rushed forward, snatching the boy from Tristan's arms like a man reclaiming his soul. Julian giggled, still holding his cookie, while Isidore's hands trembled against his back.
"I told you," Isidore's voice broke, sharp with panic, "to stay away from me and my child."
Tristan blinked at him — not offended, not apologetic, just… amused. The corner of his mouth curved into that slow, maddening smile.
"My bad," he murmured, almost lazily. "I wasn't doing anything bad. Just feeding the little guy."
Isidore's jaw locked. "You had no right—"
"But don't forget," Tristan interrupted smoothly, stepping closer, "I saved him. You both would've been corpses in that filthy building if I hadn't arrived."
The words hung between them — sharp, true, and heavy. Isidore flinched, jaw clenching, but saying nothing.
Tristan's gaze lingered. Too long. Too closely. His eyes lowered, tracing the faint sheen of sweat on Isidore's throat, the faint tremor in his hands, and then—
That scent.
A whisper of something that wasn't perfume, wasn't soap — something warmer, more human. His nostrils flared before he caught himself.
"Don't," Isidore hissed, clutching Julian tighter. "Don't even think of it."
Tristan tilted his head, a hint of curiosity breaking through the arrogance.
"think of what?" he asked softly, though his tone betrayed that he already knew.
Isidore didn't answer. He simply turned away, shielding Julian with his body. His heartbeat thundered in his ears — anger, fear, confusion — and beneath all of it, something unspoken.
Tristan smirked faintly, lowering his voice.
"You're welcome, by the way."
Isidore shot him a glare cold enough to kill.
"I didn't ask for your help."
Tristan's smile only deepened.
"No," he said, stepping back toward the door, "but you owe me anyway."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Isidore stood still, trembling, Julian's small head tucked beneath his chin — the cookie crumbling between their hands.
Isidore's fingers brushed the edge of his coat pocket — and there it was.
His phone.
He exhaled sharply, almost shaking, and pulled it free. The screen lit up. Missed calls — so many of them. His heart lurched.
"Zayn…" he whispered, staring at the endless list of notifications. "He must be worried sick."
He pushed his hair back, a nervous tremor running down his arm. "I should get going. We shouldn't stay here."
But his gaze dropped to his hands — bandaged neatly, smelling faintly of antiseptic. He flexed his fingers and winced. Too sore to fight, too tired to flee.
He cradle Julian, crumbs dusting his tiny shirt, eyes bright with the kind of joy that made Isidore's chest ache.
He brushed a hand through the boy's curls. "My little Julian," he said softly. "You won't go out unless you ask Mama, okay?"
Julian nodded, lips sticky with cookie sugar. "'Kay, Mama!" he chirped, beaming.
Isidore smiled faintly — the kind of weary smile that comes from surviving too much. Then he pressed the call button.
The line rang once. Twice.
Then—
"Davenant!"
Zayn's voice exploded through the speaker. "Davenant, is that you? Answer me!"
Isidore nearly dropped the phone. "Zayn, calm down — it's me. I… I don't know what this place is. It looks like a hotel."
"A hotel?" Zayn sounded both furious and relieved. "How the hell did you get there?"
"It's… it's a long story." His voice trembled. "That bastard—"
Zayn immediately caught on. "You mean Mr. Ashford,?"
"Who else would do such a thing?"
There was a sound of keys jingling, Zayn moving like a man possessed. "I'm coming. Right now. Don't move, don't leave the room, don't talk to anyone. I'll be there."
Isidore hesitated. "You know this place?"
"Of course," Zayn gritted out. "It's one of Tristan Ashford's regular hotels — the kind where even the chandeliers probably sign contracts."
"Then hurry," Isidore said, clutching the phone tighter. "I can't stay here for long."
"I'm on my way, Davenant," Zayn promised, voice softening at last. "Just hold on."
The call clicked off.
Isidore sighed, pressing the phone to his chest for a moment before setting it aside. He sat on the bed, cradling Julian close, his heartbeat still wild with adrenaline and exhaustion.
Then — a quiet click.
The door opened again.
Tristan Ashford stood there, calm as sin, a faint grin tugging at his mouth.
He leaned against the doorway. "Why so afraid? I'm not nearly as cruel as I look on screen."
Isidore's gaze went cold. "You're worse."
Tristan blinked, long black lashes catching the light like they were choreographed to do it. "Worse?" he echoed, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. "My dear Isidore, can't you see? I'm a diva in this entire universe."
Isidore turned his head away, muttering, "You're unbearable."
But Julian — traitorous, tiny Julian — laughed.
Tristan seized the moment, striking an exaggerated pose as if cameras were rolling. "Ah, a fan already! At least someone here appreciates my art."
"Julian," Isidore warned, voice sharp. "You won't listen to anyone unless I say."
But the boy was already giggling, little hands stretching out toward Tristan.
Tristan's smirk deepened — the kind of smirk that could ruin a nation or a marriage. He lifted his brows as if to say see? even your own child prefers me.
Julian squirmed with laughter, insisting, "Up! Up!"
Tristan move towards the bed, and scooped Julian effortlessly into his arms, spinning him once just to hear that laughter again.
And there it was — that quiet, victorious gleam in Tristan's eyes.
Isidore's jaw tightened. Rage simmered in his chest.
Tristan tilted his head, smiling like a man who'd just won a very beautiful, very private war.
Looks like he had.
And Isidore — for the first time — wasn't sure if he'd lost to the man's arrogance… or to his charm.
The marble floor of the hotel gleamed like frozen lightning beneath Zayn's boots. He strode to the reception desk, voice clipped and low.
"Tristan Ashford's room."
The receptionist blinked, startled. "Room number, 234, sir, but Mr. Ashford always—"
Before the sentence could finish, Zayn was already gone — a flash of motion and fury disappearing toward the elevators.
Inside the lift, silence hummed too loud. He tapped his boot against the floor, each strike like a ticking clock in his chest. His reflection in the elevator's gold panels looked angrier than he felt — or maybe exactly as angry.
When the doors slid open, the corridor stretched before him in perfect symmetry: 231... 232... 233... and then—234.
Zayn stopped. Drew a slow breath. Cleared his throat once — an old habit before battle — and knocked.
The door opened.
Tristan stood there, unbothered as ever, his hair slightly disheveled, shirt immaculate as always. In his arms—Julian.
Zayn's eyes widened first. Then Julian's did. The little boy's face broke into laughter.
"Uncle Zayn!" he chirped, wriggling with joy.
Zayn exhaled, the tension melting from his shoulders. "Finally," he muttered, half to himself.
He reached out, brushing Julian's cheek with a thumb. "Thank God, little. You're all right."
Tristan leaned lazily against the doorframe, a half-smile tugging his lips. "Maverick," he said smoothly. "You should've stayed home. You look like hell."
Zayn ignored the jab, his voice steady but low. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ashford. I shouldn't have let Davenant go alone." His gaze flicked past Tristan's shoulder, scanning the suite. "Where is he?"
Tristan's expression faltered — a flicker too fast to catch if one wasn't looking.
Zayn noticed. His brows drew tight. "Where is he?" he repeated, tone sharper.
Tristan hesitated, shifting Julian slightly in his arm, buying seconds that were already burning away. "He's... resting," he said finally.
Zayn's jaw set. "Resting," he echoed, like the word tasted wrong.
Tristan didn't move. The hallway filled with silence thick enough to drown in.
"Mr. Ashford," Zayn said quietly, a dangerous calm in his tone. "If anything happens to him—"
Tristan's smile returned, faint but deliberate. "he is alright?"
The air in the room was still.
Isidore had only gone to the bathroom to gather himself — then Zayn voice
That voice.
Familiar. Urgent. Loud enough to rattle marble.
"Where is Davenant?"
Isidore blinked, heart skipping. Has he already… He moved closer to the door, fingers tightening around the fabric of his shirt.
And then—Zayn's voice again, barking his name like a half-panicked order.
"Davenant!"
Isidore pushed the door open.
There, in the doorway of the room, stood Tristan Ashford, too tall, too smug, holding Julian like some prize he'd won at a carnival. And in front of him—Zayn Maverick, looking as though he'd just fought a hurricane and lost his patience along the way.
The moment Zayn saw him, his entire body jolted. He didn't think—he charged.
"Thank God!" he exclaimed, sweeping Isidore into a fierce embrace. "Davenant, you're fine—I thought—"
Isidore stiffened, caught between alarm and disbelief. "I'm fine, stop acting like a child."
Behind them, Tristan slowly turned his head, his jaw tightening so hard it could have cracked diamonds. Julian, oblivious, laughed in his arms, clutching Tristan's black coat.
Zayn pulled back slightly, still gripping Isidore by the shoulders, scanning him like a worried doctor. "Are you sure? You look pale. Are you injured? Did those kidnapers—"
"I said I'm fine," Isidore interrupted, voice sharp.
But Zayn's eyes had already spotted the neat white bandages wrapped around his hands. His heart lurched. He grabbed Isidore's wrists, eyes wide.
"Davenant, how come—what happened? It must be hurt!"
"It's nothing," Isidore sighed.
"Nothing?" Zayn barked, aghast. "You've got half a hospital's worth of gauze on your hands, and you're saying it's nothing?"
"It's nothing!"
Behind them, Julian giggled harder, clutching Tristan's collar. "Mama, Uncle Zhayn ish laud!"
Tristan muttered under his breath, "Uncle Zayn should go find himself a quieter hobby."
"Did you say something. Mr, Ashford?" Zayn snapped over his shoulder.
Tristan smiled thinly. "Not a word, Just enjoying the drama."
Zayn turn back to Isidore. Isidore groaned. Julian clapped, thinking it was all some grand show.
For a full second, the room stood in the most awkward, ridiculous silence imaginable—
Julian laughing, Tristan fuming, Zayn hovering too close, and Isidore quietly wondering if jumping out the window might be less exhausting.
Tristan's smile was the kind that could slice silk — elegant, easy, and entirely insincere.
"Isidore," he said smoothly, voice dipped in velvet and mischief. "Would you take the child for a moment? I have something to discuss with Mr. Maverick."
Isidore didn't take Julian.
He snatched him.
The motion was so swift it nearly made Julian's curls bounce. Tristan only arched a brow, amusement flickering in his crystalline eyes.
Zayn, sensing trouble like a man standing under a gathering storm, tried to straighten his coat. "What can I help you with, Mr. Ashford?" he asked, his tone more polite than he felt.
Tristan took a leisurely step forward. Then another.
And before Zayn could retreat, a hand landed on his shoulder — calm, heavy, and commanding.
"Nothing serious," Tristan said softly, almost purring. "I just want to confirm something."
Zayn gulped. His throat worked like he'd swallowed gravel.
He could smell Tristan's cologne — something dangerously expensive and designed to make men nervous.
From behind, Isidore's eyes narrowed, his whole posture coiling with silent protectiveness. The sight of Tristan's hand on Zayn's shoulder was enough to set his nerves alight.
Tristan, sensing the glare, turned his head — and winked.
The audacity of it made Isidore stiffen. His jaw tightened; his gaze flicked away before he could say something regrettable.
Tristan's grin widened, sharklike and unbothered.
Zayn stood frozen, trying to decide whether to elbow him off or just faint gracefully.
The air in the room buzzed — jealousy, humor, and tension all tangling into something too thick to breathe.