Chapter Two-Hundred Eighty-Eight: Ivy Wants Them Both

Chapter 288

Ivy Wants Them Both

Pale morning light filtered through the half-drawn Venetian blinds of the master bedroom, cutting stripes of gold across the rumpled duvet. Jordi and Jaxon were tangled together in a sprawl of cotton and warmth. Jordi lay on his side, the sleek black silk of his pajama shirt cool against his skin and catching the early sun with a subtle sheen. One heavy arm was draped securely over Jaxon, who was completely bare beneath the sheets, curled instinctively toward Jordi’s chest to steal every ounce of heat he could get.

Jaxon’s red-black hair was crushed into an unruly halo across the pillows, a stark, dramatic contrast against the white linen. His face was entirely softened by sleep, breath coming in slow, rhythmic puffs against Jordi’s collarbone. Every now and then, Jaxon would shift, his bare shoulder nudging beneath the silk of Jordi’s sleeve, letting out a faint, contented mumble before settling deeper into the mattress.

Jordi stirred first, blinking against the morning light. His violet hair was slightly ruffled, falling loose across his forehead instead of being swept back into its usual sharp style. He didn’t make a move to get up. Instead, his dark eyes softened as he looked down at the man tucked against him. A faint, affectionate smirk played at the corner of Jordi’s mouth. Slowly, careful not to break the peace of the quiet room, his hand smoothed down the bare curve of Jaxon’s back, fingers tracing the warm line of his spine.

Jaxon let out a sleepy, drawn-out sigh, his arm sliding around Jordi’s waist to pull him closer, burying his face directly into the silk over Jordi’s chest. Jordi chuckled silently, the vibration rumbling under Jaxon’s cheek, and rested his chin atop the messy mane.

~

Later that morning, the rich, sweet aroma of banana crème pancakes and crisp bacon drifted down the hallway long before footsteps did. Lena, already bright-eyed and energetic, pushed the master bedroom door open with her hip, a playful, mischievous grin lighting up her face. She wore an off-the-shoulder baby blue floral dress with ruffle trim that fell to her knees.

The two men were utterly dead to the world under a mountain of blankets. Jordi lay on his side in black silk pajamas, his arm anchored securely over a bare, peacefully sleeping Jaxon. Down at the foot of the bed, however, Jordi’s bare feet had escaped the tangle of the duvet.

Lena padded across the carpet without making a sound. Knowing all too well the golden rule of dealing with her brother, she zeroed in on his Achilles' heel. With zero hesitation, she leaned down and dug her fingers right into the sensitive arches of his soles, scribbling her fingertips mercilessly over the smooth skin.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Jordi let out an undignified, choked yelp that broke into a frantic, breathless burst of laughter. His legs instantly whipped back, violently kicking against the sheets to break free.

Jordi: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

The sudden jolt sent shockwaves across the mattress, yanking Jaxon straight out of his deep slumber.

Jaxon: “Wh-Wha?!”

He bolted upright in total confusion, blinking wildly through a tangled curtain of black hair, hastily clutching the duvet to his chest.

Jordi: “Lena! Stop—dammit, Lena!”

He wheezed, completely curled in on himself now, one arm clamped around his knees to guard his feet while his face flushed a bright, embarrassed red. He glared up at his little sister, though the helpless smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth ruined any chance of looking truly menacing.

Jordi: “What is wrong with you?!”

Lena just beamed, tucking a purple lock behind her ear and utterly unbothered by the chaos she had caused.

Lena: “Good morning, sleepyheads!”

She declared cheerfully, pointing an accusing thumb toward the kitchen.

Lena: “I made banana crème pancakes and bacon.”

Jordi: “Give us a minute, will you?”

He groaned, tossing an arm over his flushed face as he tried to regain his composure. He waved a dismissive hand toward the hallway, his voice muffled behind his silk sleeve.

Jordi: “Out, Lena. Five minutes to be human.”

Lena: “Ten seconds if you don’t want your breakfast to get cold!”

She teased over her shoulder, spinning on her heel with a triumphant little bounce in her step as she slipped back out into the hall and pulled the door shut behind her.

The latch clicked, leaving the room quiet again save for the distinct, buttery aroma of breakfast still lingering in the air.

Jordi dropped his arm and let out a long, dramatic sigh as he slumped back into the pillows, his violet hair a complete disaster. Beside him, Jaxon was still sitting upright, the duvet bunched tight around his waist as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Jaxon: “She’s a menace…”

He muttered, his voice still low and raspy with sleep. He turned to glance at Jordi, a lazy, lopsided grin slowly spreading across his face as he took in Jordi's still-tucked legs and defensive posture.

Jaxon: “Though I gotta admit... that was pretty effective.”

Jordi: “Don’t start.”

He grumbled, though the warmth in his eyes gave him away as he reached out, caught Jaxon by the waist, and gave him an affectionate tug back down onto the mattress.

~

The morning sun filtered through intricately carved rosewood lattice screens, painting pale honey-gold geometric patterns across the silk-lined floor of the master chamber. Buried deep beneath embroidered emerald duvets and down pillows lay Ivy, her long sea-green hair cascading in loose, dramatic waves across the cream-colored silk sheets. Curled heavily over the crook of her legs was Samson, whose rhythmic, rumbling purrs vibrated through the mattress like an idling engine. Samson had claimed his usual spot, anchoring the bedding down with all twenty-odd pounds of unapologetic bulk, his white paws tucked securely beneath his plush belly.

Behind closed eyes, Ivy drifted through the hazy, seductive warmth of a dream. In her mind’s eye, the scenery had melted into an extravagant ballroom bathed in violet neon and glittering candlelight. Tristan was there, impossibly poised in a tailored dark suit, that frosty, aristocratic reserve written across his sharp features. Even when she approached him with a teasing whisper, calling him her airen, his cold, dismissive frown only made the pursuit thrilling—a brittle ice waiting to be cracked. Yet just over Tristan’s shoulder, leaning carelessly against a marble pillar with that ridiculous, crooked smirk, was Fabien. Shirt unbuttoned, posture dripping with breezy arrogance, Fabien watched her with sharp, amused eyes that saw right through her games, daring her to look his way instead—the tension between the two opposites pulled at her like a velvet trap, intoxicating and sweet.

A sudden, ponderous shift shattered the reverie.

Samson yawned, stretching his front paws forward until a wet, black nose mashed directly against Ivy’s bare ankle. Ivy stirred with a low groan, eyelids fluttering as the opulent neon ballroom dissolved back into the amber sunlight of her canopy. She reached down, sinking her manicured seafoam nails into Samson’s fur, scratching him right behind the ears.

Ivy: “Always interrupting the best parts, aren’t you?”

She murmured, her voice laced with sleepy amusement. She propped herself up against the satin cushions, looking past the circular moonframe of her bed toward the soaring timbered ceilings. A slow, knowing smirk touched her lips as the remnants of the dream lingered in the cool morning air. Both Tristan and Fabien had made appearances. She embraced herself. Why on Reona am I dreaming of him?! She wondered.

Am I cheating on my airen?! She mused as she moaned. She couldn’t stop thinking about the experience of Fabien locked to her X-Frame and tickling his cock. She didn’t intend for it to arouse her, but it did, and she hated seeing him in that snake dance and how it made her feminine core quiver, but she was in love with Tristan. She smacked herself. No, you’re not a philanderer, she thought.

Ivy swung her legs off the edge of the mattress, leaving Samson happily purring in the warm depression left in the sheets. Sliding into a pair of soft silk slippers, she glided across the polished rosewood floors and through the heavy carved doors into her ensuite bathroom.

The bathroom was an opulent sanctuary of deep green marble, brass fixtures, and frosted glass. She turned the polished gold handles, letting a cascading stream of steaming water fill the walk-in shower stall until dense, fragrant mist swirled against the tiles. Shedding her silk nightgown, Ivy stepped into the warmth, tipping her head back into the rush. The cascade smoothed through her long, sea-green hair.

When she finally turned off the water, she wrapped herself in a plush black towel and stepped out into the steam-softened room, wiping a circle clear on the gilded vanity mirror.

Back in the lavish bedroom, she went to her wardrobe and chose a slinky black off-the-shoulder dress with sheer lace detailing across the chest and flowing bell sleeves that pooled dramatically at her wrists. Sitting down before the ornate dark lacquer vanity, Ivy set to work on her transformation.

With practiced, razor-sharp precision, she painted her signature, exaggerated winged eyeliner, arching it high into twin sweeping points that gave her warm brown eyes an intoxicating, dangerous tilt. She swept a subtle glimmer of jade shadow across her lids, followed by a coat of rich mascara to fan out her lashes. Reaching for her favorite tube of deep burgundy-red lipstick, she traced the bow of her lips until her smirk looked every bit as sharp as the lace on her sleeves.

Finally, she picked up a heavy crystal flacon from the tray. She squeezed the vintage atomizer bulb, releasing a fine, intoxicating mist of dark velvet rose perfume over her collarbones, wrists, and into the seafoam waves of her hair. The scent settled heavy and intoxicating in the morning air—sweet, floral, yet unmistakably sharp.

Ivy stood, smoothed the hem of her black dress, and admired her reflection with an arched brow and a devious smile.

Her heels clicked rhythmically against the polished rosewood corridors, trailing the lush scent of dark rose behind her as she made her way down to the kitchen. Behind her, Samson padded silently, a hefty black-and-white shadow hoping that the early hour meant an extra dish of fresh fish and fried chicken.

The Huang-Ferraro estate kitchen was a stunning fusion of 1980s modernity and classical tradition, boasting gleaming stainless steel countertops framed by dark carved timber, stone tiles, and a massive set of gas burners. Ivy pinned back the flowing bell sleeves of her dress with a pair of jade clips, tied a white frilly apron over herself, flicked the flame to life beneath a massive ceramic stockpot, and set to work.

She had started the foundation the night before, so the slow-simmered rice congee was already thick, silky, and fragrant with ginger and scallions. Lifting the heavy lid, she stirred the pearlescent porridge with a long wooden ladle, letting the savory steam curl up into the cool kitchen air. Alongside the bubbling congee, she heated a seasoned wok to crisp up golden batons of youtiao, the fried dough crackling lightly as it took on a crisp, airy crunch.

On the center island, she arranged delicate, celadon-glazed ceramic ramekins filled with traditional toppings: slivered preserved century eggs, thinly shredded salted ginger, pickled mustard greens, and crisp pork floss. For a lighter touch, she placed a bamboo steamer basket over a pan of boiling water, arranging delicate, pleated dim sum buns to steam until soft and pillowy.

Just as she set three sets of dark lacquered chopsticks and matching soup spoons onto the lacquered breakfast table, the soft rustle of the morning signaled she wasn't alone anymore. The savory warmth filled the room, a comforting contrast to the dramatic glamour she projected to the rest of Pink Top City. Looking over her shoulder with a sly, satisfied smile, Ivy prepared to pour the jasmine tea just in time for Fen and Lily to walk through the doors.

The heavy double doors swung open, and Fen shuffled into the kitchen, looking like a man who had personally drained his nightclub’s bar. A rich, embroidered teal silk robe was draped loosely over his frame, its gold peacocks catching the light while Fen himself squinted painfully against the morning glare. His robe was open, exposing his peacock chest tattoo. One hand rubbed his temple in slow circles.

Fen: “The fuck did you wake me up for?”

He groaned, his voice gravelly as he slid into the high-backed carved chair at the head of the table.

Ivy offered him a cool, knowing smirk, unpinning her voluminous bell sleeves and setting down a steaming bowl of ginger congee directly in front of him.

Ivy: “That’s what you get for indulging at the lounge, Father.”

She eased smoothly, pouring him a cup of hot jasmine tea.

Ivy: “Eat the porridge. It will settle whatever poison you decided to drink last night.”

Before Fen could muster a defense, the light, energetic patter of slippers echoed from the corridor. Lily bounded into the kitchen, looking as bright-eyed and fresh as their father was battered. Clad in a pastel shirt and a diaper, she slid into her seat across from Fen with a bright grin.

Lily: “Morning, Ivy, Daddy! Oh, I want chicken nuggets!”

She announced cheerfully.

Fen: “Gunkai!”

Fen let out a wounded grunt. He lifted his soup spoon, the savory ginger steam clearly doing its work. Samson waddled out from beneath the center island, bumping his immense tuxedo bulk against Fen’s feet in hopes of a handout.

Ivy took her own seat at the table, folding her lace-trimmed cuffs gracefully over the lacquered wood.

The quiet clatter of porcelain spoons and the scrape of lacquered chopsticks filled the dining room, quickly broken by Lily’s enthusiastic crunch into the crisp youtiao. She dipped another golden piece into her bowl, spooning up generous heaps of ginger-scented congee, pork floss, and pickled mustard greens, humming in sheer appreciation.

Fen took a slow, deliberate sip of the piping-hot jasmine tea, closing his eyes as the steam helped clear the dull throb behind his temples. When he finally lifted a spoonful of the silky porridge to his lips, his expression softened from miserable wincing into reluctant gratitude.

He reached out with his chopsticks to snag a delicate, pleated steamed bun.

Ivy rested her chin lightly against the back of her manicured hand, her lips curling into that signature, amused smirk as she watched them devour the meal. She took delicate, measured spoonfuls of her congee, savoring the subtle warmth of the ginger and scallions.

Beneath the table, Samson made his slow, circular patrol. The massive tuxedo cat rubbed his cheek against Fen’s silk robe, letting out a soft, guttural chirp before parking his hefty weight firmly between Fen and Lily, gazing upward with wide, pleading eyes.

Ivy set her cup down and rose gracefully, gliding over to the counter. From a ceramic dish, she assembled a lavish feline feast in Samson’s heavy jade bowl: generous flakes of steamed white fish, tender poached chicken, and a delicate drizzle of broth. She carried the heaping bowl over to his feeding mat and set it down.

Samson dove in with zero decorum, purring like a revving engine, his tail swishing in absolute bliss as he devoured his breakfast.

The peaceful clatter of porcelain and the savory steam of ginger congee were abruptly silenced by a violent crash against the kitchen’s heavy double doors. They swung wide, slamming hard against the interior walls with a resounding crack that made the remaining steamed buns on the table jump.

Rosemary stood in the entryway, her face a ruin of smudged mascara and frantic, blotchy red patches. Her hair, usually immaculate, was wild and frizzy, framing eyes that darted around the room with manic intensity. She was sobbing, a high, ragged sound that pierced the morning calm, clutching her handbag to her chest as if to hold herself together.

Fen winced visibly, the sharp noise striking a fresh nerve in his temple. He slowly lowered his spoon, his brow furrowing as he squinted at his ex-wife. Lily, caught mid-bite with a piece of youtiao, lowered her hand, her eyes wide and curious as she watched the display. Ivy simply tilted her head, her expression unreadable, though her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around her chopsticks.

Rosemary: “He did it!”

She gasped, the words stumbling out between heavy, hiccuping sobs. She stumbled into the room, her heels catching on the stone tile, forcing her to grab the edge of the center island for support.

Rosemary: “Tristan fired me! He just... he threw me out like I was nothing!”

She looked toward Ivy, her gaze pleading and desperate.

Rosemary: “How can he do this? After everything? You have to do something, Ivy! You can’t let him treat me like this!”

Fen let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing his temple again. He looked toward Ivy, a silent question in his heavy, tired eyes. Ivy remained seated, her posture elegant and composed, the devious smirk she had worn earlier replaced by a cool, detached curiosity as she surveyed the chaos Rosemary had brought into their morning.

Fen: “Well, it’s about fucking time he did! He can only handle you being a bitch so much!”

He huffed.

Rosemary: “I was trying to salvage our daughter’s relationship with Tristan!”

She sobbed. Ivy chuckled.

Ivy: “Mum, how on Reona did you do that?”

Rosemary: “That hussy, Erin, was making a move on him!”

Ivy gazed at her and clicked her tongue.

Ivy: “Mum, please. Tristan never had an interest in that ditzy secretary!”

She scoffed. Rosemary gaped at her daughter, her mouth ajar.

Rosemary: “Ivy! Tristan was driving in his car to follow her car to her apartment when that killer was loose!”

She caterwauled. Fen rolled his eyes. Ivy smiled.

Ivy: “Of course, he did, Mum.”

She said coolly. Rosemary gaped at Ivy.

Ivy: “Tristan is a refined gentleman, not a barbarian like Deimos. Of course, he would do the gentlemanly thing and see her to her door.”

She scoffed, taking a sip of her tea.

Rosemary dropped her purse.

Rosemary: “So I went through all that trouble for nothing, and I lost my job?!”

She screamed. Ivy tilted her head.

Ivy: “Yes, Mum, you did, but thank you for looking out for me.”

She said condescendingly.

Rosemary: “I don’t have a job!”

She cried.

Rosemary: “None of the law offices are hiring!”

She flapped her arms.

Rosemary: “Where on Reona will I work?!”

She shrieked.

Ivy turned to Fen; a knowing smirk touched her lips.

Fen: “The fuck are you looking at me for?”

Ivy: “Father, don’t you have a job for Mum?”

Fen gaped incredulously at Ivy.

Fen: “Are you fucking shitting me?!”

He barked bitter laughter.

Rosemary: “I am NOT working in some cabaret!”

She snapped. Ivy turned to her mother.

Ivy: “Well, Mum, I heard Fred’s Burger Castle is hiring.”

Rosemary gasped and put her hand to her mouth.

Ivy drew a long breath.

Ivy: “Father, doesn’t Miss Peahaven need a receptionist?”

Fen gaped at her, and a smirk curled on his lips.

Fen: “Well, we do have an opening.”

Fen leaned back, crossing his arms over his peacock chest, a smirk curling on his lips.

Fen: “But it’s not exactly glamorous, Rosemary.”

~

The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the distinct waddle-thump, waddle-thump sound of fabric hitting the floor. Rosemary stepped into the kitchen, but the dignified, if distraught, woman from minutes ago was gone. In her place stood a six-foot-tall, bright crimson, foam-padded hot pepper. Her face stuck through a large, jagged hole cut into the pepper; her hair was still disheveled, and her eyes wide with a manic, desperate gleam.

Her arms were pinned to her sides by the bulbous costume, and she stared daggers at her ex-husband.

Rosemary: “I’M A GIANT PEPPER!?”

She screamed.

Fen: “Yeah, Rosie! It’s Spicy Saturday at Miss Peahaven, and you get to greet our patrons like that! Aren’t you lucky?!”

He laughed.

Fen: “If you’re lucky, maybe you will meet your ex-boss!”

He cackled with laughter.

Lily: “Are you and Mum going to get back together, Daddy?!”

She asked. Fen scoffed.

Fen: “Fuck no! I’m giving Rose the job she deserves, Bǎobèi!”

He laughed. Rosemary glared hotly at Fen.

Fen: “Look, little princess, her face is as red as the pepper; she’s getting in character!”

He laughed loudly, slapping his knee.

~

The low, throaty hum of a finely-tuned engine reverberated down Orchard Street as Tristan’s red Toyota MR2 convertible coasted along the pavement. The warm afternoon air brushed past him as he steered the sleek sports car with practiced, effortless ease. He wore a black button-down shirt with wide, flared lapels, neatly layered over the collar of a custom vest. Hand-painted on the vest were the delicate, expressive faces of his three beloved cats—Oliver, Francis, and Kyle. He paired it with dark denim jeans and polished black leather loafers.

As he navigated the quiet street, he drove past the charred, skeletal remains of Jordi’s old house. The devastating fire had left nothing but a hollow, blackened shell: the roof caved in and the interior completely gutted, leaving a grim heap of ash, scorched timber, and soot-stained brick. Tristan slowed his car slightly, his gaze lingering on the tragic ruin—a silent testament to the violence that had shattered the quiet neighborhood—before he pressed his foot back onto the accelerator.

A short distance further, the imposing silhouette of the Gothic Victorian mansion came into view, standing in stark contrast to the neighboring suburban homes. It was a dramatic monument of dark stone, steep gables, and heavy spires. Surrounding the estate was a lush, manicured lawn bordered by dense rose bushes, with a gnarled, ancient oak standing like a silent sentinel near the front walk.

Tristan guided the convertible smoothly to the curb directly in front of the grand estate where Ashley lived. Easing the car to a halt, he switched off the ignition, and the steady purr of the engine faded into the quiet stillness of Orchard Street. Sitting back against the leather seat, he looked up through the windshield, his gaze tracing the dramatic facade of the mansion before him.

In the center of the manicured lawn stood a large, majestic water fountain, its sparkling streams dancing into the air and catching the warm afternoon sun like showers of diamonds. As he watched, his eyes caught subtle flickers of light among the flora—delicate, glowing fairies flitting and fluttering through the lush garden, their miniature wings shimmering as they wove between the leaves and nestled gently among the vibrant, full-bloomed rose bushes that encircled the Gothic Victorian mansion.

Tristan pulled the convertible smoothly to the curb right in front of the grand Gothic Victorian estate. Cutting the ignition, he let the engine’s low purr drift away into the afternoon quiet. He leaned back into the leather seat for a moment.

At the center of the pristine lawn, a majestic water fountain cast sparkling jets into the air, glittering like showers of diamonds in the sunlight. Delicate, luminous fairies flickered throughout the flora, their iridescent wings shimmering as they darted among the leaves and tucked themselves into the dense, blooming rose bushes.

Stepping from the car, Tristan started up the stone pathway. Near the fountain, he spotted Ashley resting on a carved bench. They wore a cream-beige button-down beneath a rich crimson blazer patterned with orange-and-gold paisley, paired with blood-orange trousers adorned with intricate gold side detailing and brown sandals. Ashley brightened when they saw Tristan.

Ashley: “Hey, Tristan!”

They chirped.

Tristan: “Hello, Ashley. We don’t get to speak much these days. I figured I would catch up. Do you mind if I sit with you for a few minutes?”

Ashley scooted over.

Ashley: “No! It’s nice to see you.”

Tristan sat by them and turned his gaze to them. He wasn’t sure if he should bring up what happened at Jordi’s house or Jordi himself, as it was a sore topic for them.

Tristan: “You look well.”

Ashley nodded.

Ashley: “Yeah, I am! How have you been doing?”

Tristan gazed at them.

Tristan: “I am well. I will no longer be ghostwriting Lazaros’ cookbooks.”

He stated. Ashley shifted their eyes nervously.

Ashley: “Y-You mean a ghost wrote his books?”

Tristan blinked and waved his hands around.

Tristan: “No, no, no! A ghost didn’t write his books for him. That’s not what it means.”

He laughed and stroked his ponytail.

Tristan: “What it means is… someone else writes your books for you… but anonymously.”

He said slowly. Ashley tilted their head.

Ashley: “What do you mean? Lazaros never wrote his cookbooks?”

They scratched their head.

Tristan: “No. He didn’t. I also found that the majority of the recipes in his books were stolen, and he can’t make most of them anyway.”

Ashley shook their head.

Ashley: “So he’s a FRAUD?!”

They asked. Tristan nodded soberly.

Ashley sighed.

Ashley: “It wasn’t the recipes… It was how he described his love of food and how he seemed so gentle, loving, and protective.”

They murmured, embracing themselves.

Tristan: “Ashley, that was never him. He never wrote those. I wrote those. I wrote Lazaros’ books for him. I wrote the books that made you fall in love with him.”

He said gently. Ashley stopped and turned to him.

Ashley: “...Tristan?! It was you?!”

They gasped, putting a hand to their mouth.

Ashley: “Wait, wait, wait, so… I was never in love with Lazaros… I was in love with you?!”

They pressed their hands to their cheeks. Tristan nodded soberly.

Tristan: “Yes, those were my words.”

Ashley: “No wonder he completely changed and was nothing like the man in his cookbooks!”

They exclaimed.

Ashley paused for a long moment to digest this. They felt a mixture of relief and foolishness. All they could muster was a hollow laugh.

Ashley: “Oh wow…”

Tristan looked at them with tenderness and care.

Tristan: “Are you all right?”

Ashley: “Have you ever had, like, your entire perspective about your life flipped upside down? Everything you thought you knew was a big stinky foot lie?!”

They laughed bitterly. Tristan looked away.

Tristan: “More often than I’d care to admit.”

He said tersely, thinking of Ivy, Rosemary, and others who deceived him.

Ashley patted his back.

Ashley: “I’m sorry Lazaros stole your writing and your identity, Tristan!”

They assured him.

Ashley: “In a way, I’m kinda glad to know I never loved Lazaros ‘cause he’s terrible and you’re so much better than him!”

Tristan smiled a bit.

Tristan: “He paid me, Ashley. I am only telling you now that I wrote those books, not him.”

He pursed his lips.

Tristan shifted in his seat and crossed his legs.

Tristan: “So where does that leave us?”

Ashley: “I don’t know. Where does this leave us?”

Their head spiraled, trying to wrap around it all.

Tristan: “Are you in love with me now?”

He asked flatly.

Ashley: “I’m sorry, Tristan, but I’m not the same person I was when I fell in love with the idea of a man in a cookbook, haha. That man isn’t you either. I’m not in love with that idea anymore, and I think I have feelings for someone else now… And you have your soulmate!”

Tristan smiled a bit.

Tristan: “You don’t need to apologize, Ashley. I just wanted to clear the air and know where we stand.”

Ashley smiled at him.

Ashley: “Thanks for clearing the air, Tristan! I feel free! We stand like the trees!”

The rose and spread their arms out. Tristan smiled, seeing them genuinely happy.

Out of nowhere, a rose struck Tristan squarely in the face. He winced, brushing the blossom aside.

Blair stepped out of the bushes. He wore a sharply tailored black tailcoat, its double-breasted rows of brass buttons gleaming softly beneath the faint ambient wash. Crimson lapels and deep scarlet cuffs echoed the dramatic flair of a bygone century, framing a crisp white wing-collar shirt and a perfectly knotted black silk bow tie. Draped over his shoulders was a sweeping cape, pitch-black along its outer drape and lined with a shock of rich, blood-red satin that rippled behind him like molten velvet with every measured step.

Resting securely across the bridge of his nose was an ornate Venetian opera mask, molded from ivory porcelain and etched with gilded baroque filigree. It swept cleanly over his cheekbones, framing his vivid green eyes. A polished black silk top hat sat atop his head.

Even beneath the grandeur of the masquerade, a curious, playful insolence peeked through. Cinched tightly at his waist, contrasting sharply with the tailored crease of his trousers, was a golden championship-style buckle bearing the mischievous, wide-eyed grin of a purple-masked turtle. This irreverent signature kept the aristocratic costume anchored to Blair’s taste. His immaculate white-gloved hands folded gently across his middle, cradling a solitary, velvety crimson rose by its stem.

Tristan stared open-mouthed at Blair, struggling to process the sheer absurdity unfolding before him, while Ashley crossed their arms and pouted.

Fabien stood right behind Blair, video camera in hand. He wore flip-flops, jeans, a denim jacket, and a tank top that read "Nuklear Intoxikation Sucks".

Blair: “STEP AWAY FROM THE FAT MAIDEN, TRISTAN!”

He let out a roar and whipped his cape back, accidentally striking himself in the face with it.

Blair: “I am TUXEDO BLAIR! I am here to say I love Ashley no matter what! Jordi broke their heart because they are fat, but I love them despite how fat they are!”

He flapped his cape with both arms. Fabien threw his head back and barked with laughter.

Ashley felt all the feelings they tried to bury in Oakhaven, and when Jordi had dinner with Mattie, the feelings rushed back in. They shoved Blair to the ground in anger. Blair hit the ground with a thud and cried.

Blair: “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWHHHHH!!!”

Ashley: “JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”

They stormed back inside the mansion.

Blair scrambled to his feet, tripped over his cape, and fell flat on his face. He let out a loud wail.

Fabien: “Pink Top City’s greatest hero, Ladies and Gents.”

He said dryly.

Before he could even attempt to push himself up, the delicate, glowing fairies that had been nesting peacefully in the rose bushes fluttered out in an agitated, glittering swarm. Highly annoyed by how he hurt Ashley, they descended upon him, hovering over his top hat and cape. With tiny, angry squeaks, they mercilessly bonked and hit Blair with their sparkling little wands, each impact releasing a miniature shower of shimmering sparks against his porcelain mask and shoulders.

Blair: “OUCH! OOOOOHHHWWHHH!!!”

He sobbed, burying his face deeper into the dirt and flailing his white-gloved hands helplessly as he wept and cried under the harmless onslaught of the tiny creatures.

Fabien laughed as he recorded everything. Tristan turned to Fabien.

Tristan: “Are you satisfied?”

Fabien: “Yeah, who wouldn’t be? Our greatest, most powerful hero is battling with little tiny fairies.”

He snorted.

Tristan: “You know how Ashley feels about him.”

He said firmly. Fabien laughed as he recorded Blair.

Blair sobbed and flailed his arms around.

Blair: “FABIEN, HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!”

He bawled and threw his top hat down, stomping on it.

Fabien: “I dunno, man, I can’t do a lot to help Pink Top City’s greatest hero.”

He said wryly.

Tristan: “I know what you’re doing, Fabien.”

He folded his arms over, looking at him sternly.

Fabien: “Yeah, I’m recording our city’s greatest hero duking it out with fairies and losing horribly.”

He laughed and shrugged.

Tristan: “Bullshit. You wanted to hurt Ashley because they hurt Celeste.”

He said resolutely. Fabien froze and turned his head slowly to lock his gaze on Tristan.

Fabien: “It worked, didn’t it?”

He smiled a bit.

Tristan: “Fabien, when has Celeste ever reached out to Ashley? Not once. It seems like Celeste herself is also done.”

He said firmly but gently.

Fabien: “Yeah, well, Celeste is helping us actually save the city while that fat bitch is about as useful as THAT!”

He snapped, pointing at Blair, who scrambled backward on his hands and knees, his dramatic cape twisting uselessly around his legs.

In his blind panic, he didn’t realize how close he was to the stone basin of the majestic water fountain. With a final, clumsy lurch, his heels caught the edge of the carved stone border, and he went over, flipping backward with a spectacular, flailing splash.

The water erupted around him, instantly soaking his tailored black tailcoat and plastering his silk bow tie to his neck. His top hat bobbed away on the surface like a black cork, and his ivory porcelain mask sat askew, streaming with water.

Blair: “WAAAAAHHHH! HELP ME! I’M DROWNING! OOOOOHHHWWHHH!!!”

He wailed loudly, thrashing around frantically in the shallow water as if fighting for his life in the open ocean, his loud cries echoing across the manicured lawn.

Fabien: “Yeah, why on Reona did she pick the butter fairy and not Tuxedo Blair? It’s inconceivable!”

He laughed loudly.

Tristan and Fabien heard the stroller wheels on the pavement and turned to see Ivy walking down the street with Samson tucked in his stroller. Tristan and Fabien glared at her.

Tristan: “...What do you want?”

He hissed.

Ivy: “Nihao, airen!”

Ivy’s heart raced when she saw Tristan and Fabien standing together.

Seeing them side by side—such a stark, arresting contrast—only intensified the agonizing storm brewing in Ivy’s chest. There was Tristan, her elegant airen, whose cold, aristocratic reserve and refined composure she adored with every fiber of her being. But right next to him stood Fabien, leaning with that insufferable, breezy arrogance that she found infuriatingly attractive. Her mind drifted back to the vivid memory of Fabien locked to her X-frame, of his teasing smirks, and the undeniable, electric tension that had set her feminine core quivering.

To love Tristan was to embrace a beautiful, icy devotion; to desire Fabien was to play with a reckless, consuming fire. Standing there, holding the handle of Samson’s stroller, she felt the full weight of her secret dilemma pressing down on her. She wasn’t just dreaming of them both anymore; she was genuinely caught between two worlds, harboring deep, conflicting feelings for both men at the same time. The sheer realization terrified her, yet she couldn't pull herself away from the velvet trap.

Ivy: “If you want to know why that overweight silly girl doesn’t desire… him…”

She looked at Blair with disgust.

Ivy: “It’s because he’s a manchild, and a good woman—even a silly, overweight girl like her—desires a strong, protective man, which Blair is not.”

She said, gazing at both men.

Fabien: “I dunno, Ivy, what Blair did back there was the paragon of a protective hero.”

He snorted. Ivy gazed at Fabien with stars in her eyes.

Ivy: “Fabien, your sarcasm…”

She paused before she could say something that would betray Tristan’s heart.

Ivy: “...Is something else! Well, Tristan, Mum is working at Miss Peahaven for Spicy Saturday! Why don’t you say hello? I have to go!”

She said tersely and walked briskly down the street.

Tristan: “...She’s up to something.”

He cupped his chin.

Fabien: “When isn’t she? Wanna get some lunch?”

He nodded to his car.

Tristan: “You’re not going to save your hero?”

He teased with a bit of a smirk. Fabien laughed.

Fabien: “No, I can’t do much for the world’s strongest hero, and I got what I wanted anyway.”

He shrugged.

Tristan: “I hope this is a one-time deal, Fabien. We have bigger issues than Celeste’s friendships expiring.”

He said firmly, folding his arms over his chest.

Fabien: “Well, Deimos would do worse for you.”

Tristan: “I’m aware of this, and aware that Deimos wanted to say something to Ashley.”

He blew air through his parted lips.

Fabien smirked.

Fabien: “So let’s ditch Fatley, her tuxedo manbaby, and get some dinner.”

Tristan drew a breath.

Tristan: “All right.”

He smiled a bit.