Chapter Two-hundred Seventy-Five: Like Mother, Like Daughter

Chapter 275

Like Mother, Like Daughter

Mayor Sully Stone and his daughter, Scarlett, shared the stage with Celeste, Tristan, Fabien, Deimos, Jordi, and Jaxon. Each was distinctly attired: Celeste was dressed in a white tiger-striped off-the-shoulder blouse, paired with a denim skirt and leather mules; Tristan wore a black Italian-cut, double-breasted suit accented with gold buttons over an aqua pressed shirt, dark blue tie, and black wingtip Oxfords; Fabien sported a Nuklear Intoxikation Sucks tank top beneath a denim jacket, along with straight-leg jeans and flip-flops; Deimos donned a Kreator tank top, distressed jeans, and cowboy boots; Jordi chose a black button-down shirt beneath a dark gray sports jacket, accompanied by dark gray jeans and black zip-up boots; Jaxon opted for a red snakeskin-print button-down shirt, black leather pants, and black Chelsea boots; Mayor Sully wore a gray English-cut suit, a crisp white shirt, a blue tie, and brown wholecut Oxfords; and Scarlett wore a purple crop top with a black skirt, purple tights, and black pumps.

The auditorium was packed, a sea of faces lit by bright overhead stage lights. Sully Stone stood at the podium, his posture rigid, though the usual practiced ease of his political persona had given way to a raw, unvarnished gravity. To his right, Scarlett held his hand, her presence a quiet anchor. Across the stage, Celeste, Tristan, Fabien, Deimos, Jordi, and Jaxon stood in a line, their expressions ranging from stoic to weary to Celeste grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

Sully cleared his throat, the sound magnified by the silence of the room.

Sully: “My fellow citizens of Pink Top City.”

He began, his voice resonant but stripped of its usual rehearsed cadence.

Sully: “For weeks, we have lived under the suffocating weight of fear. The name ‘Pink Top Ripper’ became synonymous with the shadows that crept into our homes. We looked for order, for answers, and for protection—and for a time, those answers felt tragically out of reach.”

He turned slightly, gesturing toward The Sextet standing beside him.

Sully: “I stand here not just as your Mayor, but as a man who knows, firsthand, the precise nature of that darkness. When I was taken, when hope was merely a flickering candle in a cold, subterranean cell, it was not the machinery of government that saved me. It was these six individuals.”

He looked at each of them in turn, meeting their eyes.

Sully: “Celeste, Tristan, Fabien, Deimos, Jordi, and Jaxon. They ventured where few would dare to tread. They faced a monster—a man who thought he could tear the fabric of our city apart, a man named Rutherford who believed his cruelty was untouchable. They did what the laws of man and the reach of our police could not.”

Sully leaned into the microphone, his blue eyes scanning the crowd with a fierce intensity.

Sully: “They did not just rescue me. They dismantled a reign of terror. They faced Rutherford Jones, also known as ‘The Pink Top Ripper’, and in the process, they restored something that I, even with all my authority, had begun to despair of: justice. These six took back the streets that belong to you—to us. They are the reason we sleep soundly tonight. They are the reason that the shadow over our city has finally, decisively, been burned away by the light of courage.”

He paused, letting the weight of the realization settle over the audience.

Sully: “History books may look for complex explanations for how we survived these times, but the truth is simple. It was sacrifice. It was bravery. And it was these six heroes standing here before you today. Pink Top City owes them a debt that no medal or proclamation can ever truly repay.”

Sully stepped back from the podium, his hand coming to rest on Scarlett’s shoulder, as the auditorium erupted into thunderous, sustained applause.

Sully turned his head slightly and gave a sharp, definitive nod toward the wings of the stage. An assistant in a dark suit emerged, carrying a polished silver tray lined with deep crimson velvet. Resting upon it were six shimmering “Medals of Valor,” their golden surfaces catching the intense stage lights. The crowd’s cheers softened into a respectful hum as the assistant stopped beside the Mayor.

Sully picked up the first medal, his hands steady. He stepped toward Celeste, who was still wearing her Cheshire Cat grin.

Sully: “For the spirit that refuses to be broken and the cunning that led us through the maze.”

He said, pinning the medal to her blouse. The applause surged as he moved to Tristan.

Sully: “For the unwavering resolve and the tactical brilliance that anchored this team in our darkest hour.”

Tristan bowed his head slightly as the gold was secured to his lapel.

He reached for the third medal and approached Fabien.

Sully: “For the raw courage to stand against the tide, regardless of the cost.”

Fabien adjusted his denim jacket, a rare look of solemnity on his face. Next was Deimos.

Sully: “For the strength that shielded the weak and the bravery that never faltered.”

Deimos nodded, the medal gleaming against his tank top. Sully then turned to Jordi.

Sully: “For the quiet vigilance and the dedication to justice that saw what others missed.”

Jordi beamed as tears of joy welled in his eyes.

Finally, Sully stood before Jaxon.

Sully: “And for the tenacity that hunted the shadows until they had nowhere left to hide.”

He pinned the final medal to Jaxon’s snakeskin shirt.

With the presentations complete, Sully stepped back to the center of the stage and raised his hands. As if on a single cue, the entire audience rose to their feet, the auditorium shaking with a thunderous standing ovation that seemed like it would never end.

As the thunderous applause finally began to ebb, shifting from a roar to a respectful hum, the auditorium's energy remained electric. Scarlett, clearly overwhelmed by the magnitude of the moment and the sheer relief that her father was safe, didn’t wait for the formalities to fully conclude.

With a determined, joyous glint in her eyes, she moved with purpose toward the stage. Ignoring the cameras still panning across the dais and the lingering whispers of the crowd, Scarlett reached Celeste in a few swift strides. She didn’t offer a polite handshake or a standard congratulatory pat. Instead, she stepped right into Celeste’s space, wrapping her arms around her with fierce affection.

Before Celeste could do more than offer a surprised, delighted laugh, Scarlett began to shower her with kisses—on her cheeks, her temples, and her nose—pouring out the deep, unvarnished gratitude that words couldn’t quite contain. It was a chaotic, beautiful display of emotion, a stark and intimate contrast to the formal ceremony that had just unfolded.

~

Attired in a pastel pink silk dressing gown, Vasilos stared at the TV screen before hurling his beer-can-clutched fist straight into it, shattering the glass.

Vasilos: “FUCK OFF!!!”

He thundered and tossed the can of beer across the room.

Vasilos: “That fucking lame-wad cousin of mine deserves jack fucking shit! THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME!”

He snapped and paced around the lounge area.

Vasilos: “And to make matters worse: JORDI IS THERE! Jordi deserves LESS than Deimos!”

He seethed.

He stormed out of the lounge, leaving behind the destroyed TV and the cans of beer, and padded toward the pool area.

Vasilos: “Why the fuck are Jordi and Deimos surrounded by hot men?! Where is MY action?!”

He muttered to himself.

He stepped into the pool room, which felt less like entering a room and more like trespassing into a forgotten empire built solely for indulgence. Every surface seemed to hum with golden opulence, illuminated by the twin crystal chandeliers that hung like frozen waterfalls from the vaulted ceiling. High above, encircled by intricate gilded molding, a fresco of cherubs and celestial figures tumbled across painted clouds, gazing down in silent judgment upon the tranquil basin below.

Flanking the room, soaring neoclassical arches and fluted columns held up the gilded expanse, their pale stone gleaming beneath the gentle flicker of candle-style sconces. Marble statues stood sentinel in shadowy alcoves, their sculpted, sightless eyes watching over the water. Between the pillars, potted palms stretched their emerald fronds toward the light, offering a vibrant, living contrast to the carved stone and burnished gold.

The pool itself was a masterpiece of liquid glass. Its turquoise surface was so extraordinarily undisturbed that it seemed solid, perfectly mirroring the soaring arches, the towering French windows at the far end, and the dazzling constellation of crystal lights overhead. Submerged beneath the crystal-clear depths lay an elaborate mosaic medallion, its deep sapphire and teal flourishes glowing like ancient treasure buried under the sea.

At the far end of the sanctuary, towering arched doors looked out into the muted, misty greens of an endless private estate, framing the wild outside world like a framed landscape painting. Here inside, isolated from time and weather, plush chaises lined the marble floor, draped in crisp white linen, waiting silently for whoever was daring enough to shatter the room’s pristine, glass-like silence with a single dive.

Vasilos sneered as she walked into the room, followed closely by a pool boy who was practically slobbering over her.

Amber Drake stepped into the room with the calculated grace of someone who understood the precise value of an entrance. At twenty-four, she carried herself not with the restless energy of youth, but with the cool, deliberate composure of a woman who had mastered the art of holding a room captive.

Her hair was a voluminous cascade of spun gold—heavy, feathered waves that swept past her shoulders in dramatic tiers, gleaming under the low chandeliers. Beneath that luminous frame, her features possessed a sharp, magnetic allure. Her eyes, framed by bold, theatrical lashes that winged outward like dark raven wings, held a sharp golden-amber gleam that missed nothing. A delicate beauty mark rested just beside her deep crimson lips, punctuating a subtle, knowing smirk that suggested she was always three steps ahead of whatever game was being played.

She was completely nude, baring her large breasts with her brown nipples and her perfect vulva.

As she paused, resting one slender, manicured hand over the other, the dark lacquer of her toenails grounding her in an aura of effortless, high-stakes sophistication.

Vasilos: “The fuck are you doing here? With all the money Dad is throwing at you, you think you’d wear some clothes.”

He spat. Amber flipped her hair.

Amber: “Sometimes clothes are restricting, Vasilos.”

She said smoothly and cupped the pool boy’s chin.

Amber: “I want to give my widdle pool boy something to look at.”

Vasilos: “Yeah, I know what ya mean! My Dad needs pills to get it up, and that gets boring after a while!”

He laughed bitterly.

Amber turned to the pool boy.

Amber: “Hand me a towel.”

She crooned. The pool boy did as instructed.

Pool Boy: “Yes, ma’am!”

He drooled. Vasilos rolled his eyes. The pool boy dried Amber off, and Vasilos drew a long breath. The pool boy cupped Amber’s breasts, and she bit her bottom lip.

Amber: “What has you down in the dumps, Vasilos?”

She asked. Vasilos folded his arms over.

Vasilos: “Deimos and Jordi stealing MY spotlight!”

He huffed. Amber let out a high-pitched moan as the pool boy rubbed her clit through the towel. Vasilos rolled his eyes.

Vasilos: “Good lord, nothing is subtle about you.”

He said dryly.

Amber: “Oh, Vasilos, speak for yourself!”

The conversation was interrupted by the quiet click of heels against marble. A woman dressed in a sleek, white professional tunic and black trousers entered the pool area, carrying a portable, folded massage table under one arm and a bag of oils and towels in the other. Her demeanor was professional, entirely unbothered by the room’s opulent, somewhat charged atmosphere.

She paused at the edge of the pool, her eyes scanning the scene—Amber, the pool boy, and a clearly irritated Vasilos—without a flicker of judgment.

Masseuse: “Ms. Drake? I’m here for your scheduled appointment.”

Amber, still leaning back with the pool boy hovering, turned her head slightly to look at the newcomer, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her lips.

Amber: “Ah, right on time. Put that right over there, dear.”

She gestured toward an open area on the marble floor near the French doors, where the light spilled in from the estate grounds. The masseuse moved with practiced, efficient grace, setting up the table in moments. As she unfolded the linens, the room seemed to shift from a theater of frustration into a place of quiet, singular focus. Amber stood up, dismissing the pool boy with a casual wave of her hand as she walked toward the table, her gaze lingering on Vasilos.

Amber: “Don’t go too far, Vasilos. I’m sure you’ll still be sulking about your spotlight when I’m done.”

She lowered herself onto the table with a sigh of relief, closing her eyes as the masseuse began to prep, the room’s tension momentarily replaced by the soft, rhythmic sound of hands and oil.

As the masseuse’s hands worked over her breasts, Amber suddenly reached back, her fingers threading into the woman’s hair. With a sharp, playful tug, she pulled the masseuse forward until their faces were inches apart. The masseuse didn’t pull away; instead, a slow, knowing smile touched her lips as she leaned into Amber’s space.

Amber surged upward, capturing the masseuse’s lips in a deep, passionate kiss. It was an immediate and electric connection. The masseuse responded instantly, her hands gliding down to massage her clit in a circular motion, pulling her closer as she reciprocated the advance with a fierce, breathless intensity. They moved together with practiced, mutual hunger, the room’s professional boundaries dissolving into a singular, heated moment of shared desire, leaving Vasilos to stare in stunned, silenced irritation from the shadows.

The masseuse inserted two of her fingers inside of Amber’s feminine core. Amber rocked herself on the masseuse’s hand as she finger fucked her. She took one of Amber’s breasts in her mouth, swirling her tongue around her taut nipple. Amber let out a laugh followed by a high-pitched moan.

The pool boy gasped, taking in the scene with his boner protruding in his white shorts. Vasilos rolled his eyes.

Vasilos: “What a show for the average horndog who still likes American Pizza!”

He folded his arms over. This would be hot if it were me with Tristan, Jaxon, and that other French hottie sucking my dick, he thought.

~

Tristan stepped into his office. Rosemary and Erin were at their desks working. Erin wore a blue dress with a plunging neckline and blue pumps. Rosemary wore a white turtleneck sweater with a teal blazer, a teal skirt, and white pumps. Look at that slut wearing that to seduce my daughter’s boyfriend, she thought. Her slutty actions are what’s preventing Tristan from asking Ivy to marry him, I bet, she thought angrily.

Erin stood up from her desk and walked over to Tristan. She wrapped her arms around him in a warm embrace and carefully straightened his suit lapels.

Erin: “Thank you for saving Pink Top City, Tristan… and saving me.”

She said, her voice filled with genuine gratitude. Across the room, Rosemary watched the display, her expression hardening into a sharp, icy glare as she watched Erin with Tristan.

Rosemary: “Saving you?”

Erin straightened Tristan’s tie.

Erin: “Yes, a young man who had a mind control chip on him entered my apartment to attack me!”

She exclaimed, looking up at her boss.

Erin: “Thankfully, Tristan saved me.”

She said warmly. Rosemary glared hatefully at Erin. Tristan glanced at Rosemary and looked away.

Tristan: “It was my pleasure, Erin—really.”

He said politely with a faint smile. Something was nagging at his mind, and he couldn’t get it out until he got to the bottom of it.

Tristan: “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Erin remained standing, her gaze lingering on Tristan’s back as he turned and began to ascend the stairs toward his private office. Her eyes traced the sharp, impeccable line of his shoulders, his mesmerizing green eyes, and his flowing snowy hair. Her admiration for him deepened with every step he took.

She was keenly aware of the weight of Rosemary’s icy glare pressing against her, a silent wall of hostility that had become all too familiar. Yet, as she watched him disappear onto the upper landing, Erin’s thoughts remained anchored solely on Tristan—on his quiet strength, the way he had protected her, and the undeniable magnetism that made the rest of the room’s tension feel like nothing more than background noise.

~

Tristan entered his office and strolled to his desk, where he sat, recalling everything that transpired from the night before. He reached over to his drawer, opening it and pulling out the envelope that Narcisse had given him during that dreadful swan boat ride. He pulled the contents out, which included a photograph of Erin working at her desk as well as a typed-up note that read, “Another victim awaiting you is this woman. Her address is ‘1422 West Oak, Apartment 4B.’ ”

Tristan cupped his mouth. He turned the picture over. It had a “MakiPhoto” gold watermark on the back as well as a code that read, “AUC 04432 <NO. 1> 21 AUG 87 042 0115 NNNN+1”

He adjusted his glasses as he examined it. This was taken the day before Erin was attacked, he thought.

A sharp, rhythmic rap sounded against the heavy oak of his office door. He slid the photo and the typed note back into the envelope, tucking the damning evidence safely into the top drawer of his desk.

He stood up and crossed the room with measured steps. The air felt heavy, charged with the lingering unease of his discovery. He turned the handle and pulled the door open.

Erin stood in the hallway, looking fragile yet composed.

Tristan: “Erin? Is everything okay?”

Erin: “Can we talk in the lounge?”

Tristan: “Sure.”

He closed the door behind him and walked with her to the lounge.

The lounge was bathed in the soft, amber glow of recessed lighting. Tristan and Erin sat down on the leather sofa, the material creasing with a supple protest under their weight. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence of the office building pressing in around them.

With a fluid, practiced motion, Tristan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek gold, monogrammed cigarette case. The light from the chandeliers glinted off its polished surface as he clicked it open, revealing a row of perfectly aligned Sobranies. He pulled out his Zippo. A sharp, metallic click echoed through the room as he flicked it open, the flame dancing for a second before he lit the cigarette and snapped the lighter shut with a definitive clink. He exhaled a thin, elegant plume of smoke, his green eyes fixed on some distant point across the room.

Erin: “Tristan, is everything okay with Rosemary?”

The question hung in the air. Tristan paused. Is it? He wondered.

Tristan let the smoke curl toward the ceiling, watching it dissipate into the dim, amber light. His green eyes remained unreadable, though the weight of the envelope in his desk drawer felt like an anchor dragging against his resolve.

Tristan: “Rosemary is…”

He hung his head.

Tristan: “She has her mood swings, Erin. I’ve learned not to take her moods personally, and I’d suggest you do the same.”

He took another drag of the Sobranie, the faint, sharp scent of tobacco hanging in the quiet air.

Erin: “Did I do something to upset her?”

Tristan paused and took another drag.

Tristan: “Maybe things are not going well with Archie. Her parents are getting older, and her father is not in the best of health.”

He said, offering an answer.

Tristan: “Let’s focus on your well-being instead. Are you truly recovered from that night?”

Erin smiled.

Erin: “Yes, thanks to you, I am.”

She said as her heart fluttered.

As the conversation softened, Erin leaned back into the plush leather of the sofa. With a subtle, playful movement, she kicked off one of her blue pumps, letting the shoe dangle precariously from her toes. She watched the light catch the glossy shoe as it swayed, her gaze shifting between the dangling heel and Tristan. Tristan flicked his gaze down to her foot and smiled tightly.

Tristan: “I am glad to hear that, Erin.”

Tristan reached into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out his pocketwatch. With a practiced flick of his thumb, he flipped the ornate cover open, the internal mechanism ticking with a rhythmic, mechanical precision. He glanced at the time, his expression tightening for a fleeting second before he snapped the watch shut with a definitive click.

Tristan: “I’m sorry, Erin, but I have somewhere I need to be.”

He said, his voice dropping into a professional but firm tone. He took one final, long drag from his Sobranie, the tip glowing a bright, intense orange before he leaned forward. With a slow, deliberate motion, he crushed the remains of the cigarette into the crystal ashtray, extinguishing the last of the smoke. He then stood up, smoothing the front of his double-breasted suit as he prepared to leave the lounge.

Erin remained seated on the leather sofa, her gaze fixed on Tristan as he left. The lounge's silence, once merely background noise, now felt heavy and expansive, amplifying the rhythmic ticking of a nearby clock. She reached down and slowly slid her foot back into her pump.

~

Tristan was at Deimos’ house during his lunch break. The two men were in the living room. He filled him in on the envelope Narcisse gave him as well as the picture and letter. Deimos looked it over.

Deimos: “Narcisse did this. Why else would he have this?”

Tristan: “Narcisse found the letter and sent a mind-controlled delivery boy to attack Erin. Why on Reona would he do that? What purpose would it serve?”

He challenged him.

Deimos: “To control you. What else?”

Tristan: “Narcisse is only working with Balderico for his own agenda.”

He reminded him.

Tristan: “I know he’s sending a message, but Narcisse wouldn’t give me this letter if he made it.”

He thrust the letter and photo into Deimos’ hands.

Tristan: “And he likely would have told me he did it.”

He added.

Deimos turned the picture over.

Tristan: “The picture was taken the day before she was attacked.”

Deimos: “Yeah, and it’s candid. I know it was.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow.

Tristan: “How do you know?”

Deimos flipped the photo over and pointed to the date.

Deimos: “I also know where this was developed.”

Tristan raised his eyebrows.

Tristan: “Is that so?”

Deimos: “Yeah. AuraCare.”

He nodded.

Tristan leaned back into the sofa, locking his gaze on Deimos.

Tristan: “How do you know?”

Deimos: “The code on the back.”

Tristan cupped his mouth.

Tristan: “How do you know this?”

Deimos: “I get pictures developed there all the time.”

He smiled at him.

Tristan: “You do? Why am I learning about this now?”

He leaned forward.

Deimos: “I’m supposed to tell you?”

Deimos rose.

Tristan: “Yes, Deimos, why aren’t you telling me?”

He asked sharply.

Deimos: “Look, it’s not important to this.”

Deimos put his hands up. Tristan glared at him.

Tristan: “Okay, I guess I will have a migraine from now on… I won’t be sucking your dick or letting you make love to me. Because I will have a migraine.”

He rubbed his forehead. Deimos’ jaw dropped.

Deimos: “Tristan, come on!”

Deimos’ jaw dropped, his shock quickly curdling into a sharp, defensive anger.

Deimos: “You’re actually going to do that? Over this?”

Tristan didn’t blink, his expression a mask of chilly indifference. Deimos let out a harsh, frustrated sound, the kind that was half-laugh and half-growl. Without another word, he spun on his heel and marched out of the living room, his footsteps thundering up the stairs. Tristan remained on the sofa, his posture rigid, his hands trembling slightly with a mixture of indignation and a growing, unsettling curiosity.

Minutes ticked by, each one stretching the tension until it felt like a physical weight in the room. Tristan stared at the empty doorway, his mind racing through Narcisse’s warnings and the damning evidence in his drawer. Then, the heavy, rhythmic thud of footsteps returned.

Deimos reappeared, his face set in a hard, uncompromising line. He wasn’t empty-handed. He was carrying several thick, rubber-banded stacks of photographs, their edges worn, uneven, and some sticky.

He reached the coffee table and, with a sudden, forceful motion, dumped the stacks onto the polished wood. The heavy thud echoed through the room, making the crystal ashtray rattle.

Tristan leaned forward, his breath hitching as he began to spread the photos across the table.

There were close-ups of his feet captured in various states: His feet poking out of his silk sheets as he slept, his bare feet resting on the lounge as he read, him kneeling on the floor finding a toy for Oliver with the camera zoomed in on his feet, and many candid shots of his feet. Others were single shots of Tristan’s worn underwear on Deimos’ floor.

Tristan looked up, his face reddened, to find Deimos watching him with a dumb grin.

Tristan: “Deimos, you do realize the chemist looks at these, right?”

He hissed through clenched teeth.

Deimos: “...No?”

Tristan angrily rose and folded his arms.

Tristan: “Now everyone in that store knows you’re a pervert!”

He pouted.

Deimos: “Tristan, you blackmailed me! People in that store don’t care!”

He rose in protest.

Tristan: “Okay, when I go there, I will announce on the intercom that you need extra-strength foot deodorizer because your feet smell that bad!”

He snapped.

Deimos: “You wouldn’t dare! They don’t smell that bad!”

He stomped his feet.

Tristan: “I found some dead squirrels outside. I think your feet killed them.”

He harrumphed.

Deimos: “NO! Your cats killed them!”

He fired back.

Tristan: “They don’t go outside, and a cat would have eaten them.”

He locked his glare on him.

Tristan: “PIG!”

He hissed. Deimos glared at Tristan and stomped his feet.

Deimos: “WELL, EXCUUUUUUUUUUSE ME, PRINCE TRISTAN!”

He bellowed.

~

Tristan arrived at Alice’s dreams with his usual effortless poise. He spotted Jordi at a small, round table tucked near a cluster of overgrown ferns. Jordi was already there, his dark gray sports jacket draped over the back of his chair, his expression uncharacteristically guarded.

Tristan slid into the seat opposite him, his green eyes scanning Jordi’s face. The waitress brought Tristan a sweet tea and Jordi an iced coffee.

Tristan: “How is everything? How is Jaxon?”

Jordi: “He’s well. I’m well. We got rid of one threat, but Balderico is still at large and so are Narcisse and Charlotte.”

He replied, sipping on his iced coffee.

Jordi: “What’s bothering you?”

He asked him, observing Tristan’s rueful expression.

Tristan paused and pushed the envelope across the small, round table toward Jordi. Jordi, his brow furrowed with growing concern, reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a pair of square-framed reading glasses. He slid them onto his nose, the frames catching the café’s light, and carefully pulled the letter from the envelope, reading the contents with intense, studious focus as he processed the information.

He examined the photograph and turned it over.

Tristan: “It was taken at AuraCare.”

Jordi: “How do you know?”

He asked. Tristan cleared his throat and reddened.

Tristan: “...Deimos told me.”

Jordi nodded, noting his expression, not to press further.

Jordi: “Anyway, I can’t imagine Narcisse going to AuraCare.”

He muttered.

Jordi studied the paper’s texture and weight, running his thumb along the edge.

Jordi: “Tristan, look at this stock. This is the same paper we use at Donati Inc.”

He looked up at Tristan, his expression thoughtful.

Jordi: “And if I’m not mistaken, your law office uses this exact same stationery. But look here.”

He pointed to the top of the page.

Jordi: “The header is missing. It’s been cleanly stripped.”

Tristan’s face went deathly pale, the blood draining from his features until he looked as white as his own hair. The realization hit him like a physical blow, a cold dread settling in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t just any paper. It was his paper. The betrayal didn't come from the shadows of some criminal underworld; it had been orchestrated from within the very walls of his own law office. He didn’t want to admit it, but he knew it.

Tristan abruptly raised his hand, signaling the waitress for the check with a sharp, frantic gesture. Before she could even reach the table, he pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and threw them onto the marble surface—more than enough to cover both his sweet tea and Jordi’s iced coffee.

Jordi: “Tristan? Where are you going?”

Tristan didn’t answer. He stood up so quickly his chair scraped loudly against the floor, drawing looks from the other patrons. Without a word of explanation or a backward glance, he turned and bolted toward the exit of Alice’s Dreams, leaving Jordi sitting in stunned silence, staring at the abandoned money and the empty seat across from him.

~

Tristan sat in his office with the letter, photograph, and envelope on his desk.

The silence of the room was oppressive, broken only by the low, mechanical hum of the building’s ventilation. Tristan stared at the evidence, the weight of the realization sinking into his chest like lead. The meticulously stripped header, the specific stock of paper—it was an inside job. The very sanctuary he had built to uphold the law had been used as a staging ground for a campaign of terror against his own staff.

His expression hardened, the last vestiges of his earlier politeness dissolving into a cold, grim resolve. He reached out, his hand steady despite the storm raging in his mind, and pressed the intercom button on his desk phone. The sharp, electronic beep felt like a clarion call in the quiet office.

Tristan: “Rosemary. Please come into my office. Immediately.”

He released the button and leaned back, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on the heavy oak door. He waited, the mixture of dread and focused intensity sharpening his features as he prepared for the confrontation.

Rosemary stepped into his office and let out a slight gasp when she saw the letter, photograph, and envelope laid out on his desk.

Tristan: “...You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Rosemary clasped her hand over her chest.

Rosemary: “Tristan, I’m a little spooked over that whole ordeal. I have two daughters.”

Tristan glared coldly at her, cupping his mouth.

Tristan: “Is that it?”

Rosemary pursed her lips and nodded.

Tristan: “You showed almost no concern when the killer was loose.”

He muttered.

Tristan removed his glasses to rub his eyes. He put them back on.

Tristan: “Rosemary, please, I put up with the same BULLSHIT from Ivy; did you think I would never figure this out?!”

He raised his voice. Rosemary drew back.

Rosemary: “Tristan, I know it’s been difficult, but this is a mistake.”

Tristan slammed his fist on the desk, causing Rosemary to jump.

Tristan: “What was a mistake, Rosemary?! You did this and thought I would fall for it, or that you did it at all?! WHY?! TELL ME WHY!”

He bellowed at her. Rosemary trembled.

Rosemary: “Tristan, you’re dating MY daughter—”

Tristan slammed his hands on his desk, creating a sheet of ice on the surface.

Tristan: “I am NOT dating that goddamn BITCH! I regret ever wasting MY time on HER!”

He rasped.

Tristan: “SHE INDIRECTLY MURDERED MY FRIEND! SHE TRIED TO RUIN MY ACTUAL RELATIONSHIP, AND DID THAT TO MY FRIEND!”

He screamed at her. Rosemary had tears in her eyes as she drew back.

Tristan: “You plotted to kill my employee—your coworker—over something that exists in your own head! Do you know how fucked up that sounds, Rosemary?!”

He said in a high-pitched squawk.

Rosemary’s lower lip quivered violently, and she clutched her teal blazer as if trying to hold herself together.

Rosemary: “I did it for you! For us! She was going to tear everything apart, just like she tore you away from Ivy! You’re too blind to see what she’s doing to you, Tristan. She’s a parasite!”

Tristan stared at her, his eyes cold and hard, the air in the room seemingly frozen by his icy rage.

Tristan: “She is a human being, Rosemary. And you are a monster.”

He hissed.

Tristan: “Like mother, like goddamn daughter.”

Tristan walked toward his desk, his steps measured and lethal. He didn’t even look back at her as he began gathering the documents from his desk, the letter and photograph now just pieces of trash in his eyes.

Tristan: “You are finished here, Rosemary. Pack your things.”

Rosemary staggered back, the accusation clearly not registering in her frantic state.

Rosemary: “Finished? Tristan, you can’t be serious. After everything—”

Tristan spun around, his face a mask of absolute, frozen contempt.

Tristan: “I am deadly serious. Leave this building immediately. If I see you anywhere near this firm or near Erin again, I will not hesitate to have someone I know deal with you. Your employment is terminated, effective immediately.”

Rosemary stood frozen, her chest heaving, the tears cutting through her makeup. She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw nothing but a stranger. She turned and fled the office, the click of her white pumps echoing down the hallway, leaving Tristan alone in the oppressive, heavy silence of his office. He sank back into his chair and removed his glasses to rub his eyes, the weight of the betrayal finally settling into a dull, throbbing ache.