Across the city, the air was cold and smelled of expensive, designer soaps.
Ansel Adams stepped out of his steaming shower, his ruby-like eyes reflecting the soft, ambient glow of his opulent bedroom. He was draped in a black silk robe, the belt loosely tied, leaving his damp, sculpted chest partially exposed. Water droplets tracked slow, glistening paths down his skin.
He stopped dead.
There, sprawled across his grand, velvet-covered bed, was Zavid Benediktov Volkovsky. The highest-paid actor in the industry was laying on his stomach, his expensive suit rumpled, a predatory and playful smirk dancing on his lips.
"I asked the servants," Zavid began, his voice a smooth, Russian-accented purr. "They didn't want to let me in. So, I decided to handle the security myself."
Ansel's eyes widened, the ruby depth of his irises flashing with a subterranean anger. "Don't tell me you just paid them off. My security is supposed to be—"
Ansel strode to the bedroom door, flinging it open. The hallway was unnervingly silent. The guards were gone, likely counting their newfound "bonuses" in the breakroom. Ansel turned back to Zavid, his annoyance radiating off him like heat.
"You can't just bribe my staff and occupy my bed, Zavid," Ansel hissed.
Zavid didn't move. He simply watched the way the light hit Ansel's damp skin, his own pulse quickening. He felt an intrusive, burning heat rising in his chest—a secret, obsessive blush that he masked with bravado.
"Am I not enough of a guest?" Zavid challenged, his voice dropping an octave as he reached up to loosen his tie.
"You are a nuisance," Ansel muttered.
Meanwhile the medication Maurice had administered was a heavy, silken shroud, dragging Isidore down into a subconscious abyss. But while his body lay paralyzed in the plush safety of the Davenant estate, his mind was a theater of visceral, neon-lit torture.
In the dream, the world was a high-contrast nightmare.
Isidore stood center stage in a cavernous press room. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and predatory intent.
Dozens of cameras—their lenses like the eyes of cold, obsidian insects—tracked his every breath. The flashes were blinding, rhythmic pulses of white light that felt like physical blows.
"Mr. Davenant! Over here!"
A reporter with a face like a sharpened blade leaned forward, a microphone thrust into Isidore's personal space. "Can you clarify the precise nature of your relationship with Tristan Ashford? Are you his partner.
Isidore felt the primordial heat of his temper bubbling beneath his skin. His beige eyes narrowed, filled with a sudden, incandescent hatred.
"He has nothing to do with me," Isidore hissed, his voice echoing through the hall like a funeral bell. "I don't even know him."
A ripple of mocking laughter swept through the crowd.
"But Mr. Davenant," a voice called out from the shadows, "you signed a multi-million dollar contract with Mr. Ashford for the production. Surely you don't sign deals with strangers?"
Isidore's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. "It was business. Pure, cold-blooded business. Nothing more."
"Then how do you explain this?"
A gargantuan screen flickered to life behind Isidore. On it, the footage was grainier than reality, yet devastatingly clear. It was the lunch—the private, stolen moment.
It showed Isidore, his sharp features softened, sitting across from Tristan Ashford. And between them, the center of their universe, was Julian.
The video showed Tristan laughing, his "crystalline" eyes fixed on the child, while Julian reached out for a hero's hand.
Isidore stood up abruptly in the dream-world, his chair screeching back with a sound like a dying animal. "That is none of your business!" he barked, his voice fracturing the silence. "It has nothing to do with me!"
He clutched his head with one hand, his fingers digging into his scalp. His mind screamed the truth: It was Julian who insisted! He wanted to see his hero! But the vultures in the room didn't care for the truth. They only cared for the carcass.
"Does this confirm the rumors, Mr,
davenant?" the lead reporter asked, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "That your 'secret child' is actually the product of a shameful celebrity tryst? That you slept with the very man you now pretend to loathe?"
The word shameful acted like a match dropped into a pool of gasoline.
Isidore stepped back, his chest heaving. The mockery in the room became a deafening cacophony. People were laughing—grand, hollow sounds that felt like they were peeling the skin from his bones.
"How dare you?" Isidore's voice was a low-frequency rumble of pure, unmitigated rage. "How dare you disgrace me like this? You... you asshole!"
He lunged.
The transition was instantaneous. Isidore grabbed the reporter by the collar, the fabric groaning as he slammed the man against the podium.
The "Davenant Beast" was loose. In front of the flickering cameras and the recording world, Isidore became a whirlwind of raw, jagged violence.
He raised his fist, his knuckles raw and red, ready to land a blow that would shatter the man's face—just as he had done in the Dominion boardroom.
"Mama?"
The word was a tiny, fragile thread of sound that sliced through the roar of Isidore's fury.
Isidore froze. He turned his head slowly, his breath coming in ragged, metallic hitches. Standing at the edge of the stage was Julian.
The child's eyes were wide, twin pools of pure, crystalline terror. He wasn't looking at his protector; he was looking at a monster.
"Mama?" Julian whispered again, his voice trembling. "Mama beats people... it's wrong, Mama."
Panic, cold and suffocating, replaced Isidore's rage. He dropped the reporter, his hands shaking as he reached out for his son. "Julian! No, sweetheart... you don't understand. They were... they were hurting us. I know I did it, but they—"
Julian didn't wait for the explanation. He let out a sob—a sound that lurched Isidore's heart right out of his chest—and turned to run.
"Julian! Stop! It's them who are wrong!
Julian!"
But the child was a streak of light in the darkness, running away from the shadow of his own mother. Isidore tried to follow, but his feet felt like they were submerged in lead.
He was trapped in the spotlight, surrounded by the laughter of the world, while his only reason for living vanished into the void.
The transition from the velvet darkness of the nightmare to the crushing reality of the penthouse was not a gentle one.
In the master suite, the air was still, yet Isidore's body was a battlefield. The sedative Maurice had administered was fighting a losing war against the adrenaline of the nightmare.
Isidore's breath came in jagged, staccato hitches, each one sounding like a plea for oxygen he couldn't quite reach.
Cold sweat beaded across his porcelain forehead, gleaming under the dim ambient light like scattered diamonds. His cheeks were a stark, volcanic crimson, the fever rising within him as his subconscious relived the image of Julian running away.
His head thrashed against the silk pillows, a rhythmic, desperate movement of a man trapped in a burning house with no exit.
Beside the chaos, a pair of crystalline blue eyes fluttered open.
Julian, untainted by the digital wars and corporate scandals of the adult world, sat up slowly. He rubbed his eyes with small, balled fists, a sleepy smile gracing his lips. His mama was home. His mama was finally back.
"Mama?" Julian squealed softly, his voice a tiny chime in the heavy silence.
But the smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He reached out a small hand, shaking Isidore's shoulder, but the Omega didn't wake. Instead, Isidore let out a low, agonizing whimper that made the child flinch.
"Mama? Wake up... why are you talking in your sleep?" Julian whispered, his brow furrowing in confusion.
He climbed down from the massive bed, his bare feet silent on the plush rug. He walked around to the side of the bed, peering up at Isidore's face. The heat radiating off his mother was palpable, a dry, scorching aura that made Julian's eyes water.
"Mama doesn't look good," Julian murmured to the shadows.
Realizing his small hands weren't enough to break the spell of the nightmare, the boy turned and toddled toward the door. His mission was simple: find someone who could fix the "broken" version of his mother.
In the hallway, the world of business was still screaming through a glowing smartphone screen.
Zayn Maverick was pacing, his lilac eyes fixed on a series of aggressive legal documents. He barked a final instruction into the phone before cutting the call, his exhaustion finally catching up to him.
He sighed, turning his head just in time to see a small, pajama-clad figure emerging from the master suite.
Zayn's expression softened instantly. He knelt, scooping the boy into his arms with a practiced, protective ease.
"What happened, little Julian? You should be sleeping right now," Zayn murmured, his voice a soothing baritone.
Julian placed both hands on Zayn's shoulders, his face a mask of solemn, childish concern. "Uncle Zayn... Mama is not opening his eyes. He is talking in his sleep. He's... he's red."
Zayn's brow knitted together. He thought back to the board meeting, the blood on Isidore's hands, and the volcanic temper that had finally erupted. "Is Davenant sleeping again? He was just exhausted, Julian. He needs rest."
But as Zayn stepped into the room, the reality of the situation hit him like a physical blow. He didn't even need to get close to see the distress. He flicked the master switch, bathing the room in a harsh, clinical light.
"Davenant?"
Zayn lowered Julian onto the edge of the mattress, his movements becoming frantic. He leaned over Isidore, his hand hovering for a second before pressing against the Omega's forehead.
He winced, pulling his hand back as if he had touched a hot stove.
"Oh, my God," Zayn hissed, his voice cracking with a sudden, sharp fear. "Davenant, you're burning. You're literally burning alive."
The fever was astronomical, a biological meltdown triggered by a week of repressed trauma and a final, violent breaking point. Isidore's skin was a terrifying, translucent red, and his pulse—visible in the vein of his neck—was a frantic, uneven thud.
"Is Mama sick?" Julian asked, his voice trembling as he watched Zayn's panic.
Zayn didn't have the heart to lie. He gripped the bedpost, his knuckles turning white. "Wait here, Julian. Stay with him. I'm going to get Maurice. Right now."
Zayn didn't walk; he lunged for the door.
The sanctuary of the Davenant study was shattered by the violent swing of the heavy oak doors.
Maurice didn't startle; he simply ascended from the depths of a shallow, uneasy sleep. He pressed the bridge of his silver-rimmed glasses, his emerald eyes bloodshot and weary as he looked up from the scattered medical journals.
Zayn stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the harsh hallway light. His lilac eyes were wide, glowing with a frantic, uncharacteristic desperation.
"Maurice," Zayn gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of the night. "Davenant is sick. He's burning. He's running a fever so high I could feel the heat from the doorway. He won't wake up."
Maurice let out a long, ragged sigh, shaking his head as the "doctor" within him took over. The exhaustion was replaced by a cold, clinical focus.
"That is exactly why I told him to stay home this morning," Maurice hissed, already reaching for his advanced trauma kit. "But will he listen? No. A Davenant would rather incinerate from the inside out than admit a moment of human frailty."
Maurice's fingers moved with a staccato precision, checking his vials and monitors.
"Come on, hurry up!" Zayn urged, his hand gripping the doorframe so hard the wood groaned.
As they pivoted to leave the study, they nearly collided with a massive, grounding presence. Leon stood in the hallway, two ceramic mugs of coffee in his hands, the steam rising in lazy curls.
He stopped dead, his mismatched eyes—one blue, one brown—scanning the panic written across Zayn's face.
"What happened, Mr. Doctor?" Leon asked, his gravelly voice dropping into a defensive register.
"It's an emergency," Maurice gritted out, not stopping as he brushed past the Beta. "Isidore is sick."
Leon's jaw tightened. He held out the tray, and Zayn reached out, snatching one of the mugs with a trembling hand. The Alpha didn't even care that the liquid was scalding; he needed the caffeine to anchor his crumbling nerves.
"Today was a very hard day, Leon," Zayn murmured, his eyes fixed on the door of the master suite. "A very, very hard day."
Leon didn't follow them into the room. He stayed in the hallway, a silent, obsidian guardian, watching as the two men disappeared.
Inside the master suite, the atmosphere was thick and humid, tasting of copper and medicinal sweat.
Isidore was no longer thrashing. He had subsided into a terrifying, shallow rhythm of breathing. His skin was a translucent, angry crimson, and his lips were parched, moving silently as he fought the shadows of his nightmare.
"Ju... Juli... Julian..."
The name left his throat as a jagged, broken rasp. It wasn't a command; it was a plea.
"I'm here, Mama," Julian whispered, his voice a tiny, anchoring thread in the storm. "Don't worry. I am right here."
With a quiet, heartbreaking grace, the boy crawled across the silk sheets. He didn't care about the high fever or the terrifying whimpers. Julian snuggled into the curve of Isidore's burning shoulder, pressing his cool, small forehead against Isidore's cheek.
Isidore's body seemed to recognize the contact. The frantic thrashing slowed.