The air in the high-rise office was thick with the scent of expensive cedarwood and the metallic tang of chilled red wine.
Ansel Adams sat ensconced in his leather throne, swirling a vintage vintage in a glass so delicate it looked like frozen breath. He took a sip, the liquid velvet coating his tongue, as he watched the digital chaos on the wall-mounted monitors.
The mess he had orchestrated for Tristan and Zayn was a masterpiece of wreckage.
The heavy mahogany doors groaned open. Kay was led in, stumbling, his eyes obscured by a thick black blindfold.
Behind him walked Tristan's former driver—the traitor—who now leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, a wolf in sheep's clothing.
"Why?" Kay's voice was a thin thread of terror. "Why did you bring me here?"
Ansel didn't answer immediately. He let the silence stretch, punctuated only by the soft clink of the wine glass meeting the desk.
Ansel stood. His frame was a staggering 197 cm, of lean, predatory muscle. His dark blue hair shimmered under the recessed lighting as he turned his piercing crimson eyes toward his captive.
"Well," Ansel began, his voice a smooth, baritone rumble. "It seems you've won a lottery, little bird."
Kay swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. "Can... can I go now? I did... I did exactly as you told me."
Ansel didn't move fast. He moved with the terrifying grace of a shark in deep water. His polished shoes clicked rhythmically against the marble floor as he closed the distance.
Kay flinched at every step. He backed away until his heels hit the edge of the mahogany desk, trapped.
Ansel reached out. His fingers were cold as they clamped onto Kay's chin, forcing the blindfolded face upward.
"Won't you take your prize with you?" Ansel whispered, leaning down until his breath fanned Kay's trembling lips.
Kay was shivering so violently his teeth nearly rattled. He had dreamed of the wealth and the games Ansel promised, but the reality was a suffocating weight.
How could he ask for a reward when the man's presence felt like a noose?
Ansel's thumb traced the line of Kay's jaw, a touch that was somehow both gentle and violent.
"Take him to the private room," Ansel commanded, glancing at the driver.
Kay jolted, trying to pull away from the grip. "Wait! Where are you taking me? You said—"
"Once you know, you know," the driver interrupted, his voice devoid of any warmth as he grabbed Kay's arm.
Kay was left speechless, dragged away like a sacrificial lamb.
Ansel stood alone in the center of the room. He crossed his arms, tilting his head as he watched Kay disappear through the side door. He slowly licked the upper corner of his lip, a gesture of dark, carnal anticipation.
He was ready to give out the award. But it was a special one—one Kay would never forget.
Ansel reached into his silk-lined suit jacket and pulled out his phone. The screen glowed, illuminating the sharp angles of his face. He scrolled through the social media feeds, watching the footage of Tristan's "accident" over and over.
The real knife. The shattered play. The frantic calls.
It was a symphony.
He felt a thrill of pure, unadulterated power. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, cold and final.
"Soon," Ansel murmured to the empty room, his crimson eyes reflecting the digital carnage. "You will regret not agreeing with me, Tristan."
Back at the hospital, the air had turned frigid.
Isidore stood like a statue of marble, his eyes fixed on Tristan's "handsome, pale" face. The hand he had used to hold Julian was still trembling, a rhythmic shaking he couldn't stop.
Tristan's smirk began to falter. The silence was lasting too long. He looked at Zayn, seeking help, but Zayn was busy staring at the floor, wishing he was anywhere else on the planet.
"Isidore?" Tristan ventured, his voice losing its playful edge. "I... I was just—"
"You let me believe you were dead," Isidore said.
The voice wasn't a scream. It was a low, hollow sound, stripped of all emotion. It was the sound of a heart closing a door and locking it.
Isidore stepped closer to the bed. He didn't look at the bandages. He didn't look at the bruises. He looked straight into Tristan's crystalline-blue eyes.
Julian looked up at his mother, his little face scrunched in confusion. "Mama? Is Hero in trouble?"
Isidore didn't look down. He couldn't. If he looked at his son, he would break.
"He isn't a hero, Julian," Isidore said, his voice cracking just once. "He's just a ghost we haven't said goodbye to yet."
Tristan reached out, his fingers catching the edge of Isidore's coat. "Don't say that. Isidore, please. I'm right here."
Isidore looked down at the hand on his coat. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached down and uncurled Tristan's fingers, one by one.
"You're here," Isidore agreed. "But I'm gone."
He turned on his heel, grabbing Julian's hand.
"Davenant!" Zayn called out, stepping forward.
Isidore didn't stop. He walked out of the room, his long coat billowing behind him like a shroud.
Inside the room, the atmosphere was a wreckage.
Joshua stopped chewing his apple. He looked at his brother, then at the empty doorway. For the first time, the smirk was gone from his face.
"Well," Joshua muttered. "That didn't go as planned."
Tristan sat frozen in the bed. The "handsomely pale" look he wanted was gone—now he was just truly, sickly white. The weight of what he had done finally crashed down on him.
He had wanted to see if Isidore cared. He had seen it. And then he had destroyed it.
Zayn let out a breath that sounded like a groan. He turned his lilac eyes toward Joshua, the rage from the "apple licking" still simmering beneath the surface, now mixed with a heavy dose of disgust.
"Are you satisfied?" Zayn hissed. "Both of you? You've turned a man's grief into a punchline."
Joshua stood up, tossing the half-eaten apple into the trash. "I just follow the script, zayn."
"Stop calling me that," Zayn snapped. He turned to Tristan. "I'm going after him. Not for you. For him."
Zayn stormed out of the room, his boots echoing sharply in the hallway.
Joshua watched him go, his eyes narrowing. He lingered for a moment, looking at Tristan, who was staring at the spoon on his lap as if it held the secrets of the universe.
"You really messed up this time, brother," Joshua said softly.
He didn't wait for a response. He followed Zayn out into the corridor.
The hospital's sliding doors hissed open, exhaling a gust of sterile, recycled air into the evening chill.
Isidore marched through the parking lot, his stride frantic and uneven.
He cradled Julian against his chest with a desperate intensity, as if the boy were the only anchor keeping him from drifting into a void of pure hysteria.
"Mama," Julian murmured, his voice muffled against Isidore's shoulder. "Hero is hurt... Why did we leave him alone?"
Isidore's jaw tightened, the bone sharp beneath his skin. "He isn't alone, Julian. He has his toys and his games. He likes to play with everyone's emotion's."
Julian sucked on his thumb, his brow furrowed in a tiny, heartbreaking display of worry. "But Mama... He's hurt."
Isidore pressed the child closer, burying his face for a fleeting second in Julian's soft hair. The boy's innocence was a knife to his ribs.
He felt a sickening wave of shame wash over him—shame for the tears he had shed, for the way his heart had stuttered in his chest, and for the sheer, reckless abandon with which he had rushed to a man who actually mock him.
"Davenant!"
The shout echoed across the asphalt, sharp and urgent.
Isidore didn't stop. He didn't even flinch. He knew that voice.
It was the voice of the accomplice. Zayn was just as guilty, just as tainted by the Ashford brothers' penchant for cruelty. He wouldn't think about that bastard—either of them—anymore.
A heavy footfall skidded on the pavement, and suddenly, Zayn was there, intercepting his path. He was out of breath, his face etched with a rare, jagged guilt.
"Davenant, wait," Zayn gasped, reaching out but stopping short of touching him.
Isidore whipped his head away, his profile cold and sharp as a flint blade. "Move, Zayn."
"I—I am sorry, Davenant," Zayn blurted out. The apology was clumsy, stripped of his professional veneer.
Julian watched the exchange with wide, inquisitive eyes, sensing the sudden spike in temperature between the two men. Isidore remained silent, his silence a wall of obsidian.
"Let me explain," Zayn panted, his chest heaving. "Please, just—"
"You lost the chance to explain the moment you lied," Isidore cut him off, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.
"I never expected you to be involved with a creature like him. To toy with someone's grief... it's beneath even you."
"I know!" Zayn shouted, the outburst startling a flock of nearby birds.
"I know I shouldn't have. But he wouldn't listen. Even through the pain, even with the internal bleeding... he did it for you."
Isidore halted. The world seemed to stutter. He stopped dead in his tracks, the wind whipping his coat around his legs.
"For... who?" Isidore asked, the words barely a whisper.
Zayn blinked, his lilac eyes shimmering with a mix of exhaustion and sincerity. "For you, Davenant. Everything he does—as twisted as it is—is an obsession centered on you."
Isidore's jaw clenched so hard it ached. A sudden, violent surge of energy possessed him. In a blur of motion, he stepped forward, his free hand snaking out to grab Zayn's collar.
Despite the weight of the child in his other arm, his grip was like a vice, fueled by a cocktail of betrayal and repressed longing.
Zayn gasped, startled by the sheer physical force of the smaller man.
"If that was all for me," Isidore hissed, his face inches from Zayn's, "then why make a mockery of my fear? Why make me think I had lost the world?"
Zayn didn't fight back. He didn't pull away. Instead, he slowly placed his hands on Isidore's shoulders, a stabilizing gesture that felt like an anchor.
"I am sorry, Davenant," Zayn said softly, his voice thick. "It was my fault too. I allowed the game to continue when I should have ended it. I am sorry for the tears you shouldn't have had to shed."
Isidore's lower lip quivered—a tiny, traitorous tremor. He tried to maintain the mask of the stoic scholar, but the cracks were too deep.
Julian, sensing the shift, reached up with a tiny, warm hand and patted Isidore's cheek.
"Mama...
don't cry."
Isidore looked down at his son. He saw the same crystalline blue eyes that had haunted his dreams, now filled with nothing but pure, unconditional love. The rage evaporated, leaving behind a hollow, aching sadness.
He pulled Julian into a crushing hug, burying his face in the boy's neck. "I'm sorry, Julian," he choked out. "I'm so sorry."
Julian let out a small, bubbly laugh, clinging to his mother's neck and tucking his head into the crook of Isidore's shoulder. The sound was a panacea, a small light in the dark.
Zayn felt a heavy stone settle in his stomach. He had seen Isidore angry, and he had seen him cold, but seeing him broken was a different kind of torture. He placed a gentle hand on Isidore's back, guiding him toward the sleek black car parked nearby.
"Come on, Davenant," Zayn murmured, his voice now a steady, professional calm. "Let me drop you home. You've had enough of the Ashford for one lifetime."
Isidore didn't protest. He followed Zayn, his strength spent, his heart a bruised and battered thing.
As the car pulled away from the hospital, Isidore looked out the window, watching the lights of the facility fade into the distance. Behind those walls.
For today, the game was over.