Chapter Two-Hundred Fifty-Five: The Weight of Consequences

Chapter 255

The Weight of Consequences

Ichiro’s Porsche 959 pulled into a full parking lot by a towering building. He stepped out and opened the passenger’s door for Pamela. She blushed as she took his hand. The entrance to Chez Valmont burned like a warm beacon in the falling night.

Near the grand arched doorway—framed by heavy, regal crimson drapes and intricate ironwork—a doorman in a dark double-breasted coat stood dutifully at attention, waiting to welcome the evening’s arrivals.

Pamela interlocked her arm with Ichiro as they approached the restaurant.

Through the window panes behind them, crystal chandeliers glinted above white-clothed tables set with glowing tall candles, offering a glimpse of the intimate, timeless elegance waiting just beyond the heavy velvet curtain.

Inside Chez Valmont, the atmosphere was steeped in an unmistakable, old-world decadence. Rich mahogany paneling encased the dining room in a warm, gilded embrace, catching the brilliant light of the central crystal chandelier that hung overhead like a cluster of glittering stars. Wall sconces and tall candelabras scattered across the crisp white tablecloths added a soft, flickering glow, humming with low murmurings of conversation and the subtle clinking of crystal stemware.

Every detail—from the ornate, gold-framed mirror reflecting the restaurant's signature script on the back wall to the lush potted palms framing the room—spoke of an unhurried, timeless sophistication.

Host: “Do you have a reservation?”

Ichiro: “Yes, under ‘Tachibana’.”

He replied. He picked up two leather-bound menus and led them to a table in the center of the restaurant.

Ichiro pulled a chair out for Pamela. She felt all giddy inside at what a gentleman he was and wondered if this would be the night when he asked her to be his girlfriend.

Pamela: “Thank you for asking me out, Ichiro. It’s nice to get out to a restaurant with a handsome gentleman.”

She smiled.

Ichiro: “I know.”

He said tersely as he looked through the menu.

Ichiro set the menu down and reached into his jacket pocket, producing a slim cigarillo and a brushed steel Zippo. With a flick of his thumb, the lid popped open with a familiar, metallic ping. He struck the flint wheel, and a sudden, sharp flame bloomed, casting dancing shadows across his features as he held it to the tip of his cigarillo. He took a long, steady draw, the smoke curling lazily around the candelabras, momentarily breaking the quiet of their table.

Pamela’s cheeks turned bright pink. He’s so handsome, dark, and alluring, she thought. He knows how to turn a lady on, she mused as she gazed at him.

I’m going to fucking kill Fabien for putting me through this, he thought.

Ichiro was about to speak, but the waiter approached them.

Waiter: “Will this be on one bill?”

He asked.

Ichiro: “Yes.”

He smiled.

Waiter: “What can I get you two to drink?”

Ichiro: “Bourbon on the rocks.”

He flashed a polite smile.

Pamela: “A glass of sauvignon blanc.”

She nodded. He politely nodded and left.

A moment later, he returned with their drinks.

The waiter set their drinks on the white tablecloth and produced a small notepad.

Waiter: “Have you decided on your entrées, or do you need another moment?”

Pamela beamed at Ichiro before turning to the waiter.

Pamela: “I’ll have the herb-crusted sea bass, please.”

Ichiro didn't look up from his menu until he was ready, his tone clipped and professional.

Ichiro: “I’ll take the chateaubriand, medium-rare.”

Waiter: “Very good.”

He replied, jotting the order down before retreating into the dim, gilded expanse of the dining room.

Ichiro turned his attention fully to Pamela, his cold gaze softening just enough to look convincing.

Ichiro: “So, Pamela…”

He started, his voice smooth. Pamela put the glass of wine to her lips as her heart did somersaults.

Ichiro: “Tell me more about what you found on Fabien Bellegarde. I find the way you uncover... details... to be quite fascinating.”

Pamela giggled.

Pamela: “Everything I found on Mr. Bellegarde is all in French.”

Ichiro’s right eye twitched. Brilliant observation, Miss Detective; I never would have known that a French man would have documents in French, he thought dryly. Mr. Bellegarde?! Fabien is a lazy, unmotivated drunken stoner who doesn’t deserve such courtesy, he thought, trying not to lose his cool when he saw that smug slacker push every button of his.

Pamela folded her hands and rested her head on them.

Pamela: “I had them formally translated.”

She reassured him. Oh, she has a brain to some degree, Ichiro thought.

Pamela: “He started private school at École Élémentaire Émile-Chatrian. He was removed for being disruptive in class, not doing his assignments, putting shaving cream on the teacher’s seat, and raising his hand to say the teacher farted.”

She relayed her findings to him. Ichiro gaped at him. So nothing has changed, he thought.

Pamela: “When the class president fell asleep, Fabien painted on his face to make him resemble a clown.”

She continued.

Pamela: “He was homeschooled. He went to a child’s birthday party and threw his gifts and cake in the pool. He taught the class parrot how to swear.”

Ichiro gaped at her. How is this different from how he is now? He wondered.

Pamela: “He was diagnosed with ADHD after the birthday party. He briefly attended Collège Vigne and was expelled for pulling the fire alarm. He claimed he didn’t like Mondays.”

She continued, taking a sip of wine.

Ichiro gaped at her. Does this man have NOTHING that can break him?! He wondered.

Pamela: “He was born in Maison Médicale de L’Étoile on April 17th, 1964.”

She resumed.

Ichiro: “So what? I don’t want to give him a birthday gift.”

He said sharply.

Pamela: “It’s a private facility in Argentville.”

She added. Ichiro wanted nothing more than to strangle her right now for wasting his time.

Pamela: “His parents, Basile and Francine, went through a surrogate.”

She concluded. Ichiro paused.

Ichiro: “A surrogate?”

Pamela nodded.

Pamela: “Surrogacy is an arrangement where a woman carries a pregnancy for the intended parents. Basile and Francine used a surrogate because she didn’t want to be pregnant and he didn’t want his wife to get fat.”

She explained. Ichiro fought to maintain his composure, his impatience barely concealed behind a mask of polite interest.

Ichiro: “And the surrogate? Have you uncovered her identity?”

Pamela: “No, that’s court-sealed, but Fabien is the biological son of Basile and Francine. Neither of them wanted her to carry him because she’s a supermodel and Basile wants his wife to look good.”

Ichiro gazed at her, and a smile curled on his lips. This might break him, he thought. Not even my parents did this with Jiro, and they didn’t want him, he thought. He placed his hand on hers. Pamela felt the heat rise to her face and butterflies in her feminine core.

Ichiro: “Thank you, Pamela. I cannot stress how appreciative I am of you.”

He said smoothly. Pamela’s heart hammered in her chest. He appreciates me, she thought.

~

The waiter returned to the table as they finished their meal, discreetly placing a silver tray holding the leather-bound bill folder beside Ichiro’s empty glass.

Waiter: “I hope everything was to your satisfaction this evening.”

Ichiro: “It was adequate.”

He reached into the breast pocket of his tailored suit, producing his wallet. With a practiced flourish, he peeled off several crisp bills—far exceeding the total on the check—and tucked them into the folder without a second glance. The waiter bowed slightly, impressed by the generous gratuity.

Ichiro stood and rounded the table to assist Pamela with her chair. She floated beside him as they navigated the mahogany-paneled dining room, feeling the envious stares of other patrons. The doorman snapped to attention, pulling the heavy iron-wrought doors open for them.

The Porsche 959 sat under the streetlamps. Ichiro opened the passenger door for Pamela. She thanked him and got inside. He then settled into the driver’s seat, the engine turning over with a sophisticated, mechanical growl that vibrated through the chassis. He pulled away from the curb, the city lights blurring into long ribbons of neon as the car surged forward with effortless power.

Pamela rested her head against the leather headrest, watching Ichiro’s focused profile in the dim glow of the dashboard.

~

When he eventually pulled up to the curb in front of her house, the silence between them was filled with the soft ticking of the cooling engine.

Ichiro: “A productive evening, Pamela.”

He said, his voice dropping an octave. Pamela lingered for a moment, her hand on the door handle, before stepping out into the quiet night, her heart still racing from the high-speed drive.

Pamela: “Do you want to come in for a nightcap?”

Ichiro: “No.”

He answered tersely. She appeared dejected. Ichiro’s jaw tightened. I may need this foolish detective later, so be cool, he thought.

Ichiro: “My apologies…”

He said softly, cupping her chin and tracing her lips. She gazed at him with stars in her eyes.

Ichiro: “I can walk you to your door.”

Ichiro stepped out of the Porsche, his movements sharp and efficient. He walked her up the stone path to her front door. The porch light cast a harsh, yellowish glow over them, highlighting the eager, expectant look in her eyes. She turned to him, her fingers nervously twisting the strap of her handbag.

Pamela: “I had a wonderful time tonight, Ichiro. Truly.”

She leaned in slightly, a clear invitation for a kiss. Ichiro did not move. Reminding himself that his goal was to break Fabien, he grasped her hand and pressed his lips to it. Pamela drew a sharp, uneven breath.

Ichiro: “Sweet dreams, Pamela. Until next time.”

He didn’t wait for her response. He turned on his heel and strode back to the car without a backward glance. The heavy door of the 959 thudded shut, sealing him back into his private, climate-controlled world. Within seconds, the black car pulled away from the curb, its taillights disappearing into the darkness of the suburban street.

Oh, Fabien, I can’t break her via your precious nepo baby, but I can this way, he thought with a grin.

~

The morning light filtered softly through the vertical blinds of Jaxon’s bedroom, casting long, pale stripes across the rumpled sheets. The room was hushed, filled only with the rhythmic, synchronized sound of steady breathing. Jaxon lay draped across Jordi’s chest, his head tucked into the crook of Jordi’s neck, one arm hooked loosely over his torso. He was deeply asleep, his features softened and free of the day's usual tension. Jordi lay sprawled on his back, taking up most of the bed with a comfortable, effortless ease. His long limbs were relaxed, one hand resting lightly on Jaxon’s shoulder in an unconscious gesture of protection.

Fabien sat in the bedroom, munching on spring rolls from a white paper bag. Jordi’s eyes fluttered open as the distinct, oily aroma of deep-fried cabbage and pork hit his senses. He blinked, his gaze clearing to find Fabien perched nonchalantly on the edge of a nearby armchair, shoving a half-eaten spring roll into his mouth. Fabien wore a Boston tank top with a denim jacket over it, jeans and flip-flops.

Jordi: “Are you fucking serious right now?”

He hissed, his voice a low, jagged rasp of morning irritation. He carefully shifted to avoid waking Jaxon, but his eyes were blazing as they fixed on Fabien.

Jordi: “How long were you sitting there?”

Fabien: “An hour?”

He shrugged.

Fabien: “So, uh, does Lena know about this?”

He asked.

Jordi: “Lena and Jaxon were never official. She’s at home, and Ashley is looking after her.”

He said groggily. Fabien snorted.

Jaxon stirred at the sound of the low, tense whispering. He let out a soft groan, shifting his weight against Jordi’s chest before his eyes slowly blinked open. The room was blurred for a moment until the sharp, savory scent of fried food registered. He lifted his head, squinting against the light from the blinds, and his gaze landed directly on Fabien, who was mid-chew.

Jaxon: “Fabien? What the hell?”

He muttered, his voice thick with sleep but laced with immediate annoyance. He sat up, rubbing his face with one hand while keeping the other anchored on Jordi’s arm, as if trying to ground himself in the reality of the situation.

Jaxon: “Where the fuck did you get those?!”

Fabien: “From your fridge?”

Jaxon: “Lena made those for me!”

He barked.

Fabien: “Sorry if I’m eating the last things she’ll ever make for you, Jiro.”

He snorted. Jaxon bared his teeth.

Jaxon: “We never fucking dated, asshole, and Jordi was never serious about that fat cunt!”

He rasped.

Fabien: “Okay? What’s next? You gonna tell me Blair is a crybaby?”

Jordi lay back. It’s too early for his bullshit, he thought.

Fabien: “Do you have any duck sauce?”

He asked. Jaxon threw the sheets off himself, snatched the bag from Fabien, and pointed out.

Jaxon: “GET OUT OF HERE!”

He yelled, pointing to the door. Jaxon snatched the bag of spring rolls from him and shoved him out. Fabien laughed as he trotted out the door.

Jaxon went into his kitchen and to his fridge to put the spring rolls back inside.

Jordi rose from bed and stretched.

Jordi: “I should go home to check in on Lena and Ashley.”

He kissed Jaxon.

Jordi: “I’ll come back later.”

He took his hands and kissed them. Jaxon smiled at his touch.

~

Fabien’s 1970 Shelby Mustang rolled up to Jordi’s house. The engine’s guttural rumble died out as Fabien twisted the key, leaving the quiet street to the chirping of morning birds. He pushed the heavy door open and climbed out, the sunlight catching the Mustang's chrome. He sauntered up the walkway to the front porch, his flip-flops slapping against the concrete. Reaching the door, he hammered a rhythmic beat against the wood with his knuckles.

The lock clicked, and the door swung inward. Lena stood there, her eyes wide with exhaustion and immediate shock. She wore a pink floral sundress with a heart-apron over herself.

Lena: “Fabien? What are you doing here?”

She asked, her voice trembling slightly with surprise. Fabien leaned against the doorframe and grinned.

Fabien: “Mind if I come in?”

He said smoothly.

Lena: “Jordi is not here!”

She dusted herself off.

Fabien: “I am not here for Jordi.”

Lena smiled.

Lena: “Come on in.”

Removing his flip-flops at the entrance, Fabien stepped inside and collapsed onto a chair at the kitchen table. The room was thick with the scent of coffee, bacon, biscuits, and banana cream pancakes. Running a hand through his white hair, he leaned back comfortably. She shot a glance at him.

Lena: “Do you like coffee?”

She inquired.

Fabien: “No.”

He replied, chuckling.

Fabien: “It actually makes me tired.”

He drummed his fingers on the table.

Lena: “Do you want some breakfast?”

Fabien nodded.

Fabien: “Um-hmm…”

He smiled tightly.

Fabien: “So how do you feel?”

She dished him up some pancakes and bacon, and poured him a cup of Earl Grey tea. Fabien laced the pancakes and bacon with maple syrup.

Lena: “I feel refreshed! How do you feel?”

Fabien: “Super! I couldn’t be better.”

He smiled tightly.

He stretched his arms above his head. Lena glanced at him, taking in his frame, and looked away.

~

Jordi stepped out of the cab that parked in front of his house. He wore a purple polo shirt, jeans, and black zip-up boots.

He noticed Fabien’s Mustang parked near the curb, and felt a familiar knot of apprehension tighten in his stomach. Stepping through the front door, the heavy, sweet scent of maple syrup and breakfast meats hit him instantly.

Jordi: “Fabien? What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?”

He demanded. His eyes darted from Fabien, who was happily stabbing a syrupy piece of pancake, to Lena, who was glowing with a hospitality he hadn’t seen in weeks.

Lena: “Oh, Jordi, don't be so grumpy! He just arrived, and he looked like he hadn't had a decent meal in days.”

She wiped her hands on her apron, gesturing defensively toward the spread on the table.

Lena: “He’s been a perfect gentleman. Let him eat in peace.”

Jordi rubbed his temples, staring at Fabien, who merely gave a mock-solemn nod before shoving more bacon into his mouth.

The rich aroma of breakfast meats instantly greeted Jordi as he walked into the house.

Jordi: “Fabien? What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?”

He demanded sharply, his eyes darting between Fabien—who was contentedly stabbing a syrup-covered piece of pancake—and Lena, whose radiant hospitality hadn't been seen in weeks.

Lena: “Oh, Jordi, don't be so grumpy! He just arrived, and he looked like he hadn't had a decent meal in days.”

Wiping her hands on her apron, she gestured defensively toward the feast spread across the table.

Lena: “He’s been a perfect gentleman. Let him eat in peace.”

Jordi massaged his temples, glaring at Fabien, who simply offered a mock-solemn nod before shoving another piece of bacon into his mouth.

Seeking a moment of calm, Jordi stepped out to check the garden, but his heart sank completely when he realized the fairies were nowhere to be found.

Jordi: “Where are the fairies?!”

He demanded anxiously as he rushed back inside. Lena stared at him, completely dumbfounded.

Lena: “They’re gone?!”

She gasped, quickly cupping her hand over her mouth.

Fabien: “Wonder where they went.”

He mused aloud, locking his intense gaze directly onto Jordi.

Jordi: “I did NOTHING, Fabien!”

He roared, slamming his palms onto the kitchen table so hard that Lena jolted in shock.

Jordi felt nauseated. The fairies perished during Vasilos’ attack, he thought. He cupped his mouth and started to cough and gag.

Lena: “Are you okay, Jordi?!”

She knit her eyebrows as she placed her hands on her brother’s shoulders.

Jordi: “I have to go downstairs and tell Ashley.”

He said tersely, not knowing how to break it to them.

He went downstairs slowly as dread filled him.

Jordi: “Ashley?”

He heard no one. It was silent.

Jordi: “Ashley?”

He called out once more. He reached the basement and saw no one was there. The basement apartment was left as it was the day they moved in. Their belongings, Stella, and everything were gone.

Jordi slowly walked in. He knitted his eyebrows. He turned his head and noticed a note on the nightstand. He scurried over and picked it up to read it.

Jordi,

Thank you for your hospitality, but I can't be around anymore. You dim my light, and it seems you lost yours, too. I hope you find it again.

-Ashley

Jordi cupped his mouth and coughed.

The weight of their words settled into his chest like lead. It wasn’t just Ashley, and it wasn’t just the silence of the basement; it was the realization that he had become a harbinger of grief. He stood alone in the hollow basement, haunted by the crushing certainty that his very existence acted as a slow poison, driving away everything beautiful until only this cold, suffocating isolation remained.

The note crumpled in his trembling grip, the ink blurring as his vision swam. The crushing weight of Ashley’s departure wasn't just a mental blow; it was a physical impact, hitting his gut like lead. A sudden, violent wave of nausea surged upward, burning his throat. He dropped the note, his hand scrambling against the wall to steady himself.

Gasping, Jordi lurched away from the nightstand, his legs shaky and uncertain. He stumbled toward the small, cramped bathroom off the basement area, his breath coming in ragged, desperate hitches. He slammed the door shut and fell to his knees before the porcelain, his stomach turning inside out as the stress and grief finally broke through his defenses. He retched, gripping the cold ceramic edge until his knuckles turned white, his body wracked by tremors as he tried to purge the suffocating panic that clawed at his chest.

Jordi wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his breathing heavy and ragged. He splashed cold water on his face, trying to scrub away the sensation of panic, but the hollow ache in his chest remained. He stared at his reflection for a fleeting second— his eyes rimmed with the exhaustion of someone who had lost everything in the span of an hour.

He pushed the bathroom door open and stumbled out into the basement. The silence was absolute. He trudged past the empty nightstand where the note had been, his footsteps heavy and dragging. He reached the stairs and began the climb, each step feeling like an insurmountable hurdle against the weight of his own grief.

Upstairs, the house felt foreign. He could hear the muffled sound of voices from the kitchen—Lena and Fabien—but he couldn’t bring himself to face them. He couldn’t explain the void. He didn't want their pity, their comfort, or their questions. He clutched the keys he’d grabbed from the bowl by the front door.

He went outside. The sudden shift in temperature helped focus him. He strode down the walkway to where his purple Ferrari 328 sat, waiting. He fumbled with the fob, his fingers trembling, and the locks clicked with a sharp sound that echoed in the quiet street. He slid into the driver’s seat.

He jammed the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life with an aggressive, throaty snarl. He didn't bother checking the mirrors or looking back at the house. He slammed the car into gear, tires chirping against the asphalt as he gunned it, tearing away from the driveway, putting miles of road between himself and the life that had just unraveled.

~

Lena knit her eyebrows as she watched Jordi go.

Lena: “What happened?”

Fabien leaned back.

Fabien: “He found out Ashley left.”

Lena bowed her head.

Lena: “Why did they leave?”

Fabien: “Blair put it on my server. Jordi had a casual dinner date with his cousin’s friend, and he mentioned it hurt Ashley.”

With his elbows propped on the table, he clasped his hands together and leaned his head against them.

Lena: “Why would that upset Ashley? They broke up amicably.”

She pondered aloud. Fabien shrugged.

Fabien: “I guess not.”

He leaned back against the chair, his denim jacket slipping down slightly and bare his shoulders.

Lena’s gaze lingered on the sudden expanse of his ivory skin, her eyes tracing the solid lines of his shoulders with an intensity that surprised her. For a fleeting heartbeat, an undeniable wave of attraction pulled at her, making her breath catch in her throat as she took him in. Realizing she was staring, she jerked her head back toward the stove, her face flushing a deep crimson as she desperately tried to steady her racing pulse and regain her composure.

Fabien grinned as his tongue did a quick flick over his teeth. He rose and stretched.

Fabien: “Thanks for the meal.”

He drawled as he slid his feet into his flip-flops and opened the door.

Fabien stepped out of the house. He walked down the concrete pathway until he reached the curb where his 1970 Shelby Mustang waited. He pulled the door open, the heavy metal swinging wide, and dropped into the driver’s seat. Lena stood on the porch, locking her gaze on him.

Before starting the engine, he opened his glove compartment and produced a pair of classic Ray-Bans, sliding them onto his face to shield his eyes from the glare. He shut the glove compartment.

With a casual motion, he retrieved a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and followed it with the familiar brushed-steel Zippo. The lid pinged open, a quick flick of his thumb ignited the flint, and he touched the flame to the tip, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke into the cabin. He placed his Zippo back into his pocket, cranked the engine, and peeled away, the Mustang’s roar swallowing the quiet morning.

A satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. He had played the cards exactly right, nudging the pieces until the whole house of cards came tumbling down, and the best part was how easy they’d made it for him. He took another long drag of his cigarette, savoring the bitter taste of the smoke and the sweet, smug victory of a morning well spent.

~

Jordi was in Jaxon’s bedroom on his bed. Jaxon wrapped his arms around him and caressed his hair as he relayed what happened at his house.

Jaxon: “What a fat bitch. She’s overreacting over something BLAIR told her.”

He rolled his eyes. Jordi squeezed his eyes shut.

Jordi: “I lost a friend because I let my desire to have someone by my side override any logic! I should have told them NO; I did that room up because they were my friend, not because I harbored any romantic feelings for them!”

He cried. Jaxon sighed and held Jordi’s head to his chest. Jordi closed his eyes as he listened to Jaxon’s heartbeat.

Jaxon: “Look, do you expect someone who dated Blair or Lazaros to think logically?”

He asked him as he cupped his face.

Jordi: “They never dated Blair, but… they dated Lazaros.”

Jaxon: “Yup, and Lazaros is just another version of Blair.”

He nodded. Jordi’s eyelids dipped.

Jaxon: “I always wondered what you saw in that fat loser.”

He huffed.

Jordi: “I couldn’t be in a relationship with them. I liked them as a friend, but as a lover? They annoyed me.”

He admitted begrudgingly.

Jaxon: “Why is that?”

He asked as he raked his fingers through his hair.

Jordi: “They wouldn’t give me space, for one. For another, they were in love with Lazaros until he kicked them out for working in some ice cream shop, and now they’re in love with me? Okay, then.”

He rolled his eyes.

Jordi: “I recall Blair writing an epistle about them doing this bullshit, and I hate, HATE that I am agreeing with him on this one thing. They jump from man to man, claiming it’s love, and every man they’re with ends up hating them or tolerating them, or he’s Blair.”

He huffed.

Jordi: “How could I ignore the patterns? Because it came from Blair?”

He drew a long breath.

Jaxon: “I don’t know what anyone sees in that big, fat dummy.”

He scowled.

Jordi: “Jaxon…?”

He looked up at him.

Jaxon: “Mmm?”

He smiled down at him.

Jordi: “Why are you being nasty about Ashley?”

Jaxon looked away with a scowl.

Jaxon: “Because I don’t know why people are nice to her! She’s fucking dumb and fat, and STUPID! Even Deimos is nice to her, and Deimos isn’t nice to anyone, but I don’t get why you were with her!”

He ranted with anger in his tone. Jordi traced his fingers over his neck, causing Jaxon to laugh and shiver.

Jaxon: “Hahahahahaha!”

Jordi: “Jaxon?”

He murmured.

Jordi: “I am done with Ashley now. I told you everything and left nothing out. We’re done. They don’t want to be my friend or have anything to do with me anymore.”

He explained gently, tracing his finger over his lips.

Jaxon: “But you’re so upset about it!”

Jordi: “Yes, I’m upset that I lost a good friend due to poor decisions on my part. They played their part with what they did, but I’m not responsible and don’t care if they want to play the victim. I’m going to be responsible for my role in this.”

He sighed, lowering his hands to his waist.

Jordi: “I’m not mourning the loss of a love, but mourning that I lost a friend of mine.”

Jaxon pouted.

Jaxon: “I think you and Tristan are better friends!”

He huffed. Jordi smiled a bit.

Jordi: “Yes, I feel I don’t have to… dumb down my conversations with him.”

Jaxon beamed, and then his smile faded. Jordi gazed at him.

Jordi: “What’s wrong?”

He caressed his cheek.

Jaxon: “Tristan is going to need a lot of help.”

Jordi: “Why?”

Jaxon gazed down at him.

Jaxon: “Lena was unconscious because of his weirdo uncle, okay?! He kidnapped her!”

He cried. Jordi’s eyes widened.

Jordi: “She was kidnapped?! I thought she was in her room and wouldn’t come out! Why didn’t Ashley tell me this?! This was BEFORE that idiot, Blair, told them about my dinner date with Mattie!”

He ranted as his fury soared.

Jaxon: “He didn’t hurt her, don’t worry, Jordi! I made sure he didn’t hurt her! He threatened to if I didn’t heal Charlotte!”

He blurted and then broke down crying. Jordi paused and then wrapped his arms around him. Jaxon hugged him back.

Jaxon: “I healed her… Narcisse told everyone Tristan is the result of ‘Project Ghisyn,’ and now he’s broken! I…”

He sobbed as he tried to collect himself.

Jaxon: “I wonder if he blames me for this! For bringing back the woman who tormented him! But if I didn’t heal her, Narcisse would have crushed Tristan, Deimos, Celeste, Fabien, and Lena in his bubbles!”

He wept against Jordi’s chest. Holding him tightly, Jordi tried to make sense of the heavy revelations Jaxon had just shared.

Jordi: “Jaxon…”

He said softly.

Jordi: “Tristan isn’t going to blame you. Your hand was forced. I think Tristan would understand your actions more than anyone.”

He added as he dried his tears. Jaxon smiled a bit, feeling his warm touch.

Jordi: “He doesn’t blame you for Seashell Cove or anything… He knows what his uncle did was cowardly.”

He said firmly. Jaxon smiled a bit. Jordi cupped his face, and Jaxon leaned into his hands.