The dining hall was less a room and more a cathedral dedicated to excess. A seventy-foot ceiling, ribbed with dark, carved mahogany, vaulted high above, swallowing the sound of the grandfather's knife scraping porcelain. The air was thick and still, smelling faintly of lemon polish and a recent, expensive clare
The silence was the loudest, most luxurious thing in the room. It was not a comfortable quiet but a heavy, pressurized void, punctuated only by the soft thud of a liveried servant placing a new wine glass beside Kaien.
"Try the lamb Kaien. I had Simon, my butcher, age this for two weeks." Alaric's knife scraped against porcelain as he cut a precise piece of lamb.
"It smells good." Kaien pushed the lamb on his plate slightly, focusing on the potatoes.
Alaric caught the action, brows slightly furrowed, his attention returning to his plate. "The board has been circling like jackals since I announced my intention to retire soon." He took a sip of his Bordeaux letting the silence stretch. "They are eager to pitch for a successor, but they forget that MoreauApex Group was founded by Moreau. And it will be ruled by the Moreaus."
Kaien tossed the potatoes around the plate, making a mess of the gravy. Appetite gone.
"Kaien. You're my successor." Alaric fixed Kaien with a heavy stare across the table. "It's time you started learning the ropes of the business. I will have the HR department prep a letter —"
Kaien's fingers tightened around the fork. "Verrane is my legacy."
Alaric scoffed, picking up a green bean. "Fashion. A frivolous market. You call those little ripped jeans and graphic t-shirts a "legacy"?"
Kaien's gaze remained fixed on his plate. "Verrane made $300 million last quarter, from selling ripped jeans and graphic t-shirts."
The silence stretched. "$300 Million is irrelevant. We manage billions Kaien, Moreau Apex Group makes GPD's tremble." Alaric set the carving knife down with a sharp clink. "Verrane is child's play, stop wasting your talent on vanity."
Kaien let the fork clatter on the plate. He lifted his gaze, eyes locking with his grandfather's. "Your opinion has the relevance of a museum plaque. Decorative, not useful."
Alaric's eyes narrowed, shifting to Kaien's plate — still full and messy. "You barely ate." He shot a glance at Kaien.
"No appetite." Kaien dabbed his lips with a napkin.
"Kaien." Alaric's voice lowered dangerously. "You need to take your health seriously. "Doctor Lewis informed me that this is the fifth appointment you haven't attended"
Kaien's shoulders stiffened with tension. "I am busy with work."
Alaric's eyes dropped, laden with disappointment— or something else, that made something in Kaien's chest feel tight. "Kaien, living off suppressants and pills isn't good for you. You increased your dosage again—"
"You have no right, meddling with my private affairs." Kaien straightened in his seat, form rigid
"I told your doctor to pull you off those pills and suppressants. They're draining the life out of you, and I'm not watching you drown in silence."
Kaien's voice was calm. Too calm. "I have already drowned."
Something like fear flashed in Alaric's eyes. "Kaien—"
Kaien took a final cold sip of his Iced Tea. "Thank you for the dinner." The legs of the chair scraped against the floor as he pushed it back and rose from his seat.
Alaric's eyes remained fixed on his figure. "I care about you, Kaien. You won't believe it, but it doesn't make it any less true.
Kaien's steps faltered for a second, but he didn't turn, didn't stop. Something painful pressed against his chest, but he forced himself to move, even though he could feel Alaric's eyes on him. He counted the seconds internally until he was out of the door.
********
The driver hurriedly tossed the cigarette away, perhaps hoping Kaien didn't see. "Good evening, sir." His voice cracked with a cough.
"To the penthouse." Kaien gave a slow, right nod.
The driver hurriedly opened the door, eyes fixed on the floor. Kaien walked past him, nose slightly wrinkling at the smell that clung to the driver
He took a deep breath of the familiar scent — filtered, artificial, but controlled. Safe. Predictable.
He leaned into the leather of the car seat, as the car rumbled out of the compound. Kaien's finger slid through his phone, stopping at a name.
Doctor Lewis.
The call was answered by the third ring.
"Mr Liorux —"
"If you think I need my grandfather to survive, then you are mistaken. Continue without my permission, and you will find yourself out of a job."
"Sir —" The call ended with a beep.
Kaien tossed the phone on the car seat.
Kaien leaned against the glass, the city blurring past like someone else's life. Streetlights smear across the window, dull and tired, echoing a world that keeps moving while he feels stuck. The skyline rises, muted and distant, beautiful but exhausting. Cars honk, people run, and laugh. His gaze lingers longer than necessary on a mother and child crossing the road.
He closes his eyes for a moment, thinking, they all get to live while I keep counting the cost.
******
The penthouse is silent, sleek, and almost empty—every piece in place, every surface gleaming. The city lights stretch below, indifferent. Walls— pale and high— lined with bookshelves filled with books covered in dust.
It's beautiful. Impeccable. Perfectly curated like an interior designer's project showcase— high ceilings with recessed lighting casting soft shadows, floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the cityscape, and minimalistic furniture in muted tones—charcoal, slate, and cream. Polished marble floors gleam underfoot, a statement rug anchors the sleek living area, and a sparse collection of abstract art punctuates the walls. Every surface is immaculate, every line sharp. A long, dark wood dining table stands ready for silent dinners. It was a place meant to impress, not to inhabit. Flawless and strangely cold, like a home without a heartbeat.
But that was okay, nowhere had ever felt like home since she left.
An empty bourbon bottle waits on the table. A plastic container with a sticky note affixed to its top sat beside it — new.
He ripped off the sticky note, lips curling faintly in a smile he didn't register at the familiar scrawling handwriting.
"I saw the untouched containers piling up. Eat this one. If I come back tomorrow and it's still sealed, I'm taking your locks off the door and force-feeding you. —Nora" He tucked the note into a random book he found lying on the carpet — something he had taken out to read the previous night, but left unfinished.
Kaien moved towards the window, assessing the half-wilted Monstrea in the flower vase— half dead from all the days it hadn't been watered. He tried to lift it up, but once he removed his hand, it dropped down pathetically, looking strangely pitiful.
He ought to do something about it. To fix it.
Kaien grabbed a jug of water from the table closest to the window and dumped its contents into the flower vase. That should do it, he mused.
Was that how plants worked? Do you make up for all the days you didn't water it by overwatering it? He observed the Monstera, but it didn't appear to be any different. Big dropping leaves, some looked curled and wrinkled, while others were slightly yellow. Perhaps it will look better tomorrow.
He made a beeline for his bedroom, clothes falling off as he stepped into the bathroom. The shower was cold, icy— almost punishing. It felt nice. It numbed everything else. The ache. The heat had been brewing for days. The heat he had been ignoring.
Kaien stepped out of the bathroom, a bathrobe wrapped around his figure. Mopping his dark wet hair with a towel.
Then, with a soft click, the TV flickered to life. He froze. No one had been near it. The glow filled the otherwise dark room. Static hissed for a moment, then a familiar voice sounded.
"...she would hit our son sometimes." The man said, voice calm, controlled. "She was convinced the world was against her, that Kaien would grow up hating her."
The towel slipped from his hands to the floor. His eyes locked on the TV. His father's familiar face filled the frame, perfectly lit, perfectly sympathetic, perfectly false.
"Lysandra… she struggled," Dorian Liroux said, voice softened to a trembling baritone. "People don't understand how hard it was for her. I loved her deeply, but she had episodes. Violent ones. We tried everything. Therapy. Medication. I stayed by her side, even when she pushed me away. In the end…" He lowered his eyes. "She chose to leave us. I only wish I could have saved her."
Kaien's stomach dropped. His chest tightened.
Dorian continued. "Our son—Kaien—was too young to understand. I shielded him from the ugliness. But I hope he remembers this: his mother wasn't a monster. She was sick. And I did everything a husband could do."
The host nodded solemnly, playing along. "You were a devoted partner, Mr. Liroux."
Kaien didn't realize he was trembling. Something hot pressed behind his ribs, sharp and rising, like pressure building in a sealed chamber.
Lysandra. Sick? His mother? The woman who taught him to read, who curled around him at night to block the sound of Dorian's rage, who shielded him with her own body?
Violent?
She never raised a hand unless she was defending him.
Unstable?
The only instability in that house walked on two legs and wore a wedding ring.
Kaien's jaw clenched until pain shot down his neck. He tried to breathe, but every inhale scraped. His vision blanched at the edges, the room shrinking to the shape of his father's lying mouth.
Telling the world she was crazy.
Calling himself a loving husband.
Washing his hands clean of the bruises he left.
Selling tragedy like a brand campaign.
Kaien's fingers curled so hard his nails bit into his palm. A pulse hit his temples. The scent of his own pheromones started leaking, faint but unmistakable, the telltale metallic snap of an Omega losing control.
He shut the screen. The silence in the room couldn't shut out his father's voice. Couldn't drown the rage.
He lunged towards the drawers, searching in a desperate frenzy. Empty. Empty. Empty.
The fourth drawer revealed a bottle of suppressants. He tore open the seal and popped two pills into his palm— yellow and brittle. Taking these was the same as taking nothing at all.
"Shit." He muttered through clenched teeth, feeling the panic rise. He dumped the bottle into the waste bin, eyes lingering for a bit on the three empty bottles there — finished under a week.
The room felt smaller, hotter. His suppressed heat clawed up his throat, his chest burning. He couldn't stay here.
Adrenaline took over. He yanked the nearest drawer open, grabbing the first things his hands landed on: a wrinkled silk shirt, sweatpants too large in the waist. He didn't care that they didn't match. Didn't care that one sock was inside-out. He shoved them on. Every movement was mechanical, desperate, urgent.
He needed something to break.
Or someone.
Or anything loud enough to drown the roaring in his head.
His pulse hammered.
His breathing staggered.
His skin felt too tight.
He needed a distraction.
Something physical, immediate, overwhelming enough to tether him back into his body before he did something reckless.
The door slammed behind him as he walked out, not caring where his feet took him—only that they moved, fast, before the grief turned into something uglier.