Chapter Three-Hundred: Narcisse's Gift

Chapter 300

Narcisse’s Gift

The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds of Jordi and Jaxon’s house, painting warm, amber bars of light across the hardwood floor. Outside, the balmy Palm Tree State heat was slowly softening into dusk, but inside, the bedroom was a quiet sanctuary of cool air and low hums.

By the window, Jordi sat at his small mahogany desk. He was dressed casually yet unmistakably in his own style: a silky purple paisley button-down shirt with the top buttons loose, faded denim jeans that hugged his frame, and black sheer socks. Black square-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, catching the soft glare of papers and the occasional glint of the desk lamp he’d clicked on to stave off the creeping shadows.

Stacks of internal memos, regional grid assessments, and hospital contact logs from Donati, Inc. lay spread out before him. With Demetrio Donati confined to the cardiac ICU, the weight on Jordi’s shoulders had doubled overnight. Between buffering anxious board members, deflecting press inquiries about the state’s power stability, and keeping daily operations running seamlessly without alerting the public to the CEO’s vulnerability, Jordi had barely caught his breath.

He glanced over his shoulder toward the bed.

Tangled in the Egyptian cotton sheets, completely unbothered by Pink Top City’s boardroom crises, Jaxon lay asleep. The covers had slipped down to his waist, leaving his unblemished skin and lean frame completely bare to the cool room. Even in deep slumber, Jaxon’s wild, voluminous mane of black hair was splayed dramatically across the pillows. One bare arm hung lazily over the edge of the mattress, his chest rising and falling in slow, rhythmic, exhausted peace.

A soft, affectionate smile tugged at the corner of Jordi’s mouth, instantly smoothing out the tension between his brows. Seeing Jaxon like that—vulnerable, peaceful, and entirely his—was an antidote to the sterile anxiety of ICU visiting hours, what he endured at the hands of Narcisse, and frantic corporate calls.

Adjusting his glasses with the knuckle of an index finger, Jordi turned back to the computer and the ledger. He muted the phone beside him, making sure only the dim green light would blink if Donati’s private physician, Dr. Callahan, called with a hospital update. Demetrio was stable for now, and Jordi had everything locked down on the administrative front.

Jordi stretched his legs under the desk, feeling the smooth, sheer fabric of his socks against the red carpet.

A sudden, sharp knock at the bedroom door broke the room’s quiet stillness.

Jordi paused, his fingers lingering above his paperwork. He took off his black, square-framed glasses, set them neatly beside the stacked files, and stood from his mahogany desk. He crossed the room softly, reached the door, and pulled it open.

Tristan stood in the entryway, looking immaculately put together. He wore a tailored black Italian-cut suit paired with a dark blue pressed shirt, a crisp black tie, and black wingtip Oxfords. Jordi raised his eyebrows and smiled when he saw Tristan.

Jordi: “Tristan! What a lovely surprise! Come in!”

He stepped aside to let him in.

Tristan stepped across the threshold, shutting the door quietly behind him to avoid disturbing Jaxon. Slipping off his polished black wingtip Oxfords, he revealed his own black sheer socks.

Jordi led the way down the hall toward the home’s sleek wet bar. He stepped behind the counter and picked up a crystal decanter.

Jordi: “Can I get you something to drink?”

Tristan smiled slightly and walked closer to the wet bar.

Tristan: “A Vesper martini, if you have the ingredients, please.”

Tristan pulled out a barstool and sat down, smoothing his suit jacket over his lap. Jordi smiled as he reached for the gin, vodka, and Kina Lillet.

Jordi: “Coming right up. I have everything right here.”

Jordi set a crystal mixing glass on the polished counter and smoothly retrieved the bottles. With practiced ease, he measured two measures of gin, a single measure of vodka, and half a measure of Kina Lillet into the glass. He added cracked ice, stirring the mixture swiftly until the glass chilled with a fine mist, then strained the silky, translucent liquid into a chilled cocktail glass.

After handing the cocktail to Tristan, Jordi picked up an old-fashioned glass from the shelf. He added a few heavy ice cubes, then reached for a bottle of high-end bourbon. He poured a generous double shot over the ice, watching the dark amber liquid swirl around the cold cubes before taking a quiet sip.

Tristan took the glass and lifted it, taking a slow sip of the cold Vesper martini before setting it gently back on the counter.

Tristan reached inside his inner suit jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, monogrammed gold cigarette case. With a subtle flick of his thumb, he unlatched the case, selected a single black-and-gold Sobranie cigarette, and placed it gently between his lips. He snapped the case shut, returned it to his pocket, and drew a classic brass Zippo lighter. He flicked the wheel; a warm flame ignited, and he leaned in to light the tip, drawing in a smooth breath of smoke before flipping the Zippo top closed with a sharp metallic snap.

Tristan took a long, quiet drag from his Sobranie, the tip glowing brightly in the bar’s dim ambient light before he exhaled a thin, elegant stream of gray smoke into the air.

Jordi reached for his own pack of Marlboro Blacks resting on the counter. He pulled out a single cigarette, tapped it lightly against his knuckle, and placed it between his lips. He flipped open his silver Zippo, struck the wheel, let the flame catch the end, snapped the lighter shut with a practiced clink, and drew in the rich smoke.

Tristan: “How is Jaxon feeling after that ordeal?”

He asked, taking another sip of his cocktail.

Jordi: “He’s still shaken up, and I decided to work from home for a bit until he’s fully recovered.”

He took another slow sip of his bourbon, feeling the smooth, heavy liquid roll over his tongue. The rich flavors of toasted oak, sweet vanilla, and a subtle hint of spicy nutmeg hit his palate first, followed by a warm, lingering burn that coated his throat and settled comfortably in his chest.

Tristan inhaled a long drag and exhaled a long plume of smoke.

Tristan: “And how are you holding up?”

He asked him. Jordi picked up his drink and gazed at his reflection in the dark bourbon.

Jordi: “Between trying to keep the state’s power going and giving plenty of TLC to my traumatized boyfriend, I am…”

He bowed his head.

Jordi: “I’m managing as best as I can.”

He forced a smile.

Tristan: “I see. It’s good to take care of those, but you need to take care of yourself, too, Jordi.”

He said gently.

Tristan: “You’re carrying the entire weight of Donati, Inc. and Demetrio’s condition on your shoulders. But if you run yourself into the ground, you won’t be in any condition to protect Jaxon or handle the company. You need to make sure you’re prioritizing your own well-being, too.”

Jordi smiled a bit at Tristan’s concern.

Jordi: “Thank you, Tristan…”

He said tenderly as he drew in another drag.

Tristan crossed his legs smoothly on the barstool, resting one knee over the other.

Tristan: “I see Lena’s wing is coming along nicely.”

He said smoothly, changing the topic. Jordi smiled and bobbed his head, taking another sip of his bourbon.

Jordi: “Yes, it is! It should be finished by the middle of next month.”

Tristan took another slow sip of his Vesper martini, letting the cold, dry cocktail settle before setting the crystal glass back on the counter. He brought the Sobranie cigarette to his lips once more, drawing in a long, quiet drag and letting the smoke swirl gently into the room.

Tristan: “Where is she staying in the meantime?”

Jordi paused.

Jordi: “At that old Koks manor… Where Ashley is currently staying.”

He said slowly.

Jordi tilted back his head and drained the rest of his bourbon in a single, smooth swallow, feeling the warm burn coat his throat and settle comfortably in his chest. He set the empty glass on the polished counter with a soft click, then carefully rested his lit Marlboro Black in the groove of the crystal ashtray, letting a thin coil of smoke drift into the room. He reached for the bottle of bourbon once more, uncorked it, and poured himself another generous double shot over the clinking ice.

Tristan: “...How does that make you feel?”

Jordi shrugged and sat in the barstool beside Tristan.

Jordi: “I can’t tell Lena who she can and can’t be friends with.”

He said tersely. He lifted his glass, gazing thoughtfully at the dark amber liquid as it caught the ambient light, before taking another slow sip.

Tristan brought the black-and-gold Sobranie back to his lips, took another slow, smooth drag, and watched the red embers glow briefly. He exhaled a fine ring of gray smoke that rose toward the ceiling, then he reached down for his martini glass once more. He raised it to his lips and took another quiet, chilled sip of the Vesper, letting the crisp gin and botanical notes linger on his tongue before setting the glass back down on the counter with a delicate clink.

Tristan: “I’m well aware that you cannot control who Lena befriends, but I am curious about how it makes you feel.”

He said coolly. Jordi pursed his lips.

Jordi: “They moved on. I moved on. I regret what I did, and while that old bastard, Abraham, is mostly to blame for how lonely I felt, I have to take accountability for my actions.”

He said somberly.

Tristan: “Indeed, Ashley always exhibited a habit of hopping between relationships and friendships alike. Before everything transpired, you shared that very same habit.”

He said, his long, slender fingers gliding up the glass stem. Jordi snorted and shook his head.

Jordi: “...Guilty as charged. After what I did to Ashley, something in me changed. It’s a shame it had to come to that for this to happen.”

He drew a long breath.

Tristan: “Some souls cross our orbit solely to alter our gravity, leaving us on a completely different trajectory long after they’ve drifted away.”

He murmured, exhaling a long plume of smoke.

Tristan: “Some connections are stepping stones, not destinations—and there is deep gratitude in recognizing the difference.”

He added, tapping some ash into the ashtray.

Jordi paused, contemplating what Tristan said, inhaled a long drag, and exhaled a plume of smoke.

Jordi: “We had a good friendship and I… ruined it.”

He said with a sad smile.

Jordi: “I should have set boundaries… I should have told them that I didn’t feel that way about them, but…”

His bottom lip trembled. Tristan turned to Jordi.

Tristan: “Regret is a natural shadow cast by reflection, Jordi. But dwelling upon it will not alter the past—it only dims the clarity you need for the present.”

He paused, taking a slow, measured drag from his Sobranie before letting the smoke dissipate softly between them.

Tristan: “You were uncertain and placed in a position where emotional clarity was a luxury you had not yet acquired. What matters now is not the misstep, but the path you chose afterward. You took responsibility, you grew, and you allowed yourself to find genuine devotion with Jaxon. That is not a failure—that is maturity.”

Jordi paused, letting Tristan’s wise words settle into the quiet space between them. A soft, genuine smile slowly touched his lips, easing the subtle tension he had carried all evening. He took a small sip of his bourbon, feeling renewed clarity and peace.

Jordi: “Thank you, Tristan. You always have a way of putting things into perspective when I need it most.”

Tristan: “Always my pleasure.”

He said gently.

Tristan took one last, thoughtful drag from his Sobranie, letting the quiet warmth of the moment linger as he rested his hand on the counter.

A gentle creak down the hallway drew both of their attention. Jaxon stood in the soft glow of the hallway doorframe. He wore a vibrant red silk robe embroidered with intricate, shimmering gold dragons that caught the warm light of the wet bar. The silk hung loosely over his shoulders, tied loosely at the waist, contrasting sharply with his dark, unruly hair.

Jordi’s expression softened instantly at the sight of him. He set his bourbon glass down and offered a warm smile.

Jordi: “Did we wake you, Jiro? Tristan stopped by for a visit.”

Tristan turned his head slightly and offered a polite, respectful nod toward the doorway.

Tristan: “Good evening, Jaxon. My apologies if our conversation disturbed your rest.”

Jaxon: “Why are you regretting things ending over that FAT BITCH?!”

He snapped.

Jaxon: “That fat pig NEVER gave you advice as HE did!”

He sobbed, pointing at Tristan. Jordi set his bourbon glass down on the counter and stubbed out his Marlboro Black in the crystal ashtray, pressing the embers firmly until the thin trail of smoke faded. He knitted his eyebrows.

Jaxon: “I am SO SICK OF YOU telling people you regret losing that whale! I hate her! I HATE HER!”

He bawled.

Tristan: “Jaxon, please. Jordi regrets losing Ashley, but he knows that relationship is over and has accepted that.”

He kept his voice soft and steady, maintaining a gentle, unhurried posture to radiate calm into the tense air. He held Jaxon’s eye without a trace of judgment, seeking only to soothe the outburst.

Tristan: “Your hurt is completely understandable, Jaxon. No one is asking you to dismiss what you feel, and no one is trying to replace the place you hold with Jordi. He is fully devoted to you, and acknowledging a past regret does not lessen his commitment to your present.”

Jaxon: “I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT THAT FAT WHALE! SHE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT SUFFERING IS! HER ‘SUFFERING’ IS BLAIR CHASING HER?!”

He flailed his arms and sobbed loudly.

Jordi stepped forward, walked over to Jaxon, and wrapped his arms around him in a tight, comforting embrace. He gently pulled him close against his chest, softly stroking his back to calm his trembling body and quiet his tears. He rested his chin gently against the top of Jaxon’s head, feeling the shaky, ragged breaths Jaxon exhaled against his shoulder. He tightened his hold just enough to make Jaxon feel safe, anchoring him in place.

Jordi: “Shh, Jiro… listen to me, okay?”

His voice was barely above a whisper, smooth and warm against Jaxon’s ear as he slowly stroked his hair.

Jordi: “Ashley is firmly in the past. What happened between us is over, and it stays over. Nobody else matters to me, Jiro. I love only you—completely and unconditionally. You are my present, my future, and everything in between. Please don’t ever doubt that.”

Jaxon wrapped his arms tightly around Jordi’s waist, burying his face into Jordi's chest and sobbing heavy, muffled tears against the soft silk of his shirt. Jordi held him firmly as he stroked the back of Jaxon’s black hair.

At the bar, Tristan took one final, lingering drag from his Sobranie before stubbing out the glowing ember in the crystal ashtray. He reached down, tipped back the last cold drop of his Vesper martini, and set the glass down. He looked over at the couple with calm, empathetic eyes.

Tristan: “Would you prefer if I left you two alone for the evening?”

Jordi looked over at Tristan, his arm still wrapped tenderly around Jaxon, and gently shook his head.

Jordi: “No, Tristan, you don’t need to leave. Thank you so much for stopping by and for understanding everything. Having you here means a lot to both of us.”

Jaxon: “I just want it to be just the two of us tonight, Jordi...”

Tristan gave a gracious nod of understanding, smoothing his suit jacket with quiet dignity.

Tristan: “Of course. I will leave you both to your rest. Please take care, both of you. If you need anything, use the sextet communicators, call me, or reach me on Bungle.”

With that, Tristan offered one final polite smile, slid smoothly off the barstool, and walked toward the door. He slipped his feet into his polished black wingtip Oxfords, turned back to give them a quiet, respectful nod, and headed out into the night.

After the front door clicked shut, the house’s silence settled gently around them. Jordi stood in the dimly lit hallway, still holding Jaxon close against his chest. He reached down with one hand, his fingers spreading flat against the smooth red silk of Jaxon's robe, and began slowly caressing his back in steady, soothing circles.

Jordi: “I’m so sorry, Jiro…”

He whispered softly, his voice heavy with genuine remorse.

Jordi: “I’m so sorry for causing you pain, for letting the past spill into our present, and for ever making you feel like you were anything less than my entire world. It breaks my heart to see you hurting like this, especially when I’m not helping matters. After what you endured at the hands of that madman, you don’t deserve this.”

He pressed a tender kiss to the side of Jaxon’s head, continuing to rub his back as Jaxon’s shaky breaths began to even out.

Jordi: “I love you so much, and I promise you, it’s only ever going to be you.”

Jaxon closed his eyes, feeling his tenderness and warmth.

Jaxon: “I love you, too…”

Jordi leaned down and placed a gentle hand on Jaxon’s cheek. He tipped Jaxon’s face up slightly and leaned in, pressing his lips softly to Jaxon’s in a tender, reassuring kiss. Jaxon melted into the embrace, his hands tightening on Jordi’s shirt as the warm, slow kiss washed away the evening’s lingering distress, leaving only quiet devotion between them.

~

Fabien watched as Tristan left Jordi and Jaxon’s residence. Dressed in an Alan Parsons Project graphic T-shirt underneath an unbuttoned red flannel, denim jeans, and barefoot, he took in the scene. Nearby, Celeste sat barefoot on the couch, wearing a white satin button-up shirt paired with a denim skirt.

Fabien: “Jiro is throwing another fucking tantrum about Fatley.”

He walked over to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed a cold bottle of beer. He popped off the cap, brought the bottle to his lips, and took a long, refreshing drink before leaning back against the counter.

Fabien: “I thought the only one who did that bullshit was Blair.”

He laughed.

Celeste: “I think the only three who believed Jordi loved Ashley were Ashley, Jax… and Blair. Everyone else knew Jordi was filling the void, as he did with that weirdo, Madelyn. And don’t get me started on Gina.”

She rolled her eyes.

Fabien: “I think Butter Fairy was dressed as a lily pad when she was hitting Blair.”

Fabien took another long drink of his beer, letting the cold brew settle. He walked over to the living room and joined Celeste on the sofa, sinking into the soft cushions beside her. Leaning back, he stretched out his legs and comfortably rested his bare feet on the coffee table. He set the bottle down on the end table.

Celeste: “Fab?”

Fabien looked down at her.

Fabien: “Yes? What’s on your mind, chérie?”

Celeste: “Why didn’t we date sooner? Why did we… go make mistakes like Craig and Jaxon?”

She said with disgust. Fabien ran his hand down her back and rubbed her hip in circles.

Fabien: “Because, at that time, we were both uncertain. It took a while for you to open up to Jiro…, but yeah, Jiro was a mistake for us both. Jiro was my second biggest mistake, my first being Craig.”

He paused.

Fabien: “We were different people then, and neither of us wanted to date anyone at that time.”

He pursed his lips.

Fabien: “Also, maybe being around really shitty people made us appreciate each other more.”

Fabien slightly adjusted his position on the couch, crossing his ankles and fanning his toes out with a comfortable stretch before letting his feet rest easily on the coffee table once more.

Fabien: “Some people—such as Blair and Fatley—think you’re going to find your soulmate on the first try. Yeah, it does happen in some cases. Look at my parents. Two narcissistic assholes found each other.”

He said bitterly, crossing his arms.

Fabien: “...But most people are in a few relationships before they find their soulmate. When you find your true love, you really appreciate them more, especially after being dealt a bowl of rotten cherries.”

Celeste leaned on his shoulder and snaked her arm around his waist.

Celeste: “Is this like… having a good burger?”

She asked, looking up at him. Fabien laughed and shook his head.

Fabien: “Hahaha, what?”

Celeste: “Well, when I came out of the facility, I thought Krispy the Clown burgers were amazing.”

She drawled. Fabien laughed.

Fabien: “Didn’t that place close down or go bankrupt?”

Celeste shrugged.

Fabien: “Regardless, their food was shit.”

Celeste’s eyes widened.

Celeste: “This is what I am getting at. You have shitty burgers at first and think they’re good ‘cause it’s all you have, but then you try good burgers like what you make, and you don’t want those shitty burgers anymore!”

Fabien looked down at her and chuckled.

Fabien: “My burgers are good, huh?”

He ran his hand through her green hair.

Celeste: “Yeah, your food is so much better than Lazaros’, and he’s supposed to be a master chef.”

Fabien threw his head back and laughed.

Fabien: “Merci, mon chaton.”

He smiled.

Fabien: “Besides, calling Lazaros a ‘master chef’ is a total joke—the fucker can’t spell ‘master.’ It’s hilarious how Fatley dumped Blair for him over those cookbooks, especially since Lazaros didn’t even write them. Tristan did all the writing, while Lazaros just supplied the recipes, most of which were ripped off anyway.”

He shook his head, picked up the beer bottle, and took a swig.

Fabien: “How can you even know someone from a book anyway? She fell in love with him through them, and it’s fucking hilarious that someone else wrote them. Yeah, no shit, Lazaros was nothing like he was presented in those books.”

He placed the bottle on the end table.

Fabien: “Fatley and her line-up of pathetic love interests, with Jordi being the only one who’s not pathetic, but he never loved her back, so.”

He shrugged.

Celeste: “Yeah, I never did get why Ashley jumped from person to person, and if you ask them about it, they blame the other person…”

Fabien: “She evades the topic, but never any food.”

He snorted.

Celeste: “You know what I find funny? When Jax and I dated, all he did was whine about Chelsea, and it seems that Jordi is doing that with Ashley. Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

She drawled.

Celeste: “Jax, of course, is not taking it well.”

She added. Fabien smirked and took a drink of his beer.

Fabien: “Well, Jiro can relax—Fatley’s real soulmate is dropping an album dedicated to her, and it’s going to be fucking legendary.”

He grinned and took another swig of beer.

~

The evening air was crisp and quiet as Tristan walked down Hawthorn Lane toward his château. A subtle, unusual detail caught his eye near the manicured lawn—a single helium balloon bobbing gently against the darkening sky in the distance.

As Tristan approached the driveway, his long, measured steps slowed. The evening shadow stretched across the concrete, drawing his gaze down toward a dark shape lying directly in the center of the pavement.

He drew closer, his expression remaining inscrutable as his sharp, green eyes took in the strange display. Resting on the cold driveway was a blue plush pig, its synthetic fur stained with dark, crimson fake blood. A sharp knife was thrust firmly into the center of the plush. Tied securely around the knife’s handle was the thin, curling string of the helium balloon floating above it.

Tristan tilted his head slightly, reading the bold, cheerful lettering printed across the surface of the bobbing balloon:

“Have a ham-tastic birthday celebration!”

He stood in quiet contemplation for a moment, the balloon’s faint rustle in the evening breeze the only sound.

A prickle of unease settled at the nape of Tristan’s neck. Beside the grim display on the asphalt, he saw a plain white envelope lying flat. Printed clearly across its front in dark ink was a single name: “Jasper.”

Tristan crouched smoothly, his fingers brushing the pavement’s chill as he picked up the envelope. He unsealed the flap with quiet, methodical precision and pulled out the folded card inside. On the front, an illustration of a cartoon pig smiled cheerily alongside a bold caption:

“Another year older? No big deal, you’re so-pork-sticated.”

Tristan’s face remained impassive as he opened the card. Written in neat handwriting on the inside panel were six chilling words:

“I wonder how much pigs bleed.”

A heavy hand suddenly touched Tristan’s shoulder from behind. He jumped, startled, and spun around, his hand tensing instinctively as his emerald-green eyes landed on Deimos. He glanced down at the card in Tristan’s hands, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he took in the grotesque birthday display on the pavement.

Deimos: “Looks like someone has a bizarre sense of humor.”

Tristan exhaled quietly, letting out a subtle sigh as he stood in a regal posture.

Before he could fully regain his composure, Deimos shot both hands forward, digging his fingers firmly into Tristan’s sides and wiggling them with sudden, relentless energy.

Tristan: “AUGH! AHAHAHAHAHAA!”

His eyes widened in sheer shock. A sharp gasp hitched in his throat. A breathless, musical laugh burst from him as he squirmed frantically in Deimos’ grasp.

Tristan: “D-DEIMOS! HAHAHAHAHAHA! STAHAHAHAHAHAP!!”

Deimos’ grin widened, his fingers continuing their rapid, teasing dance along Tristan’s ribs and waist. Tristan twisted, his long fingers instinctively grasping at Deimos’ wrists to push him away, his face flushing with laughter as he tried to defend his ticklish sides.

Tristan: “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! STOP! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Deimos slowly relented, easing his fingers away from Tristan’s sensitive sides. A warm, playful chuckle rumbled in his chest as he took in Tristan’s helpless, breathless laughter. Tristan slumped slightly against him, trying to catch his breath, his cheeks flushed and his chest rising and falling in rapid heaves.

Before Tristan could fully regain his composure or adjust his fine Italian suit, Deimos moved with fluid grace. In one swift, effortless motion, he swept an arm behind Tristan’s back and slipped the other under his knees, scooping him seamlessly up into a bridal carry.

Tristan gasped softly in surprise, his hands instinctively wrapping around Deimos’ shoulders for support. He looked up at Deimos, his emerald eyes bright with lingering amusement, as Deimos held him securely against his chest without a trace of strain and carried him into his house.

~

The chandelier above the long mahogany table in Tristan’s elegant dining room cast a warm, golden glow across the polished wood, setting a refined atmosphere for the evening. Tristan, Bastien, Victor, Jasper, and Deimos sat around the table, enjoying a relaxed dinner together.

At the center of the table sat a large serving bowl of Mediterranean chicken pasta with rotini, tossed with sun-dried tomatoes, olives, and spinach, alongside a bowl of crisp tossed salad. Beside the main dishes was a basket of fresh, warm bread baked by Bastien, its soft interior and golden crust filling the air with an inviting scent.

Tristan, Bastien, Victor, and Jasper each held a glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc, the crisp white wine complementing the meal’s rich flavors. Deimos, opting for something simpler, relaxed in his chair with a cold beer, taking a smooth drink as lively conversation floated across the table between Jasper and Victor.

Jasper lifted a generous forkful of the Mediterranean chicken pasta, thrust it into his mouth without hesitation, and chewed with clear satisfaction. He reached for his glass of Sauvignon Blanc and took a deep gulp to wash down the hearty bite.

Across the table, Tristan raised his wine glass and took a slow, measured sip. Over the crystal rim, his green eyes glided between Jasper and Victor.

Tristan: “So, Papa, for Jasper’s birthday, I would love to send you two anywhere in the world you wish to go.”

He forced a smile. Victor’s smile faded.

Victor: “Tristan, why are you doing this? You need to let this go!”

He snapped. Tristan’s right eye twitched.

Tristan: “I absolutely do not.”

He said firmly. Jasper cleared his throat.

Jasper: “Victor…, I think Tristan means well, and if Narcisse is—”

Victor spun his furious blue eyes to Jasper.

Victor: “STOP MENTIONING HIM!!”

He screamed.

Bastien sat quietly near the end of the table, his arms folded loosely over his chest as his calm eyes swept across the room, taking in every detail of the tense exchange. Beside him, Deimos remained entirely unbothered by the sudden outburst, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the polished wood as he continued eating.

Deimos: “Well, Narcisse wants to kill Jasper, so you should go.”

He drawled with food in his mouth. Tristan’s mouth was ajar. Jasper gaped at him, and Bastien stared down at his lap.

Tristan: “DEIMOS!”

He snapped. Deimos turned to Tristan.

Deimos: “What? He left a knife in a stuffed pig toy and said he wanted to see how much pigs bled. It was meant for Jasper.”

Victor’s bottom lip trembled violently. The delicate composure he had maintained shattered completely, leaving his face pale and twisted with overwhelming emotion. He pressed his hands tightly against his temples, his fingers digging into his hair as if trying to physically hold back the wave of anguish washing over him. Shaking uncontrollably, he began to rock back and forth in his dining chair, his chest heaving with ragged, choking sobs until he finally threw his head back and let out a loud, agonized scream that echoed off the high walls of the room.

Jasper rose immediately and moved to Victor’s side, wrapping his arms around his trembling shoulders.

Jasper: “Victor, please... look at me…”

He urged softly, his voice warm as he tried to ground him amid the panic.

Bastien clamped his hands over his mouth as he watched his father break down. Victor's eyes stayed wide, locked onto Jasper's comforting gaze.

Tristan shot Deimos a sharp, furious glare, his eyes narrowing into cold emerald blades, then pushed his chair back and stood. He walked quickly to his father’s side, knelt beside Victor, and wrapped his arms around him to help bring him back from the brink of panic.

Suddenly, Oliver trotted into the dining room, looked around at the emotional chaos, and let out a loud, demanding meow.

Tristan glanced over his shoulder briefly, keeping one arm securely around his trembling father.

Tristan: “Shh, Oliver… I will be with you shortly.”

He said softly, his voice gentle despite the room’s tension. Oliver, completely unbothered by the heavy atmosphere, merely sat near the doorway and continued to meow insistently.

Tristan: “Papa, you and Jasper need to leave…”

He said softly. Victor trembled in his arms.

Oliver padded further into the room, his black tail swishing back and forth like a pendulum as he let out another series of loud, persistent meows.

Exasperated, Tristan looked down at Oliver, about to gently scold the persistent feline—only to freeze in utter horror. Lying on the hardwood floor at Oliver’s paws was the limp, lifeless body of a field mouse.

Tristan’s face paled slightly as he recoiled, his instinctual aversion to the small rodent sending a shudder through him. Oliver looked up at him with bright, expectant eyes, softly purring as if awaiting praise for his hunting prowess.

Suppressing his disgust and steeling himself, Tristan reached down with two fingers and carefully pinched the very tip of the mouse’s tail, lifting it away from the floor. As the tiny creature dangled in the air, a tiny, metallic gleam along its abdomen caught the warm chandelier light. Tristan narrowed his emerald eyes and leaned in closer for a better look.

Affixed beneath the mouse’s fur was an intricately crafted miniature electronic node equipped with delicate micro-transmitters and a microscopic audio receiver—a hidden listening and mind-control device. Tristan’s breath hitched as the chilling realization hit him: Narcisse used another mouse to spy on them again, and he knew Tristan tried to urge Jasper and Victor to leave.