Chapter Two-Hundred Ninety-Eight: Morning Maneuvers

Chapter 298

Morning Maneuvers

Tristan stepped out of the steam-filled shower and into his spacious bedroom. He grabbed a plush towel and dried off thoroughly, then reached for his glasses and slid them onto the bridge of his nose. He let the towel drop to the floor and pulled on a clean pair of briefs.

He then got dressed with meticulous care, pulling up a pair of black sheer socks and stepping into his black trousers, securing them with a leather belt. He put on a light blue pressed shirt, fastened a dark blue tie, and donned the vest of his black three-piece Italian-cut suit, carefully clipping his pocket watch to the vest before slipping on the sharp jacket. To finish his routine, he spritzed on a fine mist of expensive cologne, gently brushed his long white hair, and tied it back into a neat, loose ponytail.

Tristan picked up his leather briefcase, left his bedroom, and walked across the pedway. He went downstairs and into the kitchen, where he saw Bastien preparing breakfast and his father, Victor, seated at the island reading the newspaper. Bastien greeted him and set a fresh, steaming cup of Earl Grey tea in front of Tristan, along with a warm plate of toast, crispy bacon, and scrambled eggs. Tristan picked up his cup, blew on it, and sipped. He then delicately took a small bite of toast before gazing at his father.

Tristan: “Papa?”

Victor: “What?”

He answered, not looking up at his son. Tristan pursed his lips.

Tristan: “...Did… Did Charlotte ever mention anyone named Julien?”

He asked him after Fabien mentioned that Charlotte kept insisting he was Julien and that he looked like him. Bastien paused and gazed at his older brother.

Victor: “No? Your mother and I got married in early 1963. We met in 1961.”

He paused and cupped his mouth.

Victor: “She never mentioned anyone named Julien.”

He inhaled a long breath, gazing out the kitchen window.

Victor: “After she gave birth to you, she came and went. I didn’t want to go back to the Beaumont estate.”

He murmured, his voice fading as his lower lip quivered. Tristan looked at his father with deep empathy, while Bastien shifted his gaze between Victor and Tristan.

Tristan: “Were you aware of ‘Project Ghisyn’?”

He asked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Victor raised an eyebrow.

Victor: “No?”

Tristan hung his head.

Tristan: “...She never told you?”

Victor: “Charlotte didn’t tell me a lot of things, Tristan. She never wanted to speak of her father, saying it was too painful and…”

He pursed his lips.

Victor: “A lot of stuff happened at that house…”

His voice cracked, and he removed his glasses to rub his eyes.

Tristan stared at his reflection in the tea, his heart heavy with an agonizing secret. He bit his tongue, burying the devastating truth deep within himself. How could he tell his father that Charlotte had used him as a subject in “Project Ghisyn”—injected with Aetheris-9 while still in the womb and an experiment to be a god-tier Etheressum? Victor was already fragile, haunted by decades of Charlotte’s cruel silence, abuse, and secrets, as well as Narcisse raping him. Revealing that his own son was a bio-engineered experiment would shatter whatever was left of him.

More things on top of more to keep from him, because I fear he’s ready to crack, Tristan thought, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

~

The distant bells of the Clerteaux cathedral chimed twelve slow, solemn tones, echoing up the desolate crag where the Beaumont mansion perched. Inside the grand bedchamber, daylight was treated as an unwanted intruder. The towering lancet window, latticed with dark lead and framed by ribbed stone vaulting, cast only a muted, silvery gloom against the heavy velvet draperies. Candelabras had small amber lights, reflecting off polished ebony floorboards and an antique Persian rug steeped in shades of wine and crimson.

At precisely noon, the heavy oak door turned on oiled hinges without a whisper.

Armand entered with the measured, soundless grace expected of a Beaumont retainer. In his white-gloved hands, he carried a gleaming silver tray holding a steaming porcelain cup of Earl Grey tea, a small crystal dish of raw sugar cubes, and a crisp, folded copy of Le Méridional. He paused just past the threshold, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim, theatrical ambiance of the sanctuary.

Standing tall with impeccable, military-straight posture, Armand was a man in his late fifties with white hair parted crisply to one side. His blue, observant eyes carried the quiet exhaustion of someone perpetually balancing the demands of two theatrical Beaumont siblings, yet his expression remained an impenetrable mask of polite neutrality.

He dressed with textbook Victorian rigidity, favoring a spotless black tailcoat over a charcoal waistcoat, a stiff white wing-collar shirt, and a neatly folded black necktie. He was rarely seen without his pristine white cotton gloves, and a vintage pocket watch on a silver chain rested neatly tucked into his vest pocket, tethering him to the strict schedule he vainly tried to impose on Narcisse.

Dominating the center of the chamber was the massive, ornate canopy bed, its baroque carved headboard crowned by sweeping curtains of fringed burgundy velvet that cascaded around an untouched island of decadence. Buried beneath layers of plush plum quilts and crushed-velvet blankets lay Narcisse.

A stray shaft of filtered midday light caught the tumbled silver-white waves of his hair against the black silk pillows. Narcisse slept completely nude, unburdened by fabric or modesty, entirely at ease in his private fortress. One bare, pale shoulder and the lean contour of his arm rested above the coverlet, while the heavy duvets modestly shielded the rest of his form from the room’s gentle chill.

Armand stepped forward, his leather-soled shoes making no impression on the thick wool rug. He set the silver tray down on the carved mahogany nightstand beside the gilded vanity mirror.

Armand: “Monsieur Beaumont.”

He spoke in a low, gravelly baritone with a firm yet deferential cadence.

Armand: “It is twelve o’clock.”

Narcisse didn’t respond, save for his subtle, rhythmic breathing.

Armand allowed himself a quiet sigh, adjusted his cuffs, and stepped to the tall window. With an efficient, practiced motion, he gathered one side of the midnight-colored curtain and pulled it back just a fraction. A sliver of crisp, overcast Mediterranean light sliced across the chamber, cutting straight over the sprawling canopy bed.

Narcisse stirred instantly. His brow knitted behind closed eyelids, a sharp crease forming on his aristocratic features. He buried his face deeper into the down pillow, pulling the thick, plum velvet duvet up to his chin to shield himself from the intrusion.

Narcisse: “Close it, Armand.”

He murmured, his voice thick with sleep, the deep French timbre dripping with aristocratic disdain.

Narcisse: “I had a long day yesterday from Demetrio’s little lap dog and my naughty nephew’s idiotic friends.”

Armand: “A lamentable truth, Monsieur, yet the day insists on proceeding without your permission.”

He replied evenly, returning to the bedside.

A dry chuckle escaped Narcisse. Slowly, he rolled onto his back, dragging a pale hand through his disheveled, feathered hair. He opened his striking, light-green eyes, blinking against the room’s faint glow.

He shifted, sitting up against the ornate headboard. As he did, the heavy velvet quilt pooled down to his waist, revealing the lean, unclad lines of his chest and torso. Completely unbothered by his nakedness, Narcisse reached blindly to the adjacent bedside table, his long fingers instinctively finding his glasses.

He slipped them onto the bridge of his nose, the world snapping into sharp focus. Armand smoothly lifted the silver tray and presented the warm cup of tea. Narcisse accepted the delicate porcelain, breathed in the fragrant bergamot steam, then took a slow, measured sip.

Armand: “The tailor delivered the pressed mauve three-piece suit this morning, Monsieur.”

He said, gesturing faintly toward the carved armoire across the stone floor.

Armand: “Along with the fresh dark purple silk cravat and the white loafers you requested.”

Narcisse: “Exquisite… I ought to send the bill to Demetrio Donati’s little lap dog…”

He replied smoothly, swirling the dark amber liquid in his cup. He cast an amused glance toward the sliver of gray sky through the arched window.

Narcisse slipped from the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold timber floor before he glided through the arched entryway into his adjoining bathroom.

Unlike the brooding crimson shadows of his bedchamber, the bathroom was a sanctuary of pale carved limestone, illuminated by soft Mediterranean light filtering through the intricate tracery of a grand Gothic window. Moving to the marble-topped black vanity, Narcisse set down his wire-rimmed spectacles beside the dark sink. He reached for his silver-handled toothbrush, methodically tending to his morning routine while studying his own reflection in the towering, baroque mirror—his sharp gaze appraising, satisfied with what met his eye.

Rinsing with cool water, he turned toward the soaring, pointed-arch glass walk-in shower tucked seamlessly into the stone alcove. He pulled open the heavy glass door, turned the matte-black fixture, and stepped into the cascading rainfall of hot water. Steam immediately billowed against the tall limestone walls, enveloping him in warmth as the jet rinsed away the lingering lethargy of sleep. He tilted his head back, letting the water soak through the white waves of his hair and drip in rivulets down his pale shoulders and back.

When the water ceased, Narcisse stepped out onto the plush patterned runner. He took a thick charcoal towel from the wrought-iron rack and dried himself off with slow, deliberate care. Shaking his damp, feathered hair into place, he wrapped the towel low around his hips and padded back across the threshold into his moody bedroom.

Armand had laid out his attire for the day meticulously across the foot of the velvet bed. Narcisse discarded the towel, pulled on a clean pair of briefs, and slipped effortlessly into the crisp white collared shirt, its high collar framing his jawline. He gathered the dark silk cravat, knotting it with practiced elegance at his throat before slipping on tailored mauve trousers and a matching double-breasted jacket. Every button snapped cleanly into place, the fitted cut emphasizing his tall, composed posture. He finished by sliding his feet into his ivory loafers, then retrieved his glasses from the vanity and settled them smoothly onto the bridge of his nose.

Finally, Narcisse stepped over to the mahogany dressing table. Among the crystal flacons and antique trinkets sat an ornate cut-glass bottle of gardenia cologne. He lifted the stopper, held the atomizer to his throat and wrists, and spritzed a fine, fragrant mist into the air. The heavy, sweet, and intoxicating floral aroma settled over his lapels and skin—a decadent signature, perfectly polished and entirely Narcisse.

With a subtle, knowing smirk in the mirror, he smoothed the cuffs of his violet sleeves and turned toward the chamber door. Narcisse stepped out from his bedchamber and into the upper hallway of the Beaumont mansion. With measured, unhurried strides, he approached the grand staircase, his ivory loafers clicking softly against the polished wood. The sweeping wrought-iron banister curved gracefully downward, leading into the cavernous depths of the estate’s main floor.

He descended with the effortless, aristocratic poise native to a Beaumont, his tall, lean silhouette framed by the corridor’s dim, atmospheric lighting. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned toward the salon.

Inside, the room was bathed in the rich, muted amber glow of late afternoon. Charlotte sat by the hearth in a high-backed velvet armchair. She was engrossed in a thick, leather-bound volume held in one hand, while the other delicately balanced a steaming cup of tea. A thin, fragrant curl of smoke drifted upward from the cigarillo held between her fingers.

She wore a striking off-shoulder dark turquoise dress that contrasted sharply against her pale skin, anchored at her throat by a velvet band set with a deep, gleaming ruby choker that caught the amber light with every breath she took.

Narcisse: “So, Charlotte…”

He sat on the sofa across from her, crossing one leg over the other.

Narcisse: “Would you mind explaining WHY you showed up at that ‘dump’—especially after asserting so adamantly that you’d never set foot inside it?”

He said with a saccharine smile. Charlotte glared at him.

Charlotte: “To see Julien’s nephew. I ran into Tristan. You never told me he was powerful.”

She said coldly. Narcisse’s jaw tightened.

Narcisse: “First of all, I told you SEVERAL times that Tristan is powerful. You dismissed it as him being equivalent to his father! Now that you saw it, you tell me I never told you!”

He shifted his posture, crossing his legs as a sharp, dry laugh escaped his lips.

Narcisse: “Secondly, Julien was nothing more than a teenage runaway hopping from port to port with the sailors! You don’t know that Fabien is his nephew.”

He said through a strained smile. Charlotte set her book down and narrowed her eyes at her younger brother.

Charlotte: “...How would you know that, Narcisse?”

Narcisse paused.

Narcisse: “Because, unlike you, I study my enemies! You were focused on being pretty for Father!”

He fired back.

Charlotte: “Julien was your enemy? I wasn’t aware you knew him.”

Narcisse pursed his lips.

Narcisse: “I didn’t know him, no, but Father would be so disappointed to see his ice princess with someone like him.”

He spat back, his condescending tone laced with disdain. Charlotte looked away. She recalled when Julien’s remains were found; her father didn’t want her leaving the house anymore.

Armand quietly re-entered the room, carrying a polished silver tray holding a crystal ashtray and a freshly opened pack of fine cigarettes. He approached Narcisse with practiced stillness and presented the tray with a low bow.

Narcisse reached out with slender, elegant fingers, slid a single cigarette from the pack, and rested it between his lips. Without a word, Armand drew a sterling silver lighter from his coat pocket. With a swift flick of his thumb, a small flame sprang to life, and he held it steadily to the tip of Narcisse’s cigarette. Narcisse took a slow, deep draw, the end glowing brightly before he exhaled a thin, curling streamer of gray smoke into the amber air.

Armand gave a short, silent bow, lowered the lighter, and tucked it back into his coat pocket. Carrying the tray with quiet efficiency, he turned on his heel and smoothly exited the salon, leaving the siblings alone in the amber-lit room’s quiet tension.

Narcisse: “So…”

He began.

Narcisse: “Demetrio’s little lap dog has gotten more powerful, and Tristan’s favorite asskisser can now fly.”

He added, blowing a billow of smoke out.

Charlotte: “Who is that?”

Narcisse: “Deimos Katsaros. Giorgos Katsaros, the archaeologist, has two sons, and both are completely worthless—he’s one of them.”

Charlotte made a face.

Charlotte: “Oh, the one with the stinky feet.”

She groused. Narcisse paused, looked at her, and barked out a laugh.

Narcisse: “Yes, that’s him. Let’s be real now… The only reason Tristan is with him is that Deimos puts him on a pedestal, and Tristan loves nothing more than someone unconditionally worshipping him… kind of like… someone I know.”

He smiled smugly at Charlotte. She turned her venomous gaze to Narcisse.

Narcisse cleared his throat.

Narcisse: “My concern isn’t my naughty nephew’s atrocious taste in partners—though he clearly takes after his mother in that regard. Rather, it’s the unsettling fact that both he and Demetrio’s lapdog have grown noticeably stronger or gained an extra power in Deimos’ case.”

Narcisse inhaled another long drag and exhaled. He tipped some ash into the ashtray.

Narcisse: “That worthless fat piece of shit left behind several useful gadgets he pilfered from that old man he snuffed out.”

He smirked.

Narcisse: “Ever heard of ‘mystical spirit water’?’

Charlotte shook her head.

Narcisse: “I don’t believe it’s native to our planet. Someone, Lazaros—Giorgos’ other son—dated someone named ‘Ashley Solegatti’ who gave him this special water. Deimos took it.”

He explained with a smirk.

Narcisse: “We need that Charlotte… or rather, I do, since all you care about is chasing Julien’s ghost.”

He snickered. Charlotte glowered at her brother.

Charlotte: “If anyone is chasing ghosts, it’s you, Narcisse. I have no interest in reuniting with my husband or son. You can have Victor. You always wanted him more than I ever did.”

She sneered, stubbing her cigarillo out in the crystal ashtray until the ember went cold. She snapped her book shut with a sharp, echoing thud, set it down on the side table, and rose gracefully to her feet.

Without sparing another glance at her brother, she swept past him and stormed out of the salon, her heel clicks fading down the grand corridor and leaving Narcisse sitting alone in the heavy silence.

Narcisse gritted his teeth, his knuckles whitening as he clutched the armrest, seething in silence as her words echoed through the empty room. He took another drag. I recalled that Dr. Ichiro Tachibana—Jiro’s older brother—injected that behemoth of a man-woman thing with something and turned it into a monster, he thought.

A smirk curled on his lips. It seems the company our dear father invested in is branching out and I have to find out where Ichiro lives, he mused.

~

Morning light filtered through the blinds of 35 Juniper Street in soft, pale slashes, illuminating the bedroom’s quiet sanctuary. The storm of the night before had settled into a heavy, drowsy peace.

Jaxon was still deeply asleep, his face pressed into the hollow of Jordi’s shoulder, a tangled halo of black hair strewn across the dark pillowcase. His breathing was even, free of the ragged hysteria that had torn through his lungs in Narcisse’s rotting pavilion.

Jordi lay awake, one arm draped protectively across Jaxon’s back, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He was utterly reluctant to move—reluctant to break the fragile cocoon of safety keeping the nightmares at bay.

The harsh, metallic trill of the bedside telephone shattered the silence.

Jordi’s reflexes fired instantly. He reached across the nightstand and snagged the receiver before the second ring could jolt Jaxon awake, bringing the plastic to his ear while keeping his other arm anchored around his boyfriend’s waist.

Jordi: “Hello? Jordi Vaquero speaking.”

Executive Secretary: “Mr. Vaquero? Thank God you’re picking up.”

The brisk, stressed voice of an executive secretary from Donati, Inc. came through.

Executive Secretary: “We’ve been trying your line since dawn. Have you heard from Pink Top General?”

Jordi’s posture stiffened against the headboard, his brow furrowing.

Jordi: “No. I was out late on personal business. What’s his status?”

Executive Secretary: “Mr. Donati is still in the cardiac ICU.”

She said, paper rustling frantically in the background.

Executive Secretary: “His condition stabilized after the attack yesterday, but the doctors are keeping him under strict observation. The board is in absolute chaos; the municipal utility contracts for the southern grid are sitting unsigned on his desk, and Blair is practically useless in the boardroom and everywhere else. We need you down at the hospital immediately, Mr. Vaquero. Demetrio was asking for you before the sedatives took hold.”

Jordi closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, in a controlled breath.

Demetrio’s sudden heart attack from when that chainsaw maniac attacked him and Jordi, and the swarm of rats, had left the entire corporate apparatus of Donati, Inc. suspended over a precipice. As the CEO’s personal assistant, Jordi held the keys to the private files, the board schedules, and the executive authority Demetrio guarded with an iron fist. Palm Tree State’s entire power grid hung in the balance, and with Demetrio incapacitated in a hospital bed, the wolves at the edges of the utility conglomerate were already circling.

Jordi: “I understand…”

He murmured quietly into the receiver.

Jordi: “Clear my morning meetings. Route any urgent wire transfers through my encrypted office terminal. I’ll be at Pink Top General within the hour to coordinate with Demetrio’s physicians and manage the board briefing.”

Executive Secretary: “Understood, Mr. Vaquero. Please hurry.”

The line clicked dead.

Jordi set the receiver down with deliberate care, staring at the handset as the harsh reality of daylight rushed back in. Outside this house, he was the sharp, commanding executive assistant running interference for a fallen titan; inside, he was the only anchor keeping the love of his life from slipping back into a waking nightmare.

A faint, groggy murmur pulled him back.

Beside him, Jaxon stirred, his brow furrowing in his sleep before his dark eyes fluttered open. The younger man’s hand instinctively tightened its grip on Jordi’s shirt, his voice thick with sleep and a faint rasp.

Jaxon: “Jordi…?”

He mumbled, blinking against the thin beams of morning sun.

Jaxon: “Who was that?”

Jordi softened instantly, turning on his side and brushing stray strands of black fringe away from Jaxon’s forehead. He leaned down and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to his temple.

Jordi: “Donati, Inc.”

He said softly, keeping his voice quiet and calm.

Jordi: “Demetrio is in the ICU at Pink Top General. The heart attack took a heavy toll, and the front office is tearing itself apart trying to keep the utility running.”

Jaxon let out a slow breath, his eyes clearing as the reality of Jordi’s corporate obligations sank in. Even through the residual haze of exhaustion and the lingering phantom ache in his feet, Jaxon understood what Demetrio meant to Jordi’s career—and how critical Donati, Inc. was to the entire city.

Jaxon: “You have to go…”

He murmured, his fingers trailing down Jordi’s arm, though his grip lingered for a second longer than usual, hesitant to let the warmth leave the bed.

Jordi: “Not until I know you’re all right…”

He said firmly, his thumb smoothing over Jaxon’s cheekbone.

Jordi: “I can have Tristan or Fabien come over to sit with you. Or Celeste. You don’t have to be in this house alone today, Jiro.”

Jaxon shook his head slowly, a faint, familiar spark of stubborn resilience flickering behind his dark eyes.

Jaxon: “No. Celeste’s got her own things, and Fabien will just make a scene. I’m okay, Jordi. The bath helped. My healing powers did the rest. I just need some jasmine tea and some quiet.”

Jordi looked at him, searching for any lingering panic behind the bravado. Satisfied by the steady, warm glow radiating beneath Jaxon’s skin, Jordi leaned down and captured his lips in a deep, grounding kiss—firm, full of promise, and entirely devoid of the cold shadows of the decaying carnival.

Jordi: “I’ll check in on Demetrio, handle the paperwork, and push the board back into line. Then I'm coming straight home to you.”

He promised.

Jordi slipped out from under the heavy quilts with practiced stealth, pulling the covers up snugly over Jaxon’s bare shoulders so the morning chill wouldn’t reach him.

The en-suite bathroom was still warm and faintly fragrant from the night before. Turning on the shower, Jordi stepped into the scalding cascade, letting the hot water pound against the tension knotted between his shoulder blades. The steam washed away the lingering bite of ozone, the phantom stench of charred wood, and the bitter trace of hospital-bound anxiety. In twenty minutes, he was stepping out onto the plush bath mat, towel-dried and focused.

He moved to the expansive walk-in closet to dress for the battleground awaiting him at Pink Top General and the Donati, Inc. executive offices.

He selected an immaculate, black Italian-cut suit that draped sharply over his athletic frame, pairing it with a dark purple pressed dress shirt that mirrored his hair. He knotted a sleek black tie into a crisp, razor-sharp Windsor, smoothed his cuffs, then sat on the bench to pull on a pair of fine, black sheer dress socks. He finished with a quick, deliberate spritz of his favorite cologne—a subtle, rich blend of cedarwood, bergamot, and amber—wiping out even the faintest lingering memory of Narcisse’s sickening gardenias.

Stepping quietly back into the sunlit kitchen, Jordi set to work.

He filled the heavy stainless-steel kettle, set it on the range, and fetched a delicate porcelain teapot along with Jaxon’s favorite ceramic mug. From the pantry, he measured out loose-leaf jasmine green tea pearls and let them tumble softly into the infuser. When the water reached a gentle, rolling simmer, he poured it over the leaves. The fragrant, floral steam bloomed immediately into the quiet kitchen air, light, calming, and restorative.

Jordi let the tea steep to a perfect golden hue, then pulled the leaves and added just half a spoon of raw honey to balance the delicate floral notes.

Balancing the steaming mug on a small wooden tray alongside a glass of chilled water, Jordi walked softly back down the carpeted hallway and slipped through the bedroom door.

Jordi: “Tea’s up, sweetheart…”

He murmured softly, crossing the room to set the tray on the nightstand beside Jaxon.

Jordi paused by the bedroom door, taking one last look at Jaxon, propped against the pillows, with a steaming mug of jasmine tea cradled in his hands. The relief on Jaxon’s face was unmistakable—pale and weary, but safe.

Jordi: “I’ll lock the doors behind me. I’ll call you the second I get out of the meeting with Demetrio's doctors.”

He said softly, flashing him a reassuring, affectionate smile.

Jaxon: “Drive safe, Jordi.”

He replied, the faint trace of his signature smirk finally tugging at the corner of his lips. "

Jordi nodded, pulling the bedroom door closed with a gentle click. He walked down the hall to the entryway, where his polished black leather zip-up boots rested beside the console table. He slipped into each boot, the fine black sheer socks sliding effortlessly into the smooth leather lining before he pulled up the side zippers with a clean, crisp rasp.

He grabbed his leather briefcase and keys and stepped outside into the bright morning sunshine. The coastal air was crisp, carrying a refreshing hint of salt breeze that cleared his head completely. He locked the heavy front door behind him.

In the driveway, the metallic purple finish of his 1987 Ferrari 328 gleamed under the Palm Tree State sun. Jordi opened the door, slid into the low-slung, tan leather bucket seat, and tossed his briefcase onto the passenger side.

He slotted the key into the ignition and turned it.

The mid-engine V8 erupted to life behind him with a sharp, resonant bark, settling instantly into a rhythmic, confident rumble. Adjusting his rearview mirror, Jordi dropped the car into first gear, eased off the clutch, and smoothly pulled out of Juniper Street. The tires gripped the asphalt as he accelerated toward the boulevard, the sleek Ferrari carving a direct line through Pink Top City toward the towering white silhouette of Pink Top General Hospital.

~

Jordi pulled the Ferrari into the parking lot of Pink Top General Hospital, cutting the V8 engine as the low rumble echoed off the concrete pillars. He retrieved his briefcase, smoothed the lapels of his black Italian-cut suit, and pushed through the heavy glass doors into the sterile, air-conditioned chill of the main lobby.

The smell of antiseptic and industrial floor wax hit him immediately, sharp and clinical. Jordi took the elevator straight to the fifth floor—the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit. The doors slid open with a muted chime, revealing a hushed corridor bathed in pale fluorescent light, the quiet broken only by the synchronized beeps of telemetry monitors and the soft squeak of nurses’ clogs.

Approaching the central nursing station, Jordi caught the eye of the charge nurse on duty.

Jordi: “Jordi Vaquero, personal assistant to Demetrio Donati…”

He said smoothly, keeping his tone measured and professional.

Jordi: “I received word this morning that he was stabilized and asking for me.”

The nurse glanced at her chart and nodded with immediate recognition.

Nurse: “Room 512, Mr. Vaquero. Dr. Callahan just finished his rounds. Mr. Donati is awake, but please keep business matters brief. His heart took a severe hit, and we cannot afford any spikes in his blood pressure.”

Jordi: “Understood…”

He walked down the quiet hallway, his leather boots muffled against the linoleum, and pushed open the door to Room 512.

The sprawling VIP suite was dim, with the blinds drawn against the harsh morning sun. In the center of the room, surrounded by IV lines, monitors, and the rhythmic trace of an EKG machine, lay the formidable CEO of Donati, Inc. Demetrio Donati looked older, shrunken beneath the hospital blankets, but his blue, rheumy eyes snapped toward the door the instant Jordi crossed the threshold.

Jordi set his briefcase on the leather armchair beside the bed and stepped up to the railing with a respectful, composed nod.

Jordi: “Sorry I’m late. Traffic on the boulevard, sir. More importantly, I’m glad to see you breathing. How are you holding up?”

Demetrio gave a dry, raspy huff, the sound barely carrying over the steady, rhythmic chirping of the heart monitor. He shifted slightly against the elevated pillows, his weathered brow furrowing as he looked up at his assistant.

Demetrio: “I could be better… I thought I lost you… I didn’t want to endure that again…”

He said in a plaintive tone. Jordi twisted his mouth and drew a long breath. He knew what he meant.

Demetrio: “I didn’t know what was happening or why we have all this chaos surrounding us… Sylvia’s death feels so fresh…”

He paused, taking a slow, measured breath before his sharp gaze fixed squarely on Jordi’s face. The old man took in the subtle fatigue around Jordi’s eyes and the tension lingering beneath his immaculate suit.

Jordi: “I’m sorry…”

He whispered.

Demetrio: “Never mind an old man hooked up to plastic tubes, though.”

He rasped, his voice dropping lower, laced with genuine, gravelly concern.

Demetrio: “How are you feeling? And is Jiro safe?”

Jordi’s expression softened, a brief flicker of profound relief breaking through his professional mask. Even in the cardiac ICU, stripped of his corporate throne, Demetrio never missed a beat.

Jordi: “I’m holding together, sir…”

He answered quietly, stepping closer to the railing.

Jordi: “And Jiro is safe at home. It was a long, ugly night, but he's out of harm’s way, locked down at the house, and resting.”

Demetrio exhaled a heavy, rasping breath that sounded like grinding stones, his shoulders sinking back into the hospital pillows.

Demetrio: “Good…”

He muttered, his gaze steady on Jordi.

Demetrio: “Please don’t die on me…”

Jordi bowed his head.

Jordi: “I won’t, sir.”

Demetrio closed his eyes for a second, grimacing as a twinge of chest discomfort passed, before reopening them with clear, calculating focus.

Demetrio: “The southern grid contracts.”

He said, his voice dropping into business mode.

Demetrio: “They're sitting on the desk in the main office. The mayor’s office was expecting a signature by noon today, and the board of directors has probably already called three emergency caucuses to figure out who gets to carve up my chair.”

Jordi: “I’ve already instructed your executive secretary to route the wire transfers to my terminal.”

He replied smoothly, tapping the leather briefcase on the armchair.

Jordi: “I have the proxy documentation you authorized last quarter. The southern grid contracts will be executed on schedule under executive power of attorney. The board won’t get an inch of leverage.”

A rare, faint grin tugged at the corner of Demetrio’s weathered mouth.

Demetrio: “That’s why you’re worth every cent, Jordi. What about Blair? Has anyone checked on my grandson, or is he still locked in his bedroom playing with his toys? He needs to take his constipation medication. He’s not getting enough fiber, and it’s like pulling teeth to get him to eat fruit.”

Jordi: “...He’s safe at the mansion.”

He said, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

Demetrio nodded slowly, the medication tugging at the edges of his eyelids again. The formidable titan of Donati, Inc. was fading, slipping back toward the heavy sleep required to mend his damaged heart.

Demetrio: “Don’t let them push you around at the tower today, Jordi…”

He murmured, his voice growing thick with slumber.

Demetrio: “And get home to that boy of yours the minute the ink is dry. He needs you more than the electric company does.”

Jordi: “Understood, Demetrio.”

He waited until Demetrio’s breathing deepened into steady, rhythmic rest before picking up his briefcase. Leaving the quiet chill of the ICU room behind, Jordi headed back down to the Ferrari, ready to bring the full weight of Donati, Inc. down on anyone foolish enough to test the company—or his patience—today.

~

Deimos turned his black Jeep Wrangler onto Spring Garden Lane, the engine’s low rumble echoing softly through the quiet Papamos neighborhood.

Celeste stood with her arms crossed, exuding an effortless, dangerous confidence. She wore a black leather jacket over a form-fitting leather bustier, paired with a bold white tiger-stripe skirt and torn nylons. Sharp black ankle-strap boots sat on her feet, and a spiked collar rested around her neck.

Deimos killed the ignition, stepped out of the Jeep, and slammed the door shut. He wore a brown bomber jacket over a Pantera tank top, torn jeans, and dark brown military hiking boots instead of his cowboy boots.

Celeste: “Oh, you got a new pair of boots to stink up!”

She teased. Deimos crossed his arms and pouted.

Deimos: “My old boots were destroyed by Tristan’s batty mother!”

He huffed.

Celeste: “Yup, and your stinkers bought Fab enough time to knock her out!”

Deimos furrowed his eyebrows.

Deimos: “Okay, can you shut up about my feet already?!”

He stomped his foot.

Celeste looked over at the dark black Jeep Wrangler sitting in the driveway, eyeing its rugged build and boxy silhouette before glancing back at Deimos.

Celeste: “When did you even get this thing anyway?”

She asked, gesturing toward the Jeep. Deimos shrugged, letting out a soft sigh as he leaned back against the hood.

Deimos: “A little while ago. I had to sell the Ferrari Testarossa… I was getting a bit low on funds, and honestly, I needed something that felt a lot more like me.”

Celeste nodded.

Celeste: “Yeah, it is more you. I did the same for my Ferrari, though I didn’t need the money… I just wanted something lighter.”

She shrugged. Deimos laughed and shook his head, running a hand through his black hair.

Deimos: “Man, the Jeep handles the back roads near Spring Garden Lane way better, plus I can actually haul stuff and take Monica grocery shopping. She’s kinda set in her ways and doesn’t want to get groceries delivered. She prefers to pick them up herself.”

Deimos: “Anyway, I reckon Fabien is still in bed?”

He asked. Celeste bobbed her head.

Celeste: “Yeah, Fabien really loves to sleep in! Even when he’s not working at Danny Donger’s.”

She drawled.

Deimos: “Come on in. Monica got some breakfast cooking. She has sausages, bacon, eggs, and toast. I know you don’t like coffee, but I still have your energy drinks in the fridge.”

He drawled, hooking his thumb in his jeans. Celeste skipped to his hacienda.

Celeste: “Okay!”