Evening draped itself over the Davenant penthouse like silk dipped in dusk.
The chandeliers had already been lit; their golden radiance spilled across marble floors, catching on every polished surface until the hall gleamed like a jewel box. Laughter fluttered through the air, bright and hollow, as the guests arrived one by one—perfumed, powdered, poised for spectacle.
Isidore Davenant stood before the mirror, fastening the final button of his caramel-and-black suit. The fit was immaculate—tailored with such precision it might have been stitched to his very breath. He adjusted the collar, smoothed the cuffs, and glanced once at the bed.
Julian lay there fast asleep, a small hand curled near his cheek, his chest rising and falling in a tranquil rhythm that made Isidore's heart still for a moment. He tucked the blanket more securely around the child, brushing a lock of blond hair away from his forehead. Behind the door stood a silent guard—one of the best. Another waited for Zayn's command in the corridor.
Satisfied, Isidore turned toward the hall.
Zayn was already there, radiant in full crimson from head to toe. The suit shimmered faintly under the light, matching the thrill in his lilac eyes. His periwinkle hair was slicked back neatly, the faintest curl escaping at the temple. When he saw Isidore, he waved with the effortless confidence of someone born to provoke.
"It's useless," Zayn called, grinning as he approached. "You look like you've swallowed an entire sunset, Davenant. Come on—enjoy the party."
Isidore's beige eyes flicked toward him, cold behind the gleam of his round spectacles. "It's none of your business," he said, stepping past without pause.
Zayn blinked, caught off guard. He turned halfway after him. "You're impossible, you know that?" But Isidore was already gliding into the crowd, the air parting around him as if it, too, feared to offend him.
Then came the murmur—low at first, then building, like a tide of whispers breaking into surf. Heads turned toward the grand entrance.
And through the doorway stepped Tristan Ashford.
The crowd's reaction was instantaneous. Gasps, squeals, the rush of phones lifted like flowers toward the sun. The famous actor moved with unhurried grace, clad in a blue suit that deepened the ocean of his crystalline eyes. His tousled red hair gleamed under the chandeliers, each strand catching the light like a flicker of flame. His lashes—long, dark, impossibly fine—cast faint shadows on his cheekbones as he smiled at no one in particular.
"Hey look everyone it's Tristan Ashford!"
"Tristan! Over here!"
"Can we get a photo?"
"Tristan, one signature, please!"
He managed a courteous smile, but the faint tension at his jaw betrayed his weariness. The two bodyguards flanking him kept the crowd from pressing too close, while his manager—looking one sigh away from resignation—murmured something into his earpiece.
From the corner of the hall, Isidore's gaze hardened. The air around him seemed to chill.
He turned sharply toward Zayn, who was watching the commotion with open delight. "You dare," Isidore hissed under his breath, his tone quiet but razor-edged, "to bring him into my house?"
Zayn's grin faltered. "Come on, Davenant. You said you'd go along with everything tonight. Didn't You said you didn't mind."
"I said nothing of the sort."
"Oh, you did," Zayn countered softly, though the amusement had drained from his eyes. "You just weren't listening to yourself when you did."
Isidore looked away, the line of his jaw tightening. His reflection in the glass of a nearby cabinet flickered pale and severe—the scholar who had no patience for theatrics. He straightened his cuffs once more and turned his back on both Tristan and Zayn, walking deeper into the amber light.
"Davenant—"
But Isidore was gone into the crowd.
Zayn exhaled through his nose, muttering something unprintable, then squared his shoulders and strode toward Tristan. He reached him just as the actor's bodyguards formed a protective arc.
"Nice to meet you Mr. Ashford," Zayn greeted smoothly, extending a hand.
Tristan's expression softened immediately. "The pleasure is mine," he said, his voice the familiar velvet timbre that had made millions swoon through movie screens. His gaze swept the hall, searching for someone—or something—beyond Zayn's shoulder.
Zayn caught it instantly. "Come this way, please."
He led Tristan to a corner lounge, where a velvet couch waited beside a marble-topped table. A waiter approached almost at once, carrying a tray of fine crystal glasses.
"Wine?" Zayn offered.
Tristan shook his head, polite but firm. "No, thank you."
Zayn blinked. "No drink tonight? That's really rare of you, Mr. Ashford."
Tristan smiled faintly. " I'll only drink water tonight."
Zayn chuckled, swirling the champagne before taking a slow sip himself. "A disciplined man. I'll be back in a moment—don't let the crowd eat you alive."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Tristan murmured, leaning back into the couch. His gaze drifted again, that subtle searching—haunted, almost wistful.
Zayn turned away, making for the nearest circle of guests to manage some minor crisis about the orchestra's timing. He was halfway through a perfunctory nod when someone brushed his shoulder.
The collision was slight, but sharp enough to make him turn.
"Can't you see where you're—" He stopped short.
The man before him smiled, the corner of his mouth curved like a blade. His suit was dark, understated—midnight silk. His hair fell lazily over one eye, and there was a faint, unnerving scent about him—amber and smoke.
"Nice to meet you," the stranger said, voice low, textured with amusement. "Mr… ah, what should I call you?"
Zayn's breath caught. "You," he spat, color rising to his face. "How dare you enter this house again, you bastard."
The man—Joshua—leaned closer, just enough that his whisper brushed against Zayn's ear. "So it is Zayn," he murmured, inhaling faintly as if savoring the perfume that clung to Zayn collar. "I thought so."
He straightened with a smirk that promised danger, his eyes glinting with something darker than mischief.
Zayn's fury ignited. His hands clenched, every nerve in his body alight with the instinct to strike—but the crowd around them was thick, oblivious, laughter chiming like glass.
Joshua stepped back a pace, tilting his head, still wearing that thin, knowing smile. "You look well," he said softly. "Still loyal, nahh no way."
"Get. Out."
"Now, now," Joshua murmured, his tone silk over steel. "It's a party, isn't it? And I wouldn't disappoint our gracious host." His eyes flicked toward him.
Zayn froze.
Joshua's smirk deepened, as though he could taste the panic beneath Zayn's stillness. "Ah," he said, "I see you understand."
The music swelled, strings and laughter mingling in the golden air. And within that shimmer of sound, Zayn's composure cracked—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for Joshua to see.
The orchestra swelled again, drowning the hall in a sea of gold-toned music.
Waiters glided through the aisles with trays of crystal, the air rich with the scent of champagne, roses, and too much perfume. Laughter shimmered, heels clicked. Everything gleamed.
At a corner table draped in violet silk sat Maurice, arms folded and expression sour. His pink-and-violet suit caught the chandelier light like sugar spun over heat—impeccable, excessive, and entirely wasted on the wrong crowd. He tapped his ring against the table, sharp and impatient.
"Still no wine?" he muttered as another waiter passed him by. His eyes narrowed. "Useless creatures—do I need to fetch it myself?"
The waiter froze mid-step, stammered an apology, and nearly sprinted toward the cellar. Maurice sighed, one hand supporting his cheek as he watched the crowd with thinly veiled disdain.
Not far off, Leon leaned against the open doorway, haloed by the dusk light bleeding in from the terrace. His gold-and-beige suit glowed softly in the amber haze. A cigarette dangled from his lips, smoke curling like pale ribbons around his jawline. He looked every bit the aristocrat who couldn't be bothered to pretend.
Inside, the hum of conversation faltered again—just slightly—as Joshua crossed the floor. His stride was unhurried, a lazy sort of confidence. The glass in his hand caught the light; the smirk on his face caught everyone else.
He reached Tristan's couch and sank onto the seat opposite, moving with the ease of someone entirely at home, though no one had invited him.
"How's life passing, brother?" Joshua's tone was low, velvet edged with mischief.
Tristan was leaning on one elbow, chin resting against his knuckles, his crystalline eyes distant. Behind him, a half-dozen admirers hovered, whispering too loudly, their gazes devouring him. Not only women—more than a few Omegas lingered near, caught between fascination and fantasy.
"Brother?" Tristan said at last, without lifting his gaze. "Life's… passing, as it always does."
Joshua chuckled, swirling the dark wine in his glass. "You sound half-dead already."
"Who said I'm not in the mood?" Tristan murmured. "I'm enjoying the party."
"Mm." Joshua's eyes glittered. "Everything is written on your face, brother. You may fool them—" he gestured lazily toward the crowd—"but not me."
Tristan exhaled, slow and heavy, his eyes tracing the golden rim of the glass in Joshua's hand. "Then stop reading me," he said.
Joshua tilted his head, smiling faintly. "You've always been terrible at pretending. Whatever's gnawing at you, it'll pass. Don't stress."
He sipped his wine and let his gaze wander across the crowd until it found Zayn, caught in a circle of guests. The crimson-suited youth was smiling too brightly, nodding at each congratulation, laughing on cue. But his eyes—those lilac eyes—were tired, ringed faintly with strain.
Joshua's smirk curved, slow and deliberate. "That fool," he muttered under his breath.
Tristan looked up. "Hm?"
"Nothing," Joshua said, eyes still fixed on Zayn. The glint there wasn't amusement anymore—it was hunger.
Tristan frowned. "Joshua…"
Joshua didn't answer. He only smiled, faintly, as if watching a scene that hadn't yet played out.
Tristan sat forward, clearing his throat. "How did you two actually meet?"
Joshua tore his gaze away from Zayn and looked at him. For a moment, his expression softened. "It was a mistake," he said quietly.
"A mistake?"
Joshua laughed under his breath. "Seems to run in the family, doesn't it?"
Tristan blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I met him by a kiss," Joshua said.
The words hit the air like glass striking marble.
Tristan's head snapped up. "You what?"
Joshua reclined against the couch, eyes gleaming. "A kiss," he repeated, lazy and unashamed. "That's how it started. He mistook me for someone else—or maybe he didn't. Hard to tell with people like him."
Tristan's pulse stuttered. His hand tightened around the edge of the seat. "You're joking."
Joshua smirked. "Rarely."
There was a silence between them—thick, loaded, punctuated only by the strings of the orchestra and the faint chatter of guests who had no idea what kind of conversation they were standing beside.
"By a kiss," Tristan echoed, half to himself.
Joshua tilted his glass toward him. "To accidents, then." He drank.
Tristan leaned back, eyes falling to the polished floor. His mind was miles away—back to the soft fragments of scent, the fleeting brush of skin, the tremor of breath that wasn't his. Isidore. The memory hit him like heat: the faint sweetness of pheromones clinging to the air, the sound of a voice barely holding itself together.
He swallowed hard, feeling the burn crawl up his neck. The flush was unmistakable.
Joshua's voice cut through it, sharp and amused. "Thinking of someone?"
Tristan turned sharply. "You could say that."
Joshua smirked wider. "I thought so."
Tristan deflected with silence, gaze flicking once more across the hall. He half-expected to find that pale figure—Isidore—somewhere in the crowd. But the place where he might have stood was empty. And the crowd, sensing his restlessness, only stared harder.
Too many eyes. Too much air.
He exhaled and rubbed a hand across his mouth, as if that could wipe away the color in his cheeks.
Joshua leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, perfectly at ease. "You know," he said, voice light but dangerous, "you're not the only one who falls by accident."
Tristan frowned. "Meaning?"
Joshua's eyes drifted back toward Zayn, still cornered by his admirers. His tone lowered to a murmur, half amusement, half hunger. "Meaning… I wonder what expression he'll make when he's under me."
Tristan froze, disbelief cutting through his composure. "You're unbelievable."
Joshua smiled, sharp and lazy. "And yet, here I am."
Tristan turned away, disgusted—or pretending to be. "You're twisted."
"Maybe," Joshua said softly, "but I never lie about it."
The orchestra shifted keys; the music rose.
Maurice finally received his wine and downed half the glass in a single swallow, muttering curses at the incompetent staff. Leon flicked his cigarette into the night and watched the smoke drift.
And somewhere beyond the crowd, in the quiet corridors where the noise thinned and the perfume faded, the faintest trace of sweet honeyed scent began to bloom—unnoticed, yet powerful enough to make the air itself quiver.