The hospital suite, once a sanctuary of sterile recovery, had been transformed into a theater of high-stakes interrogation. The scent of antiseptic was now heavily layered with the fragrant, expensive aroma of Earl Grey tea and the buttery scent of imported shortbread.
Olivia Ashford sat with a spine of calcified grace, her ivory-gloved hand cradling a delicate porcelain cup. She didn't just drink tea; she performed it, every sip a calculated movement of a sovereign surveying a conquered territory.
Beside her, Jesper stood in a state of quiet, vibrating confusion. He moved with the practiced efficiency of a manager, placing another cup on the mahogany side table, but his mind was spinning. He hadn't even seen Olivia enter the building; she had simply materialized like a phantom of high fashion and higher expectations.
"Excuse me, ma'am," Jesper murmured, his voice barely a ripple in the heavy silence.
Across from the "Final Boss," Jane Ashford was perched on the edge of a velvet armchair. She was trying—and failing—to look invisible. Her long legs were crossed, one swinging with a rhythmic, nervous energy that betrayed her theatrical boredom. She kept her gaze locked on the floor, avoiding the emerald-fire of her older sister's eyes.
Then there was Tristan.
The "Global Icon" was currently huddled in his hospital bed, his face pale and his knuckles white. He hadn't slept; he was convinced that if he closed his eyes for a second, Olivia would dismantle his entire life. He felt the weight of the phone hidden beneath his pillow like it was a live grenade.
Jane finally broke the silence, her cup hitting the saucer with a sharp, ceramic clink. She leaned back, her smirk returning like a recurring villain.
Olivia begin "So, little brother," Olivia drawled, her eyes dancing with furry light.
"Is that actually what happened? Or are we still pretending the Ashford name isn't currently being dragged through the digital mud?"
Tristan nodded his head frantically, a robotic, desperate gesture.
Jane glanced at Olivia and let out a soft, sharp smirk. She slowly reached for the silver tray of cookies, her fingers hovering over a chocolate-dipped almond biscotti. Olivia's gaze shifted—a predatory, slow-motion turn of the head—and locked onto Jane.
Jane froze. Her hand hovered in mid-air, her fingers twitching. With a look of profound, awkward guilt, she slowly pulled her hand back, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as if she hadn't just been trying to sneak a snack in the middle of a war council.
Jesper let out a long, weary sigh—a sound that carried the weight of a thousand corporate mergers.
"And what," Olivia began, her voice a low-frequency hum of impending judgment, "about the News?"
Tristan swallowed hard. The sound was audible in the quiet room, a dry, sandpaper friction in his throat. He looked everywhere but at Olivia—the IV drip, the floral arrangement, anywhere but those green eyes.
He forced a smile onto his face. It wasn't his "Iconic" smile; it was a fractured, trembling imitation that made him look like he was experiencing a mild stroke.
"Ah... uh... hmm," Tristan stammered, his voice cracking. "What... what news, sis? You know I've been... out of it. Medicated. The stitches, you know?"
Olivia's expression didn't soften. It became deathly, a cold, marble mask of regal disappointment.
Tristan's smile faltered. It didn't just fade; it collapsed, leaving his face looking raw and petrified. He looked down at his lap, his fingers knotting into the hospital blankets.
Jane, seeing the tension shift away from her, seized her moment. She reached out again, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in total concentration as she finally snatched a cookie. Jesper watched her, letting out a soft sigh and shaking his head in a silent plea for decorum.
"I am asking you a question, Triss," Olivia said, her voice dropping into a register that made the glass of tea on the table vibrate.
Tristan was caught red-handed. He was a man drowning in a labyrinth of his own secrets, and the exit was being guarded by the one woman who could see through every Ashford lie.
"I..." Tristan started.
Olivia stood up.
The movement was fluid and terrifying, like a cobra uncoiling. Tristan flinched, his body recoiling into the pillows as Olivia approached the bed. Her heels made a sharp, rhythmic thud on the carpet—a countdown to his social execution.
Tristan offered one last, nervous smile, his eyes darting toward his pillow.
Olivia was far more calculating than he had ever given her credit for. Her gaze wasn't fixed on his face; it was fixed on his hand, which was currently clamped over the edge of the pillow like he was trying to hold down a fluttering bird.
She leaned in, her perfume—something sharp, expensive, and intimidating—filling his lungs.
"I am wondering," Olivia whispered, her face inches from his, "what exactly you are hiding under there, little Triss."
Tristan's eyes went wide with a visceral, primitive fear. He opened his mouth to protest, to lie, to beg—but it was too late. With the blinding speed of a hawk, Olivia's ivory-gloved hand slid under the pillow.
She pulled back, and in her grip was the black rectangle of his smartphone.
Tristan lunged forward, his hand clawing at the air. "No! Olivia, wait! Give it back!"
But she was already out of reach.
Jane stopped munching on her cookie, her eyes popping. "Oh boy," she whispered through a mouthful of crumbs. "Brother is absolutely cooked. Well-done. Charred."
Jesper stood frozen, his heart aching for Tristan but his respect for Olivia's authority keeping him rooted to the spot. He let out another heavy sigh, realizing that the secret was about to become the "Ashford-Nuclear" disaster.
"Why my phone?" Tristan cried out, his voice sounding small and high-pitched in the large room.
Olivia turned back to him, holding the device like it was a piece of contaminated evidence. "That is exactly what I am wondering, Tristan. Why the phone? Why is this piece of plastic more important than the fact that our stock is plummeting and your name is being linked to a Davenant scandal?"
She held the phone up, her thumb hovering over the screen.
"Password," she commanded.
Jane was watching the scene like it was a front-row seat at a blockbuster movie, her jaw working rhythmically on the cookie.
Tristan felt the trap close around him. He cleared his throat, his eyes darting toward the door as if he expected Zayn Maverick to burst in and save him. But no one was coming.
"I... I'll open it for you," Tristan whispered, his voice failing him.
He looked up at Olivia's face, and for a second, he felt his soul literally leave his body.
Olivia's features were bathed in the blue light of the phone, but her expression was blackened by the headlines scrolling across the lock screen notifications. The news was appearing in real-time—blinking alerts about the CEO close assistant, the Secret Child, and the Ashford Betrayal. Her face was a canvas of fury, her jaw set in a line of iron.
Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but the words were gone, replaced by the cold, hard realization that the "Ivory Storm" had finally broken.
Four hours before the "Ivory Inquisition," the hospital suite was a frantic hive of activity. Zephyr was deep in a digital trench, his fingers dancing across a decrypted tablet, while Joshua leaned over his shoulder, offering unhelpful commentary. Tristan was a mess of bandages and bruised ego.
Olivia stood there, her red hair caught in the harsh fluorescent lights, looking like a vengeful deity carved from marble.
"Calm down, sis," Jane started, her voice sounding uncharacteristically thin. "I already—"
Olivia didn't let her finish. She pivoted her head, delivering a scathing, death-sentencing stare that effectively cauterized Jane's vocal cords.
Jane shut her mouth so fast her teeth clicked, her eyes widening as she took a strategic step back into the shadows of the IV pole.
Joshua, realizing that if he didn't secure an exit strategy in the next five seconds, he would be the next target on the firing line, snapped into action. He smoothed his tactical vest and offered a dazzling, albeit terrified, smile.
"Welcome back, sis," Joshua sang out. He didn't wait for a response. He closed the distance and took Olivia's gloved hand, pressing a theatrical, lingering kiss to her knuckles.
Olivia looked down at him, her expression an unreadable void. "Didn't I explicitly state," she began, her voice a low-frequency hum of fury, "that if anything shifted in the Ashford variable, I was to be notified immediately?"
Joshua didn't blink. He looked up at her, his brown eyes suddenly shimmering with fabricated, crocodile tears.
"Oh, sister! I tried!" Joshua cried, his voice dripping with shamelessly fake grief. Tristan's jaw dropped in the bed, his brow knitting together in a look of profound "Et tu, Brute?" betrayal.
"I told him so many times," Joshua continued, gesturing vaguely at the bed. "I begged him: 'Tristan, stay away from the harm! Stay away from the scandal!' But will he listen? No! He dragged himself—and the Ashford legacy—right into this digital gutter!"
Tristan's jaw clenched so hard a vein throbbed in his temple. He went to retort, but the words died in his throat the moment Olivia's emerald gaze locked onto him. It was a look that promised unmitigated disaster.
Jane didn't need to be told twice. Seeing Olivia's focus narrow onto the "Global Icon" in the bed, she began to move with the stealth of a phantom.
"I... I'll go look for Jesper," Jane whispered to the empty air, her hand already on the door handle. "I was wondering where our dear manager vanished to..."
Before Olivia could even blink, Jane was a memory.
Joshua followed suit, his hand still on his heart as he backed away. "Come on, Zephyr! What are you doing? We have... tactical things to discuss!" He signaled frantically to the Alpha, who was watching the Ashford family drama with a look of profound, analytical weariness.
Zephyr let out a quiet, internal sigh. The Ashfords weren't just a family; they were a high-budget theater troupe with a penchant for arson. He closed his tablet and followed Joshua out, leaving Tristan alone in the room with the "Final Boss."
Inside, the silence was heavy. Tristan gulped, his eyes darting toward the window. If I could run, he thought, if I could just vanish into the London mist... how blessed I would be.
Olivia took a long, deep breath, her chest heaving. "It is almost dawn," she said, her voice regaining its terrifyingly calm edge. "First, I will find something to drink. Something to wash the taste of this incompetence out of my mouth."
Tristan let out a long, audible sigh of relief. His shoulders slumped.
Olivia paused, her head turning back with a sudden, predatory sharpness.
"Do not mistake this for an end, Tristan. After I am done, I will ask questions. And you will provide answers. Do you understand.
Tristan nodded his head so hard his bandages nearly slipped. "Yes, sis. Crystal clear."
Outside in the corridor, Joshua let out a long, whistling breath. "Fwehh! Thank God. We have business to settle, or else we'll be the ones getting the lecture next."
"Stop it, Joshua," Jane snapped, though she looked equally relieved. "See how Tristan is suffering? I feel terrible that we can't help him. Truly. Heartbreaking." She immediately went back to scrolling through her phone, checking the 5:00 AM news cycle.
A few yards away, the elevator chimed. Jesper stepped out, his face pale and his tie slightly loosened. His eyes widened as he saw the chaotic trio huddled near the door.
"What happened?" Jesper asked, his voice filled with concern. "Miss Jane?
Mr, Joshua?"
Zephyr, who had been leaning against the wall with his eyes fixed on his phone—meticulously scrubbing the server logs for any trace of the leak—looked up.
Joshua moved before Zephyr could even process the entry. He threw a casual, familiar arm around Jesper's shoulder, pulling the manager close.
"You won't believe it, Jesper," Joshua whispered, leaning in so close his lips nearly brushed Jesper's ear. "The Queen has landed. Olivia is inside, and she is currently skinning Tristan alive."
Jesper froze, his face turning a soft, radiant shade of omega-blush. He shook his head, his hands fidgeting as Joshua continued to whisper something—something private, something low—that made Jesper's eyes dart away in embarrassment.
"Kidding, kidding!" Joshua laughed, finally pulling back and patting Jesper on the chest.
Zephyr watched the interaction with a glacial, silent intensity. He didn't know why, but a sharp, jagged heat flared in his chest. It was a visceral spike of jealousy, a territorial hum that made his fingers tight around his phone.
What had Joshua said? Why was Jesper looking at the floor like a schoolboy?
Zephyr's violet eyes narrowed. He was the meticulous Alpha, the master of data and logic, but in the face of Joshua's effortless, charming proximity to Jesper, he felt like he was losing a battle he hadn't even realized he was fighting.