Leon waited outside the studio gates, engine idling, phone glowing in his hand.
I'm outside.
The message barely sent before Isidore appeared at the doors. His steps were steady, but his face—ashen. Leon rushed forward.
"You're looking pale. Mr, Isidore, Are you alright?"
Isidore inhaled slowly, forcing stability into his lungs. "It's nothing. Just… stress."
Leon opened the door for him, and Isidore sank into the passenger seat, shoulders tight. The moment the door shut, the noise of the studio vanished, replaced by the suffocating thrum of his heartbeat.
He closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his face, sliding off his round glasses.
That red—
That moment—
Tristan collapsing—
He couldn't scrub it out of his vision.
Leon cast him a worried glance but didn't pry. The engine rumbled to life, and the car slipped into traffic.
Inside the studio, panic simmered in every corner.
Kai sat trembling on a chair, Jesper's blanket still draped over his shoulders. His fingers wouldn't stop twitching. Every direction he looked, people whispered.
"How did the prop knife get switched?"
"It was supposed to be rubber—"
"That blood was real, gosh it was so scary, a woman whispered"
Jesper confronted the director in a low, sharp voice.
"You can't let rumors spread about this. If paparazzi hear Tristan Ashford was stabbed on set—"
The director scrubbed both hands through his hair. "God help us… I can't believe someone actually swapped the prop for a real blade."
Kai flinched at those words. Slowly, shakily, he stood. He pulled off the blanket, eyes bright with false righteousness and hidden terror.
"I can't stay silent," he said, voice trembling with manufactured guilt. "I stabbed Mr. Ashford. I should tell the world myself."
Jesper's head snapped around. "Are you insane, Mr. Kai?" He grabbed Kai's shoulders. "You wouldn't only drag yourself into disaster—you'd burn Dominion Enterprises with you. If paparazzi get this, the entire industry will fall."
"But I…" Kai swallowed, throat bobbing. "I should take responsibility. I should ask Mr. Ashford's permission."
Jesper stared at him in disbelief. "Ask him? He's lying in a hospital bed, you idiot!"
He exhaled sharply, frustration trembling through him. "I just hope nothing serious happened to him."
Across the room, workers whispered about the blade.
No one accused Kai.
But his hands—his shaking hands—told the story he'd never dare confess.
At the private hospital wing—a place so exclusive the walls gleamed with quiet wealth—Zayn paced outside Tristan's room like a man on the edge of a cliff.
He'd chewed nearly every nail down to the skin. His phone buzzed nonstop with messages from lawyers, reporters, producers.
But every thought circled a single fear:
What if this ruins us?
Inside the room, Tristan groaned as nurses finished wrapping crisp, white bandages around his torso. The sting wracked through him, sharp enough to pull a curse past his teeth.
"Damn—damn it hurts—" he hissed, leaning back against the pillows.
The doctor cleared his throat. "The cut isn't deep. It should heal in a few days if you rest. No strenuous movements."
Tristan made a face. "Strenuous? I was planning on showing off for my cute little omega today." He lifted the hospital blanket, poked the edge of the bandage, and winced. "Well… that plan's gone."
The doctor sighed, adjusted his glasses, and exited.
Zayn stormed in a heartbeat later.
"How are you feeling now, Mr. Ashford?"
Tristan lifted his chin, plastering on a dramatic smirk. "Ah, well… it hurts less than before. I can still be handsome, so it can't be that bad."
Zayn didn't laugh.
"You know exactly how the paparazzi will react when they find out the famous Tristan Ashford was stabbed—actually stabbed—on set?"
Tristan waved a hand. "Relax, Maverick. It's not like I'm dying."
Zayn pinched the bridge of his nose, teeth grinding. "I'm not worried only about you. Dominion Enterprises will be dragged through fire. If the story gets twisted—"
Tristan cut him off. "Stop panicking."
"I have to panic!" Zayn snapped. "Yesterday, you, Isidore, and Julian were all over the internet. Now today you get stabbed."
Tristan blinked. "And? Why is that so shocking? Let them know I have someone I love."
Zayn stared at him like he'd grown two heads. "Not like that, Mr. Ashford! They're idiots. They'll twist everything they saw. You were with Isidore yesterday. Today you get stabbed. Who do you think they'll blame?"
Tristan's crystalline-blue eyes widened. "Why would they blame him? He wasn't even near the scene!"
Zayn exhaled through clenched teeth. "Because people don't think. They are too stupid. They will think opposite of everything. And if they assume—"
"They'll assume Isidore did something," Tristan finished in a whisper.
For the first time, true fear crossed his features.
"Why didn't you think of that earlier?!" he demanded.
Zayn's jaw tightened. "Because this doesn't feel like a coincidence. Not to me."
Tristan stared at him. "What do you mean?"
Zayn leaned forward, voice low and dangerously calm.
"It feels like a trap."
Tristan's breath faltered. "A… trap?"
Zayn nodded slowly. "Someone wanted this. Someone orchestrated this. The timing is too perfect. The rumors yesterday. The chaos today. the knife being switched?"
Tristan's pulse thudded in his ears. "You're saying someone really did plan this?"
Zayn hesitated, then nodded once. "Yes."
Tristan sat straighter, pain forgotten. "Who would—"
Someone wanted to ruin Dominion Enterprises—deliberately, viciously, with the precision of a man who'd been waiting for a single misstep.
Zayn felt the truth settle like a blade against his spine.
"Think," he murmured, pacing beside Tristan's hospital bed. "Who benefits from this? Who gains if your reputation collapses and Dominion burns with it?"
Tristan winced as he shifted, bandages tightening around his ribs. "You're saying someone orchestrated that stab scene? That someone switched the prop knife just to—what?—drag us through mud?"
Zayn stopped walking. His gaze was cold steel.
"Yes."
Tristan's brows furrowed. "But who would—"
"Ansel Adams."
The name dropped like a stone between them.
Tristan blinked. "Ansel? Why the hell would he—"
"Jealousy," Zayn cut in. "Pure, vindictive jealousy."
Tristan stared at him.
Zayn stepped closer, voice dropping. "He begged you to sign with him. Months of chasing. He wanted your face on his brand, your popularity boosting his company. And what did you do?"
Tristan exhaled. "I refused."
A bitter smile flickered across Zayn's mouth. "Exactly. You signed with me. You chose to work with Dominion instead of Adams Studios. And Ansel Adams has never been the kind of man who handles rejection… gracefully."
Tristan ran a hand through his hair, wincing again. "You think he'd go this far?"
Zayn's jaw clenched. "He's tried smaller sabotages before. This time, he got desperate. He knew an injury on set—especially one involving you—would send the media into frenzy. And if that injury connects back to Isidore, even accidentally…"
His voice hardened.
"…it destroys all of us."
Tristan's fingers tightened around the bedsheet
"That bastard," Tristan breathed. "He tried to frame us—just because I didn't sign with him?"
Zayn shook his head. "Not exactly. Ansel Adams doesn't care about framing Isidore."
A cold smile flickered at the corner of his mouth.
"He only cares about destroying me."
Tristan blinked. "You?"
"Yes," Zayn said, voice low. "Isidore is my assistant. If I fall, he falls with me. That's the only reason Ansel's scheme touches him."
Tristan swallowed, understanding cutting through him like ice.
"So he wanted me ruined because I rejected his contract… and he wanted you ruined because I chose you instead."
Zayn nodded once. "You didn't just sign with me, Tristan. You refused him — publicly. Worse, you did it because you were chasing Isidore like a wolf with a scent."
A flush crept up Tristan's neck. "That wasn't— I mean, it wasn't only because of—"
Zayn raised a brow. "Please. The entire industry saw it. You followed Isidore around every event like some deranged, lovesick alpha."
Tristan muttered, "I was charming."
"You were obvious," Zayn corrected. "And Ansel hated it. He hates losing what he wants. He hates being told 'no.'"
Tristan leaned back, jaw tightening. "So he struck the place it would hurt most — your company. Dominion."
"Exactly," Zayn said. "He knew if anything happened on set, the blame would fall on us. On me. On my management. And by extension…"
"So Ansel Adams tried to ruin your empire… because I didn't want to work with him."
Zayn exhaled. "Yes. And he wanted to punish you for that choice. And punish me for winning."
Tristan's voice dropped to a fierce whisper.
"Then we'll make sure he regrets it."
Meanwhile, Leon eased the car to a stop beneath the davenant penthouse. He slipped out first, stretching lazily as if he hadn't spent the last hour fretting. When he opened the rear door, Isidore stepped out slowly, one hand braced on the frame for balance.
"I already called Maurice," Leon said, tone annoyingly casual.
Isidore's brows pulled together. "You shouldn't have. I don't need an examination. I'm only stressed."
"Mr. Maverick said I'm responsible for everything," Leon replied, shutting the door with a soft thud. "Including your health."
Isidore sighed but didn't argue. He crossed the marble foyer and entered the penthouse.
Warm light spilled across the living room. The maid sat on the floor with Julian, who was surrounded by a fortress of toy blocks. The moment Julian saw his mother, he gasped—then squealed.
"Mama!"
Isidore dropped to a crouch just as Julian barreled into him. He scooped the little boy into his arms, burying his face against Julian's soft hair, inhaling that comforting, powdery scent that soothed everything inside him.
"I'm home, my dear," he whispered.
Julian clung to him with tiny arms, babbling happily. The maid smiled softly, stepping back to give them space.
Leon entered behind them—and with him, trouble. Maurice followed, coat crisp, eyes blazing a venomous green. He still hadn't forgiven Leon for that infamous night, and Leon's smug grin only stoked the fire.
"I didn't see you after our first night," Leon drawled, leaning casually against the wall.
Maurice's jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. "Say one more word, and I'll punch your face in."
Leon's grin widened. "Can't help thinking how red you were—"
"You bastard," Maurice hissed, stepping forward before he forcibly stopped himself. "I said shut up."
Leon stuck out his tongue like an unrepentant child, eyes glimmering blue and brown in the warm light. Maurice's blush deepened—both furious and humiliating.
The maid cleared her throat discreetly.
Inside Isidore bedroom, Isidore sat on the edge of the bed with Julian perched on his lap. His fingers trembled slightly as he brushed a curl from Julian's forehead. The memory of Tristan's blood—bright, shocking—kept replaying behind his eyes.
He shouldn't have seen it.
He shouldn't have felt… that way.
A cold nausea slid through him again.
"Julian," he whispered gently, "I'll be back in a moment, honey."
Julian was too absorbed with a stuffed toy to protest. He simply nodded, trusting, and Isidore placed him carefully on the soft duvet.
Isidore closed the bedroom door behind him. His steps were quiet but unsteady. He crossed to the bathroom, gripping the doorframe as if anchoring himself. His breath came shallow. His pulse refused to settle.
The moment he flicked on the light, his reflection stared back: pale, shaken, eyes clouded with something rawer than fear.
He swallowed hard.
Tristan's expression.
The real blood.
That collapsing body.
It had lodged itself beneath his ribs.
Isidore pressed a hand to his forehead, sliding down slowly until he sat on the cool tile floor. The world spun faintly. His glasses felt too heavy; he removed them and set them aside with shaking fingers.
He whispered to no one, voice thin—
"Why is that affecting me like this."
But it had.
More than he wanted to admit.
More than he dared examine.
Outside the bathroom door, Leon and Maurice's bickering was only growing louder.
Inside, Isidore leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed, trying to steady the storm inside him.