The elevator chimed. A perfect, polished note — like the start of a symphony.
Tristan Ashford stepped into his suite. London sprawled beneath the window, a glittering tapestry of rain and lights — diamonds scattered on black velvet. He didn't notice. His world tonight wasn't the city; it was the memory of Isidore. Sweet, stubborn Isidore — his lost omega, his favorite sin.
He shed his coat, letting it slide onto the armchair like a lover's sigh, then walked into the marble bathroom. Steam rose from the bath, laced with sandalwood and citrus. As he sank in, water rippled over sculpted shoulders and shimmered down his chest.
He leaned his head back against the porcelain and whistled softly — a careless tune for a man who'd conquered half the world's cameras.
But not his heart.
Not Isidore's forgiveness.
"Still haunting me?" he murmured under his breath, lips curving faintly. The bathlight kissed his red hair, turning it the color of molten copper. The strands clung wetly to his temples, his crystalline blue eyes glimmering through the haze of steam. Even the mirror couldn't help itself — it adored him back.
He ran a hand through his hair, smooth and deliberate, water dripping from his fingertips like glass beads. The scent of the shampoo — expensive, complex, utterly Tristan — filled the air. His reflection winked at him, amused, bored, divine.
Outside the bathroom, Jesper sat waiting — the man who'd been his manager for five years, his shadow for longer.
Jesper looked exhausted. His black eyes were framed by faint crescents of sleeplessness; his sleek hair was tied back neatly, though a few strands had escaped. He flipped through the script, muttering under his breath, the lamplight brushing against his tired face.
He was an omega — quiet, dutiful, faithful. The kind of loyalty that made Tristan trust him implicitly.
The kind that came with scars no one could see.
"Mr. Ashford," Jesper called, tone fraying with fatigue. "The shoot's in an hour. You're still—"
"Yeah yeah coming," Tristan's voice echoed lazily from within. "A little longer."
Jesper sighed. The kind of sigh that carried the weight of managing divinity and disaster in one man. "The team's been calling for the past twenty minutes. I can't keep lying uselessly."
From the other side of the frosted glass, a laugh — deep, unhurried, molten.
"You do it too well, though."
Jesper closed his eyes. "You're impossible."
Minutes later, the bathroom door opened. Steam rolled out like stage fog before a scene.
Tristan emerged — bare chest gleaming with droplets that caught the light like diamonds. A white towel hung loosely at his hips, dangerously low. His red hair was still wet, pushed back, the line of his throat sharp enough to cut through air.
Jesper immediately looked away, cheeks heating. "The stylists are waiting," he said, too quickly.
"Let them wait," Tristan said, his voice smooth as aged wine. He reached for a towel, water still glimmering on his skin. "A few more minutes won't ruin their precious cameras."
Jesper rubbed his temple, the sound of dripping water filling the pause. "It might not ruin the cameras," he muttered, "but it'll ruin me."
Tristan's laugh echoed softly through the steam — low, rich, infuriating.
Jesper rubbed his temple. "You can't keep doing this Mr, Ashford. How will you memorize all these lines?"
Jesper rubbed his temple, exhaustion shading his voice. "You can't keep doing this, Mr. Ashford. How will you memorize all these lines?"
Tristan's grin curved — wicked and boyish all at once. "Like this."
Before Jesper could even process what he meant, Tristan crossed the space between them in two smooth, deliberate strides. His towel hung low on his hips, his skin gleaming faintly under the golden hotel lights.
Then—without hesitation—he caught Jesper by the waist.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Jesper stiffened, every muscle locked, his heart hammering under Tristan's hand. The faint scent of expensive shampoo and wine clung to the air. For a second, Jesper forgot how to breathe — he could feel the steady rise and fall of Tristan's chest, the press of strength beneath the warmth.
The script fluttered from Jesper's hands, pages scattering like startled white birds across the marble.
Tristan tilted Jesper's chin up, forcing him to meet his eyes — crystalline blue, sharp as winter.
"Whatever the whole world says about you," he murmured, his voice dipping low, "I'll marry no one but you."
The line landed like a spell, hanging between them. Jesper blinked, confusion flickering through him, the words striking deeper than they should have.
Then, just as suddenly, Tristan's hand dropped away.
Jesper stumbled back, lost balance, and fell to the floor with a soft thud.
Tristan watched him, expression unreadable, then exhaled and muttered almost lazily, "As long as I know it—yes, that was the line."
Jesper stared up, still breathless. "Mr. Ashford—"
Tristan bit his tongue, a crooked smile twisting his lips. "Well, well… how was my acting."
Without another glance, he turned and strode toward the dresser room, towel swaying against his hips, water still glinting down his spine.
Jesper stayed where he was, half-kneeling on the marble floor, his black suit rumpled, tie askew. He gathered the scattered pages with trembling fingers, his pulse refusing to slow.
Jesper turned away, bending to pick up the pages, muttering curses far too creative for an omega.
Tristan watched him for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. The corner of his mouth curved, softer this time.
Then, almost idly, he asked, "Jesper… have you ever gone on a date with an alpha?"
Jesper stilled, one page halfway picked off the floor. "Me?"
Tristan leaned against the doorframe, towel barely hanging on, droplets of water tracing lazy paths down his chest. "Yes, you."
Jesper swallowed. "I can barely rest between your schedules. Going on a date is—" he let out a dry laugh, "—a fantasy."
Tristan hummed. "Shame."
Jesper frowned. "Why do you care?"
Tristan's gaze lingered — not teasing this time, but thoughtful, faintly dangerous. "Because I don't like the idea of anyone else noticing what I have."
Jesper blinked. "What do you—"
"Forget it." Tristan turned, heading toward the dressing room. "Get the car ready."
Jesper stood frozen for a heartbeat, the script still clutched in his hands. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood, steam, and something that shouldn't have made his heart race.
He shook his head. "He's impossible," he muttered again, louder this time — but it sounded more like a defense than a complaint.
Inside the dressing room, Tristan buttoned his shirt slowly, each movement unhurried. He caught his own reflection in the mirror again — still perfect, still untouchable.
But when he looked into his own blue eyes, he saw something flicker beneath the arrogance — something he hadn't let surface since Isidore.
A hollow ache. A memory. A promise.
He ran a hand through his damp hair and whispered, so quietly even the glass almost missed it:
"I'll make it right this time."
Outside, Jesper's voice rose — sharp, efficient, commanding now that the alpha wasn't watching. "Driver, downstairs in five. Make sure the lights are ready at the studio."
Tristan smirked faintly as he fastened his cufflinks.
He walked out, past Jesper, past the lingering scent of steam and tension, he thought — maybe faith could break. Maybe desire could bleed into something else.
And — Isidore is the only ghost worth chasing.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Jesper stood beside the sleek black car, the morning light catching on the glass like fractured silver. He checked his watch for the third time, jaw tightening.
Then the hotel doors parted — and out came Tristan Ashford.
Every inch of him was immaculate.
A deep blue suit, pressed to perfection, clung to his tall frame. His red hair was brushed back, still faintly damp, gleaming like lacquered fire beneath the pale sun. A soft, expensive cologne drifted with him — amber and spice, unmistakably his.
He stopped in front of Jesper, the faintest smirk curling his lips.
"See? I'm all ready," he said, as though he hadn't kept the entire crew waiting an hour.
Jesper's eyes narrowed. "But have you seen the time?"
Tristan only shrugged, the movement lazy and practiced. "Oh yes," he murmured, slipping a silver watch over his wrist. "Time looks quite lovely today."
Jesper muttered something under his breath about divas and deadlines, but Tristan was already sliding into the back seat.
The car's paint shimmered in the sun, black as ink and polished enough to reflect the city skyline. The moment the door shut, the scent of leather and Tristan's cologne filled the air.
Jesper climbed into the front, settling beside the driver. "Straight to the studio," he ordered, tone clipped. "And fast."
The driver nodded. The engine came alive — a low, elegant growl.
In the back seat, Tristan leaned against the window, phone in hand. He scrolled without looking, then paused — the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.
For a fleeting second, his reflection in the glass blurred, replaced by the ghost of a memory: soft beige eyes, a sleeping omega, breath brushing close enough to touch.
Isidore.
Tristan exhaled through his nose, half a sigh, half a chuckle. He whistled a quiet tune — something careless and sweet — and rested his head back, eyes distant.
Jesper glanced at him once through the rearview mirror. "You don't seem too worried about the shoot, Mr. Ashford."
Tristan smirked faintly, gaze still on the passing skyline. "Worry doesn't suit me, Jesper. But Beauty does."
Jesper rolled his eyes. "God help me."
"Already has," Tristan said, lips curving into a slow grin. "That's why He made me."
Jesper shook his head, muttering, "Unbelievable."
The car slipped into motion, gliding through London's morning traffic.
The car hummed through the morning traffic — a smooth, mechanical purr beneath the city's distant clatter.
Tristan had just settled deeper into the seat, eyes full of surprise, when his phone began to buzz.
A glance at the screen. Joshua.
He groaned. "Not again."
"Tch." He pressed the answer button, voice clipped but velvet-smooth.
"What do you want again, Joshua?"
Static crackled faintly on the other end before Joshua's steady, measured tone cut through.
"Did you… feel anything off?"
Tristan's brow furrowed. He tilted his head back, letting the morning light wash over his face. "Off?" he echoed. "What the hell are you talking about?"
There was a pause — too long to be casual. Then Joshua's voice, quieter now:
"If you feel anything strange… anything unusual… call me immediately."
The line clicked dead.
Tristan stared at the screen for a heartbeat, the reflection of his own blue eyes flickering across the glass. "What does he even mean by that?" he muttered, lips curving in half amusement, half confusion.
He powered the phone off with a flick of his thumb and tossed it onto the seat beside him.
For a moment, silence pressed close.
Then he whistled again — a soft, lazy tune that drifted through the air like smoke.
He closed his eyes, legs stretched out, the very picture of indifference.
"Strange things, strange warnings," he murmured, smiling faintly. "All I want is to finish this damn shoot."
Jesper sat in the front seat, a tablet balanced on his knee, eyes flicking from time slots to reminders to endless notes. His pen tapped absently against the screen — steady, rhythmic, the sound of a man too exhausted to feel anything but function.
Beside him, the driver's face was hidden beneath the low brim of his cap. His hands gripped the wheel too tightly. The muscles in his forearms tensed and released in strange, uneven rhythms.
Jesper noticed. Once. Twice.
Something about the way the man breathed — shallow, deliberate — scraped faintly against his instincts. But Jesper, ever the realist, pushed the thought aside.
He had too many calls to make, too many details to chase.
Suspicion required energy — and that was a luxury he no longer had.
He exhaled, and went back to scrolling through the schedule. "No time for paranoia," he muttered under his breath.
Behind them, the quiet was filled with Tristan's whistle — low, tuneful, almost careless.
Eyes closed, one leg crossed over the other, he looked perfectly at ease — like a man who had mastered the art of not giving a damn.
The faint scent of his cologne filled the car — smoke, cedar, and something clean, like rain before a storm. His fingers drummed idly on his knee, matching the rhythm of the music only he could hear in his head.
Outside, the traffic thickened. The driver's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.
Jesper didn't look up.
Tristan didn't open his eyes.
And London, oblivious, kept moving — unaware that beneath the calm gleam of a morning drive, something unseen had already begun to stir.