The car rolled to a smooth halt before the grand façade of the studio — a cathedral of glass and steel, sunlight spilling down its mirrored walls like liquid gold.
Tristan Ashford hadn't stopped whistling.
The tune trailed lazily from his lips, the same careless melody that had haunted the car since they'd left the hotel. His mind wasn't on the road, nor the flashes of London streaming by the windows. It was still trapped in the vision of Isidore — flushed cheeks, furious eyes, the tremor in his voice. That look. That beautiful, burning anger.
He liked it far too much.
Jesper's voice cut through the hum of the engine. "We've arrived, Mr. Ashford."
The driver braked softly. Jesper was out first, straightening his suit and tablet, his professionalism clicking into place like a weapon. He opened the rear door.
And the world turned toward Tristan.
Cameras flashed the moment he stepped out — a blinding chorus of light and noise. His blue suit caught every glimmer, his red hair dazzling under the morning sun. The crowd surged forward, phones raised, voices calling his name.
Tristan smiled. Effortless. Disarming. The kind of smile that made nations forgive his lateness.
"Mr. Ashford—please, this way—"
"Look here, Tristan!"
"Over the shoulder—perfect!"
He didn't refuse them. Tristan Ashford never refused light.
Jesper sighed, pressing a hand to his temple as the security team moved in to hold back the fans. "Mr. Ashford," he said, voice taut with patience, "you don't have time for this."
"Oh, but I make time," Tristan replied, voice smooth as velvet. "Isn't that what stars do?"
He turned away at last, striding toward the glass entrance. The sliding doors opened with a hiss — cold air sweeping across polished marble. Jesper followed close behind, tablet already glowing with reminders and schedules.
They walked through the corridor of mirrors, light glancing off every surface.
"Mr. Ashford," Jesper said suddenly.
Tristan didn't turn. "Yes?"
"Did you notice the driver today?"
Tristan blinked, the question unexpected. "No. Should I have?"
Jesper's hand pressed against the bridge of his nose, a habitual gesture. "He looked… tense. Too tense. His eyes kept darting to the rearview mirror."
Tristan stopped, one brow arching, amusement curving his lips. He turned just enough to look at Jesper — really look. Faint dark circles rimmed Jesper's obsidian eyes, and exhaustion carved soft shadows along his face.
Then Tristan laughed — a low, rich sound that echoed faintly in the glass corridor.
Jesper frowned. "What's so funny?"
"You need rest, my dear manager. That's all."
"There's nothing wrong with my eyes," Jesper retorted quietly. "I saw him. He was tense."
"Perhaps it was your reflection," Tristan said with a lazy shrug. "You worry too much."
Jesper shook his head, muttering under his breath. "You don't care about anything at all."
Tristan smiled, unbothered. "One of us has to stay beautiful."
They entered the main hall.
The air shifted — brighter, charged, full of whispers. Dozens of crew members rushed between lights and props, cables coiled like serpents at their feet. Stylists hovered. Cameras gleamed. The scent of hairspray and perfume tangled with the electric hum of industry.
And then — her voice.
"Mr. Ashford. You quite take your time."
It came from the corner, smooth and purring, touched with amusement.
Tristan turned.
She sat on a velvet couch, a white robe draped over her long, crossed legs while stylists fussed around her. Her makeup had been redone — again and again, by the looks of it. Even now, she examined her reflection with the kind of authority that made mirrors tremble.
Georgiana Vale.
The golden diva.
Her eyes were the sharp green of cat's jade, framed by lashes that could cut through pride itself. Her hair — golden-blonde and perfumed — spilled down her shoulders like molten silk. She was twenty-six, they said. Ageless, in truth.
Tristan's lips curved. "Ah, Miss Vale. Always a pleasure to keep a goddess waiting."
She smiled faintly — a blade hidden behind honey. "You're late."
"I'm beautiful," he corrected. "Time bends for me."
Jesper made a soft, strangled sound. "Mr. Ashford…"
Georgiana stood, the robe falling away to reveal a gleaming gown of silver and smoke — the costume for the day's shoot. Her presence filled the room instantly; every eye tilted toward her like sunflowers toward light.
"Well," she said, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve, "shall we begin before your charm blinds the crew?"
Tristan inclined his head. "Quite true. Let's not waste the day."
"Everyone, positions!" the director called. "Lighting, ready! Makeup, final checks on Mr. Ashford!"
The stylists rushed to Tristan's side, swarming him with brushes and combs, dusting powder along his cheekbones until he looked carved from the same light that adored him.
Across the room, Georgiana sipped her water, eyes flicking toward him with half-curiosity, half-predation.
Tristan met her gaze through the mirror — smiled, a little wickedly.
Showtime.
The set was humming with electric tension.
Cameras poised, lights slicing through the air — it was time.
Tristan Ashford rolled his shoulders, the picture of careless ease. Georgiana Vale stood opposite him, radiant even beneath the blistering lights — a goddess carved from will and mascara.
The director, already half-driven mad by Tristan's charisma and chaos, barked through his headset, "Alright! Everyone — action!"
And the world shifted.
Tristan's gaze dropped to the floor. The swagger vanished. He became Andrew — heartbreak and fury laced into one sharp exhale.
Georgiana's eyes brimmed, her voice trembling as though it had crawled out from the wreckage of a soul.
"I don't care if you love me or not," Tristan—no, Andrew—spat, his voice cracking just enough to make the boom operator flinch.
Georgiana turned, her tears slipping like threads of glass. "You don't know how much I love you."
"If you love me that much," he breathed, his hand curling into a fist, "then why him?"
"Because…" she stepped closer, her voice breaking. "Because I didn't want you to suffer for me. I didn't want you to be a burden because of me."
Andrew's lips trembled. "I'll burn the whole damn world just to keep you with me."
Her knees buckled — and she collapsed into his arms.
"I'm sorry, Andrew… I'm so sorry."
He held her tighter, trembling. "It's fine, Jane." His voice softened, a whisper meant for ghosts. "But if I can't have you…"
His hand moved with slow inevitability. "Then no one will."
The knife twisted.
Her eyes went wide.
The tears came — this time Tristan's.
"Cut!"
The word shattered the spell.
Tristan blinked, pulling his hand away from the prop blade. Georgiana exhaled a shaky laugh, brushing off fake blood from her gown. "Well," she said, smirking, "you were oddly energetic today."
Tristan straightened, smirking right back. "I'm always like this."
"Oh, please," she teased, tilting her head just enough for the lights to catch the curve of her smile. "Now now, the word is, were you at the Davenant penthouse party last night."
Tristan froze halfway through unbuttoning his costume jacket. "Ah… that."
Her brow lifted, amused. "Does that Ring a bell?"
A pause — too long to be casual.
He cleared his throat, eyes darting to the makeup crew packing up their brushes.
"Well—of course I—uh—mean, yes—no—wait—" He rubbed the back of his neck, fumbling for composure.
Georgiana laughed under her breath, a low, melodic sound that made a few nearby crew members glance over. "You're terrible at lying, Mr. Ashford."
Tristan's ears flushed crimson. "I wasn't lying," he muttered, eyes flicking anywhere but her.
"Oh?" she said, stepping just close enough that her perfume—something floral and faintly dangerous—lingered between them. "Then you admit it?"
Tristan gave up the fight with a sigh and a sheepish grin. "Maybe. But only for the champagne."
She arched a brow. "And not for someone special?"
His throat tightened. "That depends who's asking."
The crew bustled around them, lights dimming, cameras cooling — but that single, unspoken warmth lingered between them like smoke.
Morning sunlight spilled through the wide windows of the Davenant penthouse, painting the room in a golden hush. The scent of jasmine tea lingered on the air.
Isidore sat at the edge of the bed, robe loosely tied, his beige hair falling into his eyes. He had woken hours ago but hadn't moved much since. The weight of stillness pressed against him—heavy, familiar.
Across the room, Julian was already awake, his laughter bubbling as he played among a sea of toy trains and plush animals scattered over the carpet. Little sunlight halos shimmered around his blonde curls as he made the toys crash and tumble in gleeful chaos.
Isidore smiled faintly, voice low and lilting. "Julian, baby… mama doesn't feel like going to work today." He leaned back on his palms, gazing at his son. "So, mama will stay here with you all day, alright?"
Julian froze mid-play, then let out a squeal of delight. "Mama!" he cheered, scrambling up to the bed. "Mama, where is my hero?"
The words hit harder than Isidore expected.
Julian's wide eyes—Tristan's color, that Crystalline blue eyes—looked up at him with innocence too pure to bear.
Isidore gathered him into his arms, lifting him easily. "Dear Julian," he murmured, brushing a kiss over the boy's hair. "He is not your hero. He's nothing to us."
Julian frowned, his small lips trembling in confusion. "Mama… don't say that. My hero is brave."
Isidore's tone softened but didn't waver. "Good boys don't act stubborn."
But Julian's tiny hands looped around his neck with fierce affection. "Mama is lying," he whispered against Isidore's shoulder. "He is my hero."
Isidore exhaled through his nose, more weary than angry. He pressed his forehead against Julian's and spoke quietly, "You'll understand one day, my darling. Heroes don't always save people—they leave them."
Before Julian could argue again, the phone on the bedside table began to ring. The sharp sound cut through the quiet like a blade.
Isidore reached for it lazily. "Yes?"
Zayn's voice filled the receiver—warm, grounding, but firm. "Davenant, don't stress yourself today. Just Stay home, alright?"
A sigh slipped from Isidore's lips. "I was already planning to," he admitted, his tone smooth but faintly detached.
"Good. I'll meet you tonight, Davenant," Zayn replied. "Take care of yourself and the little one."
The line clicked off.
Isidore lowered the phone, staring at the black screen for a moment too long before setting it aside.
Julian tugged at his sleeve. "Mama, I want to see my hero on TV."
"No, dear Julian."
"Mama, please."
His lower lip quivered, eyes glistening like tiny oceans. Then he shook his head so fiercely that his curls bounced.
Isidore pinched the bridge of his nose and adjusted his round glasses. "Alright, alright… fine."
Julian squealed with triumph, sliding off the bed and pattering across the marble floor. At the doorway, the maid appeared, bowing slightly.
"Let him watch television," Isidore said, his voice softer now. "But not too much."
"Yes, sir." The maid took Julian's tiny hand, leading him down the hall as his laughter echoed faintly behind them.
When the sound faded, silence poured back in like water.
Isidore lay down on the mattress, the sheets were cool beneath him. He rested his chin in his palm, gaze wandering toward the window. The city below gleamed with movement—cars, people, noise—but none of it reached him.
A quiet sigh escaped his lips as his eyelids fluttered shut.
The morning light draped over him like a gentle shroud, and before he could think of Tristan's name again, sleep claimed him—softly, mercifully, like the closing of a curtain.
something raw and musky—had begun to overlay it. Isidore's eyes snapped open.
The familiar silk canopy of his bed hovered above, the same ornate sconces flanked the window, yet a cold dread coiled in his gut.
The room was his, yes, but its sanctity felt violated.
A shiver traced its way down his spine, a premonition of trespass.
Beside him, a figure sat, watching. Not Julian, not Zayn. Red hair, an unruly storm, spilled over a broad shoulder. Crystalline blue eyes, deep as winter lakes, fixed on him. Tristan.
A slow smile stretched across Tristan's lips.
"Isidore," his voice rumbled, a low