Chapter Two-Hundred Ninety-One: The Bellegarde Addition

Chapter 291

The Bellegarde Addition

Stepping out of the steam-filled bathroom, Tristan walked into his quiet bedroom, towel in hand, to dry himself off completely. He moved with practiced elegance, drying his skin and putting on his glasses before reaching into his wardrobe for his clothes.

He started with a pair of sheer black socks, smoothing them over his feet, then stepped into tailored black trousers, pulling them up and threading a belt through the loops before fastening the buckle snugly. Next, he put on a crisp, light blue button-down shirt. After fastening the buttons and collar, he bound a dark blue tie into a neat, sharp Windsor knot. Then came the suit jacket—a finely tailored black double-breasted Italian cut jacket that draped perfectly across his frame, which he buttoned up with practiced ease.

To finish, Tristan lifted a crystal bottle of Oxford Bleu cologne and gave himself a couple of subtle spritzes. He stepped in front of the mirror, gathered his long, striking white hair and tied it back into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck, satisfied with his refined appearance.

Picking up his leather briefcase, Tristan left his room and stepped out onto the pedway. He walked along the elevated walkway and made his way down the sweeping curved staircase that led into the mansion's main living areas. Continuing down the hallway, he entered the spacious kitchen and sat at the central island. Resting his hands on the polished surface, he quietly watched his father, Victor, prepare breakfast at the stove.

Tristan flicked his gaze to his briefcase, where he placed the dead mouse in a Ziploc bag, and then to his father.

Victor moved around the stove with practiced care, then set a freshly prepared plate in front of Tristan—crisp bacon, softly scrambled eggs, and perfectly browned toast—alongside a hot, fragrant cup of Earl Grey tea.

Tristan: “Thanks, Papa.”

He said softly, cupping his hands around the teacup and blowing on it.

Victor: “So Jasper’s birthday is coming up… What should I get him?”

He cupped his chin. Tristan knitted his eyebrows.

Tristan set his teacup down softly on the saucer, the china clicking gently in the quiet kitchen. Jasper had already confided in him about his secret plan to propose to Victor on his birthday, October 4th, and Tristan had no intention of spoiling the upcoming milestone. Then he wondered how many other mice were around.

Tristan: “Honestly, Papa, I don’t think you need to worry too much about a lavish gift. Just spend quality time with him—maybe plan a quiet dinner together. Knowing Jasper, having you all to himself for the evening is all he really wants.”

Victor smiled at his son.

Tristan: “Papa…”

He said soberly, clenching his hands into fists. He pursed his lips tightly.

Tristan: “...Did Oliver tell you about any mice in the house?”

Victor raised his eyebrows.

Victor: “I didn’t know we had mice. He never told me.”

He chuckled. I might have to hire an exterminator, Tristan thought. Lord only knows how many other creatures Narcisse put this on, he mused.

Tristan: “I see.”

He forced a smile.

Finishing the last bite of his breakfast and taking one final, warm sip of Earl Grey tea, Tristan rose from the kitchen island. He carried his dish and cup to the sink, set them down neatly, then retrieved his briefcase. Walking into the mudroom, he slid his feet into his black wingtip Oxfords and tied the laces with swift precision.

He pulled open the side entrance door and walked over to his red 1987 Toyota MR2 convertible. Settling into the leather driver’s seat, Tristan placed his briefcase on the passenger side, slid the key into the ignition, and brought the engine to life with a smooth purr.

He pressed the automatic remote button mounted on the visor and watched the heavy garage door roll upward. Placing his hand over the back of the passenger seat, he looked over his right shoulder to check behind him, then shifted into reverse and carefully backed out down the driveway. Once clear of the garage, he pressed in the clutch, shifted into first gear, and smoothly drove down the winding length of his driveway.

~

Sunlight streamed through the window, signaling mid-afternoon as the clock neared two. Fabien stirred lazily in bed, stretched, then sat up and slid out. He walked into the bathroom, grabbed his toothbrush, squeezed on toothpaste, and brushed his teeth thoroughly. When he finished, he rinsed his mouth, set the toothbrush back in its holder, and unfastened his green plaid pajama pants, letting them slip down to the floor before stepping into the shower.

He stood under the warm stream of water, washing thoroughly as steam filled the room. When he finished, Fabien stepped out, grabbed a fresh towel, and dried off completely. Standing before the mirror, he saw white stubble on his face. He shook a can of rich shaving cream into his palm and smoothed the thick, warm foam evenly over his jaw, cheeks, and neck. He picked up his razor, wiped a clear patch on the foggy glass, and began shaving with careful, deliberate strokes.

He tilted his chin, gliding the blade smoothly along the contour of his neck, rinsing the steel under hot water after every pass. With steady precision, he defined the clean edges around his jawline and mustache area, ensuring he missed no stray stubble. Once finished, he rinsed away the lingering foam, dabbed his face dry with a clean hand towel, and patted on a splash of soothing aftershave, leaving his skin completely smooth and refreshed.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Fabien walked into his quiet bedroom. He grabbed a fresh pair of clean briefs and pulled them on before choosing the rest of his outfit. He slipped on a soft, worn Rush band tank top, then layered a vibrant blue flannel shirt over it, leaving it comfortably unbuttoned. Finally, he pulled on blue jeans, threaded a dark leather belt through the loops, and secured the buckle at his waist.

Picking up a bottle of fine Gucci cologne, Fabien gave himself a few quick spritzes over his neck and chest. He reached up to fix his hair, smoothing the white strands into place, and adjusted the necklace resting against his throat. Feeling put together, he stepped out of his room and walked down to the kitchen, his bare feet padding against the cool tiles.

He glanced out the kitchen window and noticed Celeste’s motorcycle was missing from its usual spot. Turning back to the counter, Fabien filled a kettle with fresh water, set it on the stove to boil, and unwrapped an Earl Grey tea bag, dropping it into his favorite mug in preparation for a quiet drink.

Carrying his steaming mug of Earl Grey over to the living room, Fabien retrieved the morning edition of the Pink Top Herald from the side table. He sank into the cushioned sofa, leaning back into the soft upholstery as he unfolded the broadsheet. With a relaxed exhale, he lifted his legs and rested his clean, bare feet on the smooth wooden surface of the coffee table. He took a slow, quiet sip of his hot tea, letting the warm flavor settle before turning his attention to the front-page headlines.

Fabien leaned back in the sofa, taking a slow sip of hot tea while flipping through the crisp pages of the Pink Top Herald. He skipped right past the local politics and crime beats, his eyes wandering toward the classifieds until a small boxed advertisement caught his attention: Pink Top Animal Shelter – Adoption Week.

Below the bold lettering was a grainy black-and-white photograph of a clutch of kittens peering out from a wicker basket. Fabien’s gaze lingered on the picture. Dogs—with their sudden barking, sharp teeth, and unpredictable lunges—made his skin crawl and his pulse spike with an instinctual dread. But these little bundles were entirely harmless. Soft, independent, quiet, and small enough to sit in the palm of his hand.

A mischievous, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Celeste hadn’t technically said no to a pet. He drained his cup of tea and rose to put it in the sink.

Walking to the entryway, Fabien slipped his bare feet into his flip-flops. He grabbed his keys from the hook by the door, stepped outside into the warm afternoon air, and headed toward his 1970 Shelby Mustang Cobra parked in the driveway. He opened the driver’s side door, settled into the leather seat, and slid the key into the ignition. The powerful engine roared to life with a deep, thunderous rumble. Placing his right arm over the back of the passenger seat, Fabien looked over his shoulder, shifted into reverse, and carefully backed out down the driveway. Once clear, he pressed the clutch, shifted into first gear, and drove smoothly down the road.

The drive to the Pink Top Animal Shelter was swift, the Shelby’s V8 engine rumbling as Fabien navigated through the streets. He pulled into the shelter’s parking lot, backed into an open space, and turned off the ignition. He grabbed his keys, opened the door, and stepped out onto the pavement.

Before he even reached the glass entrance, the sound hit him: sharp, frantic barking echoing from the outdoor runs along the far side of the building. Fabien froze mid-stride, his jaw tightening as an automatic prickle of unease rippled down his spine. The sheer thought of aggressive canines made his pulse jump, but he took a quiet breath, smoothed down the front of his flannel, and pushed through the lobby door where the air conditioning blew crisp and cool.

Volunteer: “Afternoon.”

She said behind the laminate front counter, looking up from a clipboard.

Volunteer: “Looking to adopt today?”

Fabien: “Just browsing the kittens.”

He said smoothly, flashing an easy, charming grin that masked the lingering tension from outside.

Volunteer: “Down the hall, first door to your right. That’s the nursery ward.”

Fabien: “Are there any dogs nearby?”

He asked nervously.

Volunteer: “It’s dog-free.”

Fabien silently thanked her for that detail and strolled down the corridor, hands tucked casually into his jean pockets. When he stepped into the cat room, the sterile quiet broke only with high-pitched meows, the rustle of newspaper bedding, and the soft chime of bell toys rolling across the tile.

Row upon row of wire cages lined the walls, filled with curious faces peering out. Fabien drifted past them, leaning down to let a tiny gray-and-white kitten sniff his knuckles through the cage.

Fabien paused, his gaze drawn to a lower cage near the room's corner.

Inside sat a tiny scrap of black fur, no bigger than a teacup, crouched on a faded blue towel. The moment she caught sight of his shadow, she scrambled to the front of the wire mesh on uncoordinated paws, tilted her chin up, and let out a fierce, squeaky mew that was entirely too big for her miniature body.

Fabien crouched down, resting his elbows on his knees. His white hair fell forward as he tilted his head, smirking as he studied the little creature. Her fur was sleek and inky dark, with wide golden eyes and pointed ears she clearly hadn’t grown into yet.

The kitten answered with another indignant chirp, thrusting a tiny black paw through the wire grid, claws fully extended in a dramatic reach toward his fingers. Fabien chuckled softly and offered the back of his hand. Instead of shrinking away, she immediately bumped her small, velvet forehead against his knuckles, purring like a miniature two-stroke engine.

A sharp, rebellious little thing, completely unapologetic about taking up space and demanding attention: the resemblance to Celeste’s fiery demeanor didn’t escape him for a second.

Fabien: “Yeah…”

He said softly, feeling a sudden, undeniable warmth settle in his chest as the kitten nibbled playfully on the hem of his flannel sleeve.

Fabien: “You’re definitely coming home with me.”

He leaned in a fraction closer and read the laminated card clipped to the kennel door: Ashley – 7 Weeks Old.

Fabien: “Ashley, huh?”

He said the name out loud, his French accent rounding the vowels into something smooth and teasing. The same name as the fatty who ditched Celeste for a bigger fatty, he thought.

The kitten responded immediately, throwing herself sideways against the wires with a dramatic purr and kneading the air with tiny, hooked claws. She tilted her chin back, flashing those bright golden eyes right up at him, entirely convinced she ran the place.

He gently hooked a finger through the grate so she could butt the side of her sleek black face against his knuckle.

Fabien: “A little classy, a little bratty. Celeste might actually approve.”

Straightening up, the hem of his open blue flannel brushed his knees as he pushed off his heels. He tossed one last look at the cage—Ashley was already scrambling to follow his shadow with loud, demanding squeaks—then turned on the balls of his bare feet in his flip-flops and headed back down the quiet hall toward the front desk.

Fabien: “I found the one.”

He announced, leaning an elbow casually onto the laminate counter and flashing the volunteer a lazy, confident smirk.

Fabien: “Ashley in cage four. Where do I sign?”

The volunteer smiled warmly, pulling a thick stack of adoption paperwork and a blue ballpoint pen from a binder beneath the counter. She smoothed the pages flat and pointed to the highlighted lines near the bottom of the form.

Volunteer: “Just need your full name, home address, and signature right here on the line.”

Fabien took the pen, leaning lightly against the counter as he filled out the paperwork with swift, elegant handwriting. He filled in his full name—Fabien Bellegarde—and noted his home address: 24 Juniper Street. On the final line, he added a quick, decorative flourish to his signature before setting the pen down on the completed form.

Fabien: “All set.”

He said, sliding the papers back across the laminate surface to her with a confident grin.

Volunteer: “Perfect! That will be an adoption fee of thirty-five dollars. Give me just two minutes to get her carrier ready and print your copy of the receipt, and Ashley is officially yours.”

Fabien pulled a leather wallet from his back pocket, slid out thirty-five dollars in cash, and placed the bills on the counter.

Fabien: “Here is thirty-five.”

The volunteer took the cash, the drawer clicking as she deposited the bills inside, and gathered up the adoption papers. Stepping around the counter, she walked down the hall to the nursery ward and retrieved the small cat carrier. Opening Ashley’s kennel door, she gently scooped up the squirming black kitten, settled her inside the carrier, and carefully fastened the latch before carrying her back out to Fabien.

Fabien leaned his hip back against the counter, crossed his ankles, and wore an eager, self-satisfied grin at the thought of introducing his new co-pilot to the roar of the Cobra.

~

With Ashley securely strapped into the passenger seat in her cat carrier, Fabien drove smoothly back toward Juniper Street. The deep rumble of the 1970 Shelby Mustang Cobra’s engine hummed through the cabin as he navigated the familiar roads home. He pulled into his driveway, stopped the car, turned off the ignition, and stepped out onto the pavement. He opened the passenger door, reached across the interior to unbuckle the seatbelt holding the carrier in place, and gently lifted it out. He carried Ashley to the porch, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside.

Fabien walked into the warm, quiet living room and set the carrier down on the hardwood floor. He crouched down, unlatched the wire door, and swung it open. After a brief pause, Ashley poked her small black nose out and stepped onto the floor on tiny, cautious paws. She sniffed the air tentatively before her curious, energetic nature took over. With her tail held high and her bright golden eyes wide, she began exploring her new surroundings, darting, spunky, and full of play from the edge of the rug to the leg of the coffee table. Fabien sat back against the floor, watching her spirited antics with a soft, warm smile.

Leaving the kitten happily occupied on the rug, Fabien pushed himself up and walked back out to the Shelby to retrieve the supplies he had bought. He loaded his arms with the bags containing Ashley’s kitten food, a pair of ceramic cat bowls, an automatic water fountain, a fresh litter pan, and a heavy bag of unscented clay litter, then carried everything inside.

He set the food and water supplies on the kitchen floor, unboxed the automatic fountain, filled it with fresh water, and plugged it in. Next, Fabien opened a small can of kitten pâté, scooped the smooth meat into one of the ceramic bowls, and set it down near the fountain. He then carried the litter pan and the bag of clay litter down the hall to the bathroom, pouring a generous layer into the box so Ashley would have everything she needed.

~

An hour later, a series of sharp, frantic thuds rattled against the front door, loud enough to send shockwaves straight through the living room.

Ashley’s ears flattened against her sleek black head like tiny airplane wings before she puffed her tail into a bristling bottle brush. Fabien, lounging on the cushions with an arm casually slung over the backrest, didn’t even flinch. He merely let out a quiet, world-weary sigh.

Jaclyn: “Fabien Bellegarde! Open this door immediately!”

Her shrill, unmistakable screech pierced right through the wood, accompanied by the dull thwack of her metal clipboard hitting the paneling.

Jaclyn: “I know you’re in there! Do not make me escalate this to a formal residential summons!”

Fabien stood up slowly, running a lazy hand through his white hair. He padded barefoot to the entryway, completely unbothered by the sheer fury radiating through the timber. Resting one hand casually on the brass deadbolt, he turned the lock and pulled the door inward.

There stood Jaclyn on the porch, practically vibrating with indignation. Her visor was tilted askew from her furious march down Juniper Street, and she brandished a yellow carbon slip like an execution warrant. Behind her, out on the sidewalk, a couple of curious neighbors had already paused their yard work to watch the inevitable showdown.

Fabien: “Afternoon, Jackie-babe.”

He said smoothly, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe and looking down at her with heavy-lidded, amused green eyes.

Fabien: “Did your husband’s garage inventions finally achieve sentience?"

Jaclyn’s jaw worked soundlessly for a split second before she thrust the paper right under his nose.

Jaclyn: “Save your smart-aleck commentary! I am here under section 9-C of the Papamos Homeowners Charter regarding unauthorized, unregistered, and biologically hazardous additions to the premises!”

Fabien glanced down at the paper, an amused smirk playing on his lips.

Fabien: “Are you giving me a fuckin’ survival horror puzzle to solve, or are you having an aneurysm?”

Jaclyn: “Do not play coy with me!”

She snapped, taking a half-step forward and jabbing a manicured finger toward the interior hallway.

Jaclyn: “I saw that pet carrier you brought home! Did you submit an animal registration permit to the board? Did you pay the mandatory neighborhood pet deposit? Did you have the premises inspected for feline allergens? Well, did you?!”

Before Fabien could deliver a razor-sharp reply, a soft pitter-patter echoed across the floorboards.

Ashley trotted up beside Fabien’s bare feet. She stopped right at the threshold, stared up at Jaclyn’s towering, furious silhouette, and—with supreme confidence—let out an ear-piercing, indignant squeak, glaring at the woman with bright golden eyes as if deeply offended by the interruption.

Fabien looked down at the tiny kitten, then back up at Jaclyn’s frozen, sputtering face, his slow smirk widening into pure, effortless delight.

Fabien: “Well, Jackie-babe, she’s seven weeks old, weighs under two pounds, and seems to share my opinion of you. Would you like her to sign your clipboard, or should I just close the door?”

Jaclyn puffed up like an enraged toad, her eyes bulging as she jabbed her pen straight down toward the tiny black kitten.

Jaclyn: “Don’t you get smart with me, Fabien!”

She shrieked, her voice hitting a frequency that made Ashley’s ears flatten backward in disgust.

Jaclyn: “That little delinquent flea-trap was in my front yard two minutes ago! Right in the center of my prized, imported begonia patch! She dug up my fresh cedar mulch and relieved herself like a common wild animal!”

She shook her clipboard so violently the metal clip clattered.

Jaclyn: “That is biological contamination of private floral landscaping! Section 12-D strictly prohibits residential fauna from soiling designated botanical displays! My prize-winning soil pH has been compromised by feline waste, and I demand you pay for total soil remediation this instant!”

Fabien tilted his head, his smirk broadening as he let out a low, incredulous chuckle. He looked down at Ashley, who had comfortably settled across his bare instep, grooming one tiny black back paw with complete indifference to the screaming woman.

Fabien: “Jaclyn, look at her.”

He drawled, his voice dripping with condescension.

Fabien: “She is barely larger than a grapefruit; she hasn’t set one paw past that doorframe since I carried her inside today, and her litter box is currently thirty feet away in my bathroom.”

He gestured casually down at his feet, where Ashley paused her bath to glare up at Jaclyn with narrowed, luminous gold eyes.

Fabien: “If she somehow managed to pick your dead begonias over the luxury clay pan down the hall, hike next door on legs three inches long, leave a calling card, and sprint back before dinner... well, I’d say she deserves a medal, not a citation. But personally? I’d wager it was a raccoon—or perhaps your husband, desperate for an excuse to avoid coming inside.”

Jaclyn: “How dare you speak about Clarence like that, you insolent little brat?!”

She bellowed, her screech echoing straight down Juniper Street, loud enough to rattle the porch light. Her face went from mottled magenta to an alarming shade of crimson, and she slammed her metal clipboard against her thigh with a resounding crack.

Jaclyn: “Clarence is a respectable, hardworking man with three engineering degrees! He does not skulk around in flowerbeds, and he certainly does not relieve himself in my begonias! He is a pillar of the Papamos Homeowners Committee, and he spends his time doing productive, high-level structural diagnostics on his domestic prototypes—not that a shiftless degenerate who prances around in dolphin shorts and flip-flops would know the first thing about intellectual labor!”

She leaned forward so aggressively her pastel visor nearly grazed the screen door, her finger jabbing the air like a switchblade.

Jaclyn: “You twist everything into an insult because you have zero respect for tradition, zero respect for private property, and zero respect for community decency! But dragging my husband into your gutter filth is a bridge too far, Fabien! Clarence will hear about this the second he comes inside from the workbench, and believe me, when he draws up the official board complaint, you and that little black menace will be wishing you stayed on the wrong side of the tracks!”

Down by Fabien’s bare feet, Ashley no longer flinched at the shouting. The kitten simply let out a long, theatrical yawn, showing off a mouthful of miniature teeth, before sitting back on her haunches and lazily scratching behind her left ear.

Fabien looked down at the kitten’s deadpan reaction, then slowly brought his emerald gaze back up to Jaclyn. He crossed his arms over his chest, his unbuttoned flannel draping casually over his shoulders as the corner of his mouth ticked up into a cold, effortless smirk.

Fabien: “Three degrees…”

He muttered.

Fabien: “And yet he hasn’t figured out how to build a silencer for your voice. Truly a tragic waste of potential.”

Jaclyn looked as though she might spontaneously combust right on the front porch. Her chest heaved against her pastel polo, her manicured hands trembling with a rage so incandescent it threatened to send her visor flying across the lawn.

Jaclyn: “That does it! That is the absolute final straw!”

She shrieked, her voice reaching a pitch so shrill that two mourning doves took frantic flight from the neighbor’s palm tree. She slapped her metal clipboard against the doorframe, leaning forward until her nose was mere inches from Fabien’s casual, unbothered smirk.

Jaclyn: “You think you’re above the law, Fabien Bellegarde?! You think you can harbor unsanctioned fauna, unleash toxic biological hazards upon the neighborhood’s prize flora, verbally assault a sitting executive of the Papamos Homeowners Committee, and mock a distinguished engineer with impunity?!”

She thrust her pen toward the street like a dagger, her eyes wild and bulging behind her oversized cat-eye glasses.

Jaclyn: “The local marshal isn’t enough for this level of civil disruption! The municipal code enforcement is far too lenient for a chronic nuisance like you! I am going straight to the governor’s district liaison, and I will personally petition the National Guard to roll armored transports down Juniper Street! We will have an emergency military quarantine declared over this entire perimeter! They will impound your reckless muscle car, seize that undocumented biological menace you call a pet, and tear down that fence to inspect every single millimeter of my contaminated begonia soil under armed guard!”

Across the street, a lawnmower sputtered to an abrupt halt as another neighbor poked his head out of his garage, staring in stunned disbelief at the spectacle unfolding on the porch.

Fabien didn’t budge. He casually shifted his weight, leaning his back against the jamb with one bare foot crossed over the other, resting his hands loosely in the pockets of his denim. The emerald green of his eyes sparkled with sheer, unadulterated delight as he took in the absurd crescendo of her meltdown.

Down by his toes, Ashley seemed equally unimpressed by the threat of military intervention. The tiny black kitten casually strolled between Fabien’s ankles, looked up at the trembling woman in pastel, and let out an indifferent, high-pitched chirp before meticulously washing her front paw.

Fabien: “The National Guard, Jackie-babe?”

He mused, his rich French lilt stretching out the vowels with devastating, playful irony.

Fabien: “Tanks on Juniper Street? Camouflage infantry securing the perimeter for eight ounces of kitten fluff and three bruised begonias? Do make sure you ask them to bring the heavy artillery—I hear your stinky shoes are considered weapons of mass destruction by the United Nations.”

He flashed a slow, dazzling grin that pushed Jaclyn to the very edge of madness.

Fabien: “Go on then.”

He purred softly, gesturing toward the sidewalk with an easy flick of his wrist.

Fabien: “Run along and place the call. I’ll make sure to have fresh tea brewing on the patio while we wait for the helicopters.”

Jaclyn’s mouth worked soundlessly for a few excruciating seconds, her face cycling from flushed crimson to a deep, dangerous purple as her brain struggled to process his utter lack of fear. She let out a sharp, choked gasp of pure outrage, her knuckles turning bone-white around the aluminum frame of her clipboard.

Jaclyn: “This is far from over, Fabien Bellegarde!”

She spat, spinning around so fast on her heels that her visor spun crooked across her forehead.

Jaclyn: “Mark my words! I will be back with the full weight of the committee, the city ordinance officers, and the proper authorities! You have not seen the last of me!”

With a dramatic huff, she marched down the porch steps, her orthotic sneakers stomping against the concrete with heavy, vengeful thuds. She stomped down the driveway, waving her clipboard furiously in the air as if warding off evil spirits, and disappeared down the sidewalk toward her house, muttering a non-stop stream of HOA regulations under her breath.

Fabien watched her retreating figure with a quiet, satisfied chuckle, resting a hand against the doorframe as the neighborhood quieted back down. Down by his feet, Ashley let out one final squeak of victory, trotting inside with her tail held high as if she had personally chased the woman off the property.

Fabien: “I agree, ma puce…”

He murmured with an effortless chuckle, reaching down to scoop Ashley gently into the crook of his arm.

Fabien: “She puts on a magnificent show, doesn’t she?”

With a smooth flick of his heel, he nudged the front door shut, letting the house’s quiet warmth seal out the neighborhood drama once and for all.

~

High up in the leafy branches of an oak tree near the perimeter of Dessert Ranch, Celeste Marcella sat comfortably perched on a sturdy limb, adjusting her position with easy grace. She wore a striking black leather jacket layered over a bold white tiger-stripe bustier, paired with a sleek leather skirt and leather mules.

From her elevated vantage point, she looked out over the creamery’s classic red-barn exterior, taking in the deep-red vertical board-and-batten siding, black double doors, and the neatly landscaped walkway with dark mulch and green shrubs.

Down below, she spotted Ashley walking alongside their friend, Madelyn. The two were chatting animatedly as they made their way up the concrete path toward the entrance of Dessert Ranch. Celeste leaned back against the tree trunk and watched Ashley and Madelyn push through the black double doors and head inside. I wonder if they know Mr. Nice Cream’s secret, she thought.

She glanced down to see Tristan looking up at her, smiling.

Tristan: “Coming down?”

Celeste gave a subtle nod, effortlessly shifting her weight before pushing off the sturdy oak limb. She dropped through the air with fluid ease, her black leather skirt brushing the leaves, before landing smoothly in front of Tristan with flawless, cat-like finesse.

Tristan glanced at the creamery and back at her.

Celeste: “Ashley seems happier with that weirdo.”

She mumbled.

Tristan: “I see.”

He folded his arms over his chest.

Celeste: “I didn’t wanna tell Deimos ‘cause he would get mad and yell at Ashley, and Fab would troll them, so I will tell you. I just wanna know if I did something wrong.”

She asked him. Tristan shook his head and smiled.

Tristan: “No, Celeste, you didn’t. You and Ashley lead entirely separate lives now.”

He paused, adjusting the sleeve of his tailored suit jacket before continuing in a calm, measured tone, his analytical gaze resting on the creamery entrance.

Tristan: “People change, environments shift, and priorities realign. Observing them from a distance won’t alter the reality of the path they’ve chosen, nor does it diminish your own standing. You’ve simply reached a point where your paths no longer intersect, and analyzing it further won’t yield a different outcome.”

He quieted for a beat.

Tristan: “Besides, it’s probably for the best. They’re living here among us Reonans, who possess strength far beyond anyone from their planet. Given the perilous lives we lead, keeping them close would only drag them into further danger—much like what occurred in Oakhaven.”

He added thoughtfully.

Tristan: “Skipping a funeral is completely out of character for Ashley. Missing Sylvia’s service only proves just how devastating her loss was to them.”

He said resolutely.

Celeste: “Did they ever bring her up to you?”

Tristan shook his head.

Tristan: “No, they never mentioned Sylvia or Jordi.”

He spoke evenly, his posture resolute.

Tristan: “Furthermore, I suspect our continued friendship with Jordi has contributed to them pulling away from us.”

Celeste looked up at him.

Celeste: “ ‘Us’?”

Tristan pursed his lips and nodded soberly.

Tristan: “It’s not just you, Celeste.”

He let out a small hum.

Tristan: “They’ve distanced themselves from all of us who were part of that life. It’s a natural self-preservation response after everything that happened.”

He pursed his lips and gave a solemn nod.

Celeste folded her arms.

Celeste: “What does that weirdo have that we don’t?”

Tristan chuckled softly.

Tristan: “Serenity, tranquility, freedom from Jordi, and zero danger from Narcisse, Charlotte, or Ichiro, paired with a whimsical sense of humor. After the constant turmoil our planet inflicted through Lazaros and Blair, followed by Jordi’s betrayal, it offers them a welcome escape.”

Celeste: “You reeeally have no criticisms of her?”

She eyed him incredulously. Tristan merely shrugged.

Tristan: “She seems off in her own world, but so is Lazaros, and so is Blair.”

He cleared his throat.

Tristan: “At the end of the day, it’s irrelevant. We face far more pressing concerns than someone retreating into their own fantasy world. As long as she isn’t hurting anybody—unlike Blair and Lazaros—who am I to judge how she decides to live? That’s her choice, not mine.”

He said coolly.

Tristan bowed his head, kneeling to unclasp his leather suitcase. He pulled out the Ziploc bag holding the limp, lifeless mouse and presented it to Celeste, who peered at it with wide, violet eyes.

Tristan: “Oliver brought this to me last night. It has a listening device as well as a mind control device on it.”

He drew a long breath.

Celeste: “Is that Ichiro or Narcisse?”

Tristan: “Narcisse.”

He said flatly and placed the bag into his briefcase, locking it back up.

Celeste: “You gonna go to Miss Stinkfoot?”

She gagged. Tristan pulled a face.

Tristan: “Though the prospect fills me with dread, a persistent suspicion has nagged at me ever since I extracted that mind-control implant from the DashDish delivery boy. I must confess, however, that Etsuko’s appalling foot odor has made me repeatedly delay visiting her.”

He groaned.

Celeste: “Yeah, but Deimos’ feet stink, too.”

She added.

Tristan: “While that may be true, Celeste, it hardly excuses Etsuko’s disregard for basic hygiene when conducting sensitive investigative work. I also chide Deimos for his foot odor and have purchased imported tea tree oil and eucalyptus scrub for his feet.”

He adjusted his glasses, his tone remaining composed and thoughtful.

Celeste: “I just realized something…”

She mumbled. Tristan turned to her.

Celeste: “I never see fairies around Andreas’ shop, and I go there a lot to pick up incense or tea for Fab.”

Tristan: “Yes, when I paid a visit to Ashley or wherever they resided, there were always fairies around.”

He nodded.

Celeste: “Yeah, and Blake is their kind, but no fairies in sight. But I see fairies where Mr. Nice Cream lives.”

Tristan turned to her and gazed at her thoughtfully.

Tristan: “I see now. In any case, we do need these mind-control devices looked at, so would you care to accompany me to PixelSun Securities?”

He asked her. Celeste groaned, glanced back at Dessert Ranch, then up at Tristan.

Celeste: “I think it’s for the best.”

She drawled. Tristan smiled warmly and nodded.

Tristan: “Splendid.”