The silence in the suite had a strange pulse to it—steady, heavy, and far too intimate. The air smelled faintly of coffee and scents, the kind that lingered from someone's cologne. Zayn Maverick stood near the edge of the carpet, his posture straight, his pulse anything but.
Tristan Ashford's eyes were on him. Those eyes—sharp as cut glass, beautiful, dangerous—never blinked.
"So, Maverick," Tristan finally said, voice lazy, threaded with a smooth venom. "Tell me about it."
Zayn blinked. "Tell… what, Mr. Ashford?"
Tristan's smile curved, patient and predatory. "Don't play dumb. I hate when men pretend innocence—it looks so terribly cheap on them." He leaned forward, one hand finding Zayn's shoulder, the grip firm, possessive. "Did you really marry Isidore? And that child—" he gestured with the faintest smirk toward the adjoining room "—is that yours too?"
Zayn nearly choked on air. "Mr. Ashford—what are you even talking about? Do you seriously believe that I—and he—"
He stopped, because Tristan's fingers tightened on his shoulder.
"Then explain," Tristan murmured. "Why is he always relying on you, Maverick? A man like him—cold, proud, impossibly stubborn—and yet one call from you, and he melts like wax. Why is that?"
Zayn exhaled slowly. He looked away, jaw set.
"You don't understand him, Mr. Ashford," he said finally. "You don't know what he's been through."
Something flickered in Tristan's eyes. "Enlighten me, then."
Zayn hesitated. His instinct screamed not to say too much—but this man, this Tristan, had already tangled too deeply in Isidore's life. Maybe a fragment of truth could shield him.
He sighed. "Davenant's father… he wasn't the man everyone thought. He treated Isidore like a possession, not a son. Locked him away, kept him working until he collapsed. He hated anyone who got close to him—including me."
Tristan tilted his head, the faintest trace of unease coiling behind his poised expression. "And why would he do that?"
"Because," Zayn said quietly, "he wanted control. Over everything. Over Isidore's body, his future, his name. Until… that night."
Tristan's lips parted. "What night?"
Zayn's throat tightened. "Three and a half years ago, Davenant went to a business conference. He never came back the same. He was… marked." His voice lowered, weighted with something almost mournful. "An alpha marked him without his consent. From that day on, his health's been unstable. He still gets fevers when he's too stressed. He hides everything very well but I see everything through him he can't fool me."
For the first time, Tristan's poise faltered. His eyes widened, the color draining slightly from his face. He covered his mouth with his hand, gaze darting away as if the world had shifted under him.
The silence stretched. Only the faint ticking of the clock filled it.
Zayn watched him. "Mr. Ashford?" he asked cautiously.
But Tristan wasn't listening. He was somewhere else entirely—his mind reeling backward, to that night.
The scent of sweet honey. The faint tremor in an omega's voice. The heat. The way he'd lost control, completely, uncharacteristically. He had buried it deep, convinced it was a fever dream, a drunken mirage.
And now—
He lowered his hand slowly, his chest heaving once.
"...It can't be," he whispered. His usual charm fractured into disbelief. "No, no, no—that's too poetic even for fate."
Zayn frowned. "What did you say?"
Tristan straightened quickly, his usual confidence snapping back into place like a mask. "Nothing, darling. Absolutely nothing." He waved a graceful hand. "You may go now."
Zayn blinked. "Just like that?"
"Yes, yes. You've done your tragic exposition, bravo." Tristan forced a laugh that sounded a little too high. "Go home, get some rest, kiss your reflection for me."
Zayn gave a cautious smile, confused but relieved the interrogation was over. "Right. Well, Mr. Ashford… I'll take my leave then. Oh—and tonight, there's a small gathering at Davenant's house. You're invited. It'd mean a lot to us."
Tristan froze mid-step. "A… party?"
"Yes." Zayn smiled faintly. "You should come. It might help both of you… clear the air."
Tristan's lips twitched. "Air, yes. Or ruin it entirely." He chuckled under his breath. "Fine. I'll manage."
Zayn nodded politely and left.
The moment the door clicked shut, the composure Tristan had been gripping with both hands shattered like glass.
He stumbled backward onto the nearest armchair, exhaling hard. His heart wouldn't stop hammering. He dragged both hands through his hair, laughing once—half-hysterical, half-euphoric.
"Three and a half years," he muttered. "A mark without consent. Sweet like honey pheromones. A fevered omega who wouldn't stop trembling." He laughed again, softer this time. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
His hands slid down his face, fingers pressing into his cheeks. A grin cracked through his panic, absurdly bright. "If that's true… if that's true then the little cherub in his arms—" He leaned forward, eyes glinting like a man discovering buried treasure. "—is mine."
He stood abruptly, dizzy with disbelief. He began pacing the room like a man rehearsing for a play, gesturing wildly.
"Of course! The universe is nothing if not dramatic. It had to be him. My omega, my lost night, my poetic disaster. And he's been glaring at me ever since—adorable!"
Tristan laughed until he had to sit again, clutching his sides, the sound somewhere between joy and mania. "Oh, fate, you wicked matchmaker."
He looked toward the door that led to Isidore's room—his mind a storm of thoughts, guilt, fascination, a reckless thrill.
"He hates me," he whispered, "but that's alright. I've played villains before but now."
He smirked, lips curling in that trademark Ashford way—the kind that could charm or destroy. "And if the child is mine…" he chuckled softly, eyes bright, "…then I suppose I've already won."
The mirror across from him caught his reflection—hair disheveled, shirt undone, eyes alight with something dangerously close to obsession. Tristan Ashford, actor, diva, disaster, smiled at himself and whispered with delight—
"Encore."
Then he stood, straightened his coat, and strode toward the hallway—toward Isidore, toward chaos, toward whatever wild script fate had just decided to hand him.
Zayn laughed softly as Julian wrapped tiny arms around his neck. The child's laughter was a bright bell, echoing off the quiet walls.
"Come on, Davenant," Zayn called over his shoulder, shifting Julian against his hip. "We'll be waiting downstairs. Don't make me chase you."
Isidore move faintly at the sound, slipping his phone into the inner pocket of his coat. His bandaged hands trembled slightly — not from pain, but from exhaustion. Freedom was just a few steps away.
The door closed behind Zayn with a gentle click.
Silence followed.
"Isidore," he said, his tone softer than it had any right to be. "Wait."
Isidore froze. His spine straightened, but he didn't turn. The urge to bolt was immediate, instinctive. He wanted distance—anything but another second under that gaze.
He started to move past him, but Tristan's hand shot out, fingers closing gently—too gently—around Isidore's bandaged hands.
"Wait," Tristan repeated, voice trembling between plea and command.
Isidore's eyes lifted, cold and wary. "What do you want from me?"
Tristan's throat bobbed. "I know… I know you have every right to be angry at me."
"Say clearly what you mean," Isidore said sharply. His voice was low, steady, dangerous.
But Tristan couldn't. Not at first. He stepped closer instead, his confidence flickering like a candle in the wind. Then, with a breath that trembled on the edge of madness, he said it:
"Isidore—would you marry me?"
For a moment, Isidore didn't move. Didn't even breathe.
"What—" he stammered, blinking as if the words were a hallucination. "What did you just say?"
Tristan didn't give him the luxury of distance. His hand lifted, brushing against Isidore's cheek, warm and trembling. "You've suffered enough," he said softly. "Let me—let me take care of you this time. Properly. I'll repent. I swear it."
Isidore's breath hitched. His body tensed like a coiled spring. He shook his head, stepping back, his heartbeat loud in his ears. "Stay away from me," he hissed.
"Please—"
"Stay away!"
He turned, desperate to leave, to reach the door where Zayn has pass—but Tristan caught his elbow again. The force spun Isidore slightly, his head colliding against Tristan's chest.
The scent— of cologne, rich musk—hit them both like memory.
Isidore gasped. Tristan froze.
"I—I didn't mean—" Tristan began, voice breaking, but the damage was done. Isidore's body went rigid in his arms. He tried to pull away, but Tristan's instinct betrayed him—his arm slipped around Isidore's waist, drawing him closer.
"Don't—" Isidore's voice cracked.
But Tristan wasn't listening anymore. His eyes lowered, tracing the faint scar that hid beneath the collar of Isidore's shirt—the mark. His mark. The one he had given in a fevered blur of heat and guilt and denial. His hand rose before he could stop himself, fingertips brushing the edge of it, reverent and terrified all at once.
"I'm sorry," Tristan whispered, voice raw. "I'm so sorry I marked you… and left you like that. I didn't— At first I thought it was a dream I couldn't remember—but now I do."
The words were lightning. They split the air, split Isidore's silence.
His breath stopped. His vision blurred.
Then—
A sharp, echoing crack.
Tristan's head snapped to the side, the sting of the slap blooming across his cheek. The room fell into absolute silence.
Isidore stood there, chest heaving, eyes burning with glassy rage. His bandaged hands shook violently.
"Don't you ever—" His voice caught. "—ever touch me again."
Tristan slowly turned his head back toward him. His face was red where the blow had landed, but his expression wasn't anger—it was sorrow.
And yet… behind that sorrow flickered something dangerously close to relief.
"Isidore—" he tried, voice raw. But,
Isidore didn't care.
He turned sharply, refusing to look at him again, and strode for the door. Isidore's eyes were shining now, though no tears fell. His voice came low and trembling, as he whispered almost to himself "You dare to say that…"
Then he was gone.
The door shut behind him with a hollow sound that made Tristan flinch.
He lifted his hand slightly—as if to call him back—but it dropped halfway, useless. Then, slowly, a rueful smile spread across his lips.
"It's alright," he murmured to himself, fingers grazing the fading warmth of his cheek. "I deserved that."
He sank into the nearest chair, still smiling faintly. "He took care of my child all these years. He's strong. Proud. He'll hate me for a while."
He tilted his head back, laughing softly at the ceiling. "But this reckless heart of mine?" He pressed a hand to his chest. "It's his. Always was. He'll understand it… sooner or later."
Isidore never look back. He pushed through the door, down the polished hall, into the waiting elevator. The mirrored walls reflected his trembling form — a pale ghost of composure.
His throat tightened. His reflection wavered. "You dare to say you care, after marking me like an animal…"
"What does he think…" he whispered hoarsely. "That I'll forgive him?"
"No," he breathed. "Never."
He pressed both hands against his chest, voice trembling. "I don't want you near me or my child. I forgot you long ago the day you bite me."
The elevator chimed softly — a cruel, ordinary sound — and opened to the lobby where Zayn stood holding Julian.
"You took long," Zayn teased, then paused, catching the look on Isidore's face. "Hey… everything alright?"
Isidore forced a straight face. "Let's go."
He reached out, brushing Julian's hair with trembling fingers. "We've wasted enough time here."
Zayn nodded slowly and led the way outside.
Behind them, the elevator closed with a hollow chime.
The hotel doors swung open to a rush of cool air and early sunlight.
Zayn fell into step beside Isidore, Julian still tucked against his shoulder like a sleepy koala. The city gleamed below them, all polished cars and restless noise, but the silence between them carried more weight than the morning traffic.
Zayn slid a glance toward him. "Did Mr. Ashford say something?"
Isidore's jaw tightened. His gaze stayed fixed ahead. "I don't want to speak of that bastard."
"That bastard?" Zayn arched a brow, half teasing. "Come on, Davenant—don't forget, he's a famous bastard. Our shining actor. The one whose name sells magazines and burns through scandals like confetti."
"Zayn."
He didn't look back once.
Zayn ignored the warning tone. "You also seem to be forgetting the little contract we've signed with him. You're supposed to, remember?"
Isidore's voice came out sharp. "Contracts can burn."
Zayn chuckled under his breath. "Ah, that's the spirit. Say that again in front of the sponsors and I'll film their reactions."
Isidore exhaled, long and weary, pressing his hand to his temple. "Can we not? Just for once?"
"Fine, fine." Zayn shifted Julian higher against his chest. "Let's talk about something pleasant. You promised we'd celebrate tonight after taking Julian shopping. Champagne, fireworks, maybe you finally smiling for once—"
"Give me Julian."
Zayn blinked. "What?"
"Give me my child," Isidore repeated, quieter but colder. "I don't feel well. I want to hold him."
Julian giggled, kicking his little boots against Zayn's chest.
Zayn raised a brow. "If you're not feeling well, how the hell do you plan on holding him? He weighs like a bag of bricks with curls."
"Zayn."
"Nope," Zayn said cheerfully, dodging Isidore's glare. "Doctor's orders—mine, of course. You'll faint halfway to the car and I'll have to carry both of you like a tragic romance poster."
Isidore stopped walking. "You're insufferable."
"And yet," Zayn said lightly, patting Julian's back, "you keep me around."
Isidore gave him a look that could curdle milk.
"Alright, alright," Zayn relented, handing over the child with exaggerated care. "Here, take your tiny overlord. Don't drop him—or glare at me if you do."
Isidore scooped Julian close, pressing his face into the boy's hair as though grounding himself in the soft, familiar scent. His shoulders loosened just slightly.
Zayn watched him for a moment, the teasing dimming from his eyes.
"Hey," he said softly, walking beside him again, "whatever happened in there… you don't have to tell me. Just—don't let it eat you alive, alright?"
Isidore didn't answer. He only nodded once, lips tight, and headed for the car.
Julian was humming something tuneless in his arms, and for a fleeting second, it almost sounded like peace.