Chapter Two-Hundred Sixty-Eight: High Alert

Chapter 268

High Alert

Jordi slipped out of bed before the alarm went off, moving with silent care so as not to disturb the sheets. He stepped into the adjoining master bathroom, letting the hot, rushing steam of a long shower wash away the lingering adrenaline. Stepping out refreshed, he styled his purple hair into its immaculate, sweeping shape and dressed with practiced precision. He spritzed on some cologne. He donned a sharp, black Italian-cut suit that draped his shoulders with flawless structure, paired with a crisply pressed purple shirt, a black tie, and his sheer socks.

Down the hall, the quiet clatter of cookware and the savory aroma of a warm, traditional Japanese meal signaled that Jaxon had already beaten him to the kitchen.

Jaxon stood at the stove, bathed in the soft morning sunlight spilling across the countertops. His voluminous red-and-black hair was tied back, and he wore his striking red silk robe, the elaborate gold dragon embroidery gleaming with every fluid movement. He expertly turned lightly salted fish in a skillet, tended to a simmering pot of dashi and miso, and arranged golden slices of tamagoyaki beside two pristine bowls of steaming white rice.

Jordi stepped softly into the kitchen, a fond, effortless smile breaking across his sharp features as he approached the counter.

Jordi: “Up before me again?”

He asked smoothly, his voice a low, warm hum as he leaned in close to Jaxon’s side, resting a hand gently against the smooth, cool silk over Jaxon’s hip.

Jaxon turned with a sly, knowing grin, holding a pair of cooking chopsticks in one hand while his other hand reached up to lightly adjust the lapel of Jordi’s Italian-cut jacket.

Jaxon: “I had to make sure you were fed. You were groaning a lot in your sleep lately. Everything okay?”

He asked with concern. Jordi forced a smile.

Jordi: “Of course, I don’t think I will be able to use my electrokinesis for a while, but I am quite adept in hand-to-hand combat.”

Jaxon knitted his eyebrows.

Jaxon: “What happened?”

Jordi: “I took some mystical spirit water that Ashley left me behind.”

He replied and winced when he recalled the note they left. Jaxon looked over his shoulder.

Jaxon: “Isn’t she done with you?”

Jordi nodded.

Jordi: “Yeah. They… left it before they… well, left.”

He drew a long breath.

Jaxon carried the remaining side dishes over to the dining table, the red silk and gleaming gold dragon of his robe catching the bright morning sun as he sat. Jordi pulled out the chair across from him. Gentle steam rose from the miso soup, mingling with the savory scent of grilled fish and sweet tamagoyaki and filling the quiet kitchen with warmth.

Jordi: “Everything looks incredible, Jiro…”

He said, separating a pair of wooden chopsticks with practiced grace. He took a sip of the warm broth, letting the rich dashi soothe the early morning rush, before meeting Jaxon’s gaze across the table.

Jaxon: “Are you going to get a new power?”

Jordi shrugged.

Jordi: “I’m not sure.”

Jaxon smiled at him.

Jaxon: “Glad you like this.”

He replied with a soft smirk, picking up his own bowl of white rice. He broke off a bite of the salted fish.

Jordi chuckled softly, reaching his free hand across the table to briefly rest his fingers over Jaxon’s wrist, feeling the cool slide of the silk robe against his palm.

Jordi: “Demetrio can wait fifteen minutes. Right now, this is the only thing on my schedule.”

Jaxon smiled, a fond warmth softening his features as he turned his hand over to give Jordi’s fingers a gentle, grounding squeeze before they both settled into the peaceful rhythm of their breakfast.

Jordi set down his empty porcelain bowl with a gentle click and used a pristine linen napkin to dab at his lips, savoring the lingering, savory finish of the meal. Standing from the table, he smoothed the sharp lines of his black Italian-cut suit jacket, allowing the structured fabric to fall into an immaculate drape over his shoulders. He stepped across the kitchen toward Jaxon. Jordi leaned down and pressed a slow, reverent kiss against Jaxon’s lips, lingering just long enough to feel the quiet, contented warmth breathing back into him.

Jordi: “See you tonight, Jiro.”

He murmured, his thumb sweeping over the high curve of Jaxon’s cheekbone. He graced him with a sly, affectionate grin, his dark eyes sparkling as he loosely held the lapel of Jordi’s jacket.

Jordi stepped out of the kitchen into the entryway, where his polished black leather zip-up boots waited on the hardwood. He slipped his sheer-socked feet into them, sliding the silver zipper pulls up with a crisp, decisive snap that settled neatly against the tailored hems of his suit trousers. From the console table in the foyer, he lifted his heavy leather briefcase—packed meticulously with the updated offshore schematics, the marine telemetry permits, and Demetrio’s private daily dossier.

Pushing open the heavy front door, Jordi stepped outside to his car. He unlocked the driver-side door with a satisfying mechanical click, tossing his briefcase onto the passenger seat before settling behind the steering wheel. He adjusted the rearview mirror, reached inside his suit jacket to ensure his square-frame reading glasses were securely tucked into his interior pocket, and slid the key into the ignition.

With a firm turn of the wrist, the 3.2-liter mid-engine V8 erupted into life with a resonant, throaty growl that vibrated through the quiet neighborhood. A faint puff of exhaust rose into the cool morning air as Jordi checked his side mirrors, catching a brief glimpse of Jaxon in the large front window, the gold dragon on his red robe catching the sunlight as he lifted a hand in a slow, knowing wave.

Jordi shifted into reverse, backed down the driveway with practiced precision, and snapped the gated gear lever into first. The purple Ferrari surged smoothly forward, turning down the palm-lined boulevard and accelerating down the street.

~

The deep roar of the Ferrari’s V8 settled into an idle as Jordi guided the 328 down the ramp of the private executive garage beneath the Donati, Inc. headquarters. He killed the ignition, grabbed his leather briefcase from the passenger seat, and stepped out onto the cool concrete floor. His boots clicked crisply against the stone as he strode directly toward the private executive elevator.

Stepping inside, Jordi keyed in his security clearance for the top floor. The elevator opened to his destined floor. The ambient hum of the Palm Tree State’s primary utility empire was already in full swing: telex machines clattered, phone lines trilled in steady intervals, and department heads bustled past carrying thick rolls of electrical grid schematics.

Jordi moved through the floor with practiced, effortless authority.

Chief Dispatch Coordinator: “Morning, Mr. Vaquero.”

He called out, handing him a clipboard.

Chief Dispatch Coordinator: “Load balances from the East District came in heavy between two and four in the morning, but the substation held.”

Jordi: “Good.”

He replied smoothly, scanning the readouts with a sharp, trained eye before signing his name in quick, elegant script.

Jordi: “Reroute ten percent of the industrial surplus to the residential reserves before the midday peak hits. We don’t want brownouts in Pink Top City on a Friday.”

He tucked the clipboard under his arm and made his way straight toward Demetrio’s office. Passing through the area, he observed that the spot previously occupied by Sylvia’s display was now completely bare, leaving no trace that it had ever existed.

The heavy scent of premium tobacco greeted him immediately. Demetrio Donati was already leaning back behind his massive desk, a fresh cigar smoldering between his fingers as he squinted over a stack of municipal zoning contracts.

Demetrio: “Jordi.”

He began, a thin plume of blue-gray smoke curling toward the ceiling.

Demetrio: “Tell me you brought the revised shoreline substation estimates. The city council wants a briefing by noon, and I don't intend to give them an inch of our offshore margin.”

Jordi: “Right here, Demetrio.”

He said, stepping forward with total composure. He set his briefcase on the polished mahogany desk, snapped the brass latches open, and withdrew a thick manila folder.

Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, Jordi slid his square-frame reading glasses onto the bridge of his nose. He opened the dossier, laying out clean architectural blueprints and precise budget projections.

Jordi: “I adjusted the coastal relay points to integrate directly with the municipal deep-water lines.”

He explained, tapping the corner of the layout. The reflection of the sun glinted across his glasses.

Jordi: “It shaves six percent off initial installation costs and keeps the regulatory oversight firmly under our umbrella. You'll walk into that council meeting holding all the cards.”

Demetrio took a slow, thoughtful pull from his cigar, studying the figures intently through the rising haze before a broad, satisfied grin cut across his face. He tapped the ash into a crystal tray.

Demetrio: “Brilliant as usual, Jordi. Have legal prep the binding riders, and clear my calendar from one to three. We're locking this deal down today.”

Jordi: “Consider it done.”

He replied with a sharp nod, gathering his notes to coordinate with legal, fully in command of the massive corporate machine that kept the entire state powered.

Jordi locked his gaze on Demetrio.

Jordi: “Is everything okay, Demetrio?”

Demetrio paused and rubbed his temples with his free hand.

Demetrio: “I know how much this is affecting Blair. I am looking into getting a grief counselor to see him and help him work through this hard time.”

Demetrio spoke, a glassy sheen dulling his blue eyes. Jordi drew a long breath. He removed his glasses to rub his eyes and sighed. He put his glasses back on.

Jordi: “Demetrio, I don’t think Blair’s problem is Sylvia’s passing. Did you listen to his eulogy? How he destroys her monuments? This isn’t grieving; this is a spoiled man-child not getting his way.”

He said bluntly. Demetrio heaved a deep sigh and inhaled a long drag of his cigar.

Demetrio: “Maybe he’s grieving in his own way.”

He watched the smoke drift from Demetrio’s cigar, feeling that familiar, icy detachment creep in. He’s coddling Blair, treating him like a fragile vase when he’s really just a child throwing a tantrum because he’s not getting his way. Does he really not see it? It’s not grief. It’s entitlement. Jordi has seen enough power struggles to recognize the difference between mourning and manipulation.

He adjusted his glasses, the sharp frames digging slightly into his skin—a necessary friction. He has the entire state’s power grid to worry about. But Demetrio... he’s seeing what he wants to see. And if he chooses to keep his eyes closed to the reality of the situation, he might just find himself blindsided by the one person he’s trying to “save.” Then Jordi realized what became of Sylvia. Anyone who tries to save Blair ends up in a worse situation, he thought.

~

Fresh from a post-workout shower, Deimos was downstairs enjoying breakfast: bacon, eggs, sausages, and toast, paired with black coffee. He wore an Obituary tank top, torn jeans, and black socks. Across the kitchen island sat his father, Giorgos, who wore a red suit jacket with gold trim, a black cravat, black trousers, and black socks. Nearby, Monica—wearing a light blue cardigan, navy skirt, and navy slippers—was cleaning up the dishes.

Giorgos: “Did you hear about the murder of that AuraCare pharmacy technician?”

He began.

Monica: “Yes, it was tragic. That poor woman…”

She sighed.

Giorgos: “I was worried they would close up the shop for a bit and Deimos and Lazaros couldn’t buy foot deodorizer.”

He chuckled at his own quip. Monica gaped at him. Deimos glowered at him.

Deimos: “Ha ha ha… So funny.”

Monica removed her rubber gloves.

Monica: “Speaking of which, that attack happened close to where we live. I don’t think I will be able to walk to get groceries. I don’t feel safe, so would either you or Deimos drive me to the grocery store?”

She asked Giorgos. He rolled his eyes.

Giorgos: “You can relax, Monica. I highly doubt this serial killer and rapist would target an old lady.”

He scoffed.

Deimos glared at his father while Monica looked hurt.

Deimos: “Go to Hell, Dad.”

He spat. Giorgos shot him a glare.

Deimos: “I’ll drive you, Monica. My trunk can’t fit a lot, though.”

Monica smiled with relief and nodded.

Monica: “Thank you, Deimos."

The rhythmic clinking of Monica’s silverware stopped abruptly as a sharp, electronic trill cut through the room. On the small wood-grained television perched at the end of the counter, the morning broadcast was interrupted by a flashing “Breaking News” graphic. A somber-faced anchor appeared.

Anchor: “We have late-breaking details on a developing tragedy in the East End. Police have confirmed that the body of a twenty-four-year-old woman was discovered in her apartment early this morning. Investigators are calling it a homicide, the third such attack this month. They are urging residents to keep their doors and windows locked.”

The kitchen fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Monica’s face went pale, her hand trembling as she cupped her mouth. Deimos felt the breakfast sit like lead in his stomach, the casual cruelty of his father’s earlier jokes now feeling like a physical weight in the room. Giorgos read his paper.

Giorgos: “See, Monica? She was young. Nothing to worry about.”

Monica looked away, deeply hurt.

Deimos: “Fuck off, Dad.”

He hissed. Giorgos turned to Deimos, glaring.

Giorgos: “Can you or your brother take a little JOKE?!”

He snapped.

Deimos: “This is nothing to fucking joke about! I get why Monica is scared, and we don’t know what this guy is after!”

He fired back.

Deimos: “Still, she’s scared, and I am taking her to go grocery shopping!”

He added.

Giorgos: “You hate grocery shopping!”

He exclaimed.

Deimos: “Yeah, but if it means her being safe, I can shove through this.”

He stated firmly. Monica offered Deimos a warm smile, filled with pride and happiness at the man he had grown into.

~

Tristan walked down the stairs into his office, dressed sharply in a navy three-piece Italian-cut suit, a crisp white shirt, a black tie, and black wingtip Oxfords. Upon reaching the ground level, he noticed Rosemary at her desk, working away without pause. She wore a teal secretary dress with a white Peter Pan collar, matching white cuffs, a pussy-bow necktie cascading down the front, and teal high heels.

Standing in the waiting area, Erin watched the television with an anxious expression. She wore a sleek black coatdress with bold padded shoulders, crossed lapels over her chest, a pencil skirt, black nylons, and black pumps.

Tristan: “Is everything alright, Erin?”

Rosemary paused her typing to glance over at him. Erin hurried toward Tristan and gripped his suit jacket tightly, leaving Rosemary staring in total shock.

Erin: “Oh, Tristan, did you see the news? Another attack happened! Another young woman was brutally murdered!”

She cried. Tristan raised his arms and wrapped them around Erin.

Tristan: “I saw, Erin. It’s absolutely horrifying.”

He held her close, his expression tightening with a mixture of sorrow and resolve.

Tristan: “You are safe here, I promise you that. We need to be vigilant, but I won’t let anyone harm you.”

Erin nuzzled in his chest. Rosemary’s jaw tightened. That’s my daughter’s boyfriend you have your mitts on, you whore, she thought angrily.

Erin: “Oh, Tristan, I know I can count on you! You’ve always been such a gentleman.”

She cried.

Tristan: “Thank you, Erin. I do my best.”

He said gently.

Tristan gazed at the television screen. This is happening a lot lately, he thought. I believe this is connected to someone we know. This doesn’t seem like Narcisse’s doing, and Dougal isn’t into women, he wondered.

~

In the living room of the Belloni mansion, Balderico sat alongside his wife, Mina, taking in the news on TV. Balderico was dressed sharply in a navy Italian-cut suit with a cream vest, a crisp white shirt, a white silk cravat, and brown loafers. Mina wore a white jumpsuit tied with a navy sash, complemented by gold strappy heels.

Meanwhile, the maid leaned in to pour a warm cup of fresh tea for Mina. The two watched TV and stared at the breaking news alert.

The TV screen flickered, shifting from a morning talk show to a stark, urgent “SPECIAL REPORT” graphic. The anchor’s voice was tense, filled with gravity as they addressed the camera.

Anchor: “We interrupt your morning programming with an urgent update. The city remains on high alert following the confirmation of a third attack on a young woman within Pink Top City limits this month. Police are warning residents to remain vigilant and avoid traveling alone after dark.”

Balderico set his tea down with a sharp clink, his expression hardening. Can’t help yourself, can you, Rutherford? He wondered.

Mina’s grip on her teacup tightened, her knuckles turning white. The room, previously filled with quiet comfort, was suddenly charged with dread.

Balderico: “Three attacks in one month. Someone can’t control themselves.”

He remarked, a subtle note of insincerity lacing his voice.

Mina: “It’s horrific, Balderico. No one is safe. We’ll have to make sure Gina gets home safely at night. I’m glad Savina is away, but I worry how this will affect her wedding.”

The maid stood frozen, her eyes wide as she watched the somber faces of the reporters, the fear in the room palpable.

Balderico smiled at his wife.

Balderico: “Gina is safe, my love.”

He reassured her. Rutherford would be stupid to attack my Princess Gina, he thought. He’s stupid anyway, but not that stupid, he added.

Balderico crossed his legs. And silly Mayor Sully Stone is blocking our bribes, so this isn’t being dealt with quietly, he thought as his jaw tightened. We’re going to have to spring my plan into motion sooner, he thought as he sipped on his tea.

Then he thought about Fabien. Ah, my radiant muse, my soft ivory prince, he thought as his heart fluttered.

Amidst the encroaching chaos and the grit of Pink Top City, Fabien was the only sanctuary Balderico truly valued. While the streets outside grew darker with every headline, he envisioned keeping Fabien tucked away from the filth, a delicate treasure shielded by the Belloni name. He would dismantle anyone who dared to disturb that peace; his ivory prince would never know the sting of the world Balderico helped rule.

Mina smiled at her husband.

Mina: “You look unusually chipper despite the news, darling.”

Balderico smiled back at his wife.

Balderico: “And why wouldn’t I be? My daughter’s going to be getting married, and my special edition Godfather rubber duck is going to hit shelves soon! What a time to be alive.”

He said breathlessly as he drained his cup of tea.

~

The afternoon sun beat down relentlessly on the glass facade of the Donati Tower, casting long, sharp shadows across the executive suite. Down on the streets of Pink Top City, the heat of the Palm Tree State shimmered off the asphalt, driving the city’s air conditioning units into overdrive and sending the power demand straight toward its daily peak.

Inside his office, Jordi smoothed the sleeves of his black suit-jacket down to the cuffs, his black tie remaining crisp and straight. With his square-frame reading glasses resting firmly on the bridge of his nose, he sat behind his sleek desk, managing the utility empire’s high-stakes pulse with cold, methodical precision.

The private line trilled. Jordi answered on the second ring, pressing the receiver to his ear as his pen danced across a stack of telex reports.

Jordi: “Jordi Vaquero.”

He answered smoothly.

Dispatch Seven: “Jordi, it’s Dispatch Seven.”

A stressed voice crackled over the wire.

Dispatch Seven: “The North Marina transformer bank is running hot—load is up twelve percent over projections from the marina resort district. If we trip the main relay, half the waterfront strip goes black.”

Without missing a beat, Jordi pulled the laminated city grid map closer, his eyes scanning the interconnect lines with practiced speed.

Jordi: “Don’t trip the relay.”

He instructed in a calm, authoritative cadence.

Jordi: “Divert the surplus from the West Valley industrial sub-grid—their factory shifts ended twenty minutes ago. Route the buffer through the auxiliary line on Fifth and Shoreline. It’ll bleed off the excess load and keep the marina stable through the evening rush.”

There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by the clatter of switches being toggled.

Dispatch Seven: “Load dropped back to nominal. That saved us a massive headache, Mr. Vaquero. Thanks.”

Jordi: “Keep a close eye on the telemetry until seven.”

He said, hanging up the receiver with a decisive click.

Sliding the next set of legal riders for the offshore expansion in front of him, he began combing through the fine print, redlining municipal clauses to ensure Donati, Inc. retained complete leverage before Demetrio’s late-afternoon board review.

He set his pen down and removed his glasses. He didn’t want to face Lena for a while and felt he needed to give her space. I think I should move my fish tank into Jaxon’s place and move in, he thought. Gladys is taking care of Grandpa, and Lena doesn’t want to see me, he mused. Not that I blame her, he thought glumly.

A brisk double knock sounded against Jordi’s office door, followed by a young administrative assistant stepping inside, a thick black leather portfolio clutched tightly against his chest.

Administrative Assistant: “Excuse me, Mr. Vaquero.”

He began, keeping his voice respectfully low.

Administrative Assistant: “The municipal permits for the East District conduit upgrades just arrived from City Hall. Mr. Donati’s office said these require your direct authorization before dispatch can pull the evening maintenance crew.”

Jordi looked up from his ledger and slid his reading glasses back on.

Jordi: “Bring them here, Mark.”

He said smoothly, gesturing to the cleared space in front of his desk.

The assistant stepped forward, opened the portfolio, and laid out the three-part carbon documents neatly before Jordi. The bold corporate headers of Donati, Inc. and the official municipal seals of Pink Top City crowned the top of each page.

Jordi pulled the paperwork closer, his sharp Byzantine eyes methodically scanning down the columns of technical specifications, safety clearances, and wattage allocations. He tapped a finger against the contingency clause on the second sheet, pausing for only a fraction of a second to verify the environmental compliance codes he had drafted earlier that morning.

Satisfied that everything aligned with Demetrio’s strict standards, Jordi picked up his pen. With a swift, practiced flick of his wrist, he applied his sharp, elegant signature across the designated lines, initialing each rider in rapid succession.

Jordi: “Dispatch is cleared for the seven o’clock maintenance window.”

He said, closing the portfolio and sliding it back across the mahogany desk.

Jordi: “Make sure the foreman logs the substation bypass before they break ground.”

Mark: “Right away, Mr. Vaquero.”

He replied, nodding quickly as he gathered the signed documents and turned to leave.

Mark: “Thank you.”

With the conduit permits cleared, Jordi adjusted his glasses, leaned back slightly in his leather chair, and seamlessly shifted his attention back to the offshore grid dockets as the afternoon inched steadily toward the end of his shift.

~

Back in the quiet, wood-paneled sanctuary of his law office, Tristan sat behind his heavy oak desk. The late-afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, casting long, slatted shadows across the organized chaos of his workspace. Physical case files, bound by thick rubber bands and overflowing with carbon-copied affidavits, were stacked in precarious towers.

Tristan reached for a heavy, black fountain pen resting in a glass tray. He uncapped it with a deliberate twist, the weight of the pen familiar and grounding in his hand. Before him lay a complex legal motion, its edges slightly curled from the humidity of the Palm Tree State afternoon. He leaned over the thick parchment, his eyes scanning the dense blocks of typewritten text for any last-minute discrepancies.

The office was silent except for the rhythmic, rhythmic scratch of the gold nib as it danced across the page. Tristan concentrated and lowered the temperature of his office, cooling it down significantly.

Tristan set down his fountain pen, the nib still wet with ink, and reached for the telephone sitting on the corner of his desk. He dialed the downstairs office extension. A moment later, the line clicked open.

Tristan: “Erin.”

He said, his voice steady and resonant in the cooled air.

Tristan: “I need those liability releases I finished signing earlier today sent out via priority courier. Please ensure they are dispatched before five o’clock.”

He listened briefly as Erin confirmed the request.

Tristan: “Excellent. Thank you.”

He replied, replacing the receiver with a soft, decisive click.

The doorknob turned, and Erin entered. She immediately shivered and embraced herself.

Erin: “It’s freezing in here, Tristan!”

Tristan rose.

Tristan: “My apologies, Erin.”

He said gently and handed her the sealed envelopes, stepping outside of his office. She smiled as she took them.

Erin: “Tristan?”

Tristan raised his head.

Tristan: “Yes?”

Erin: “I hate to ask this of you, but would you do me a favor?”

Tristan nodded.

Tristan: “Yes? What is it?”

Erin bowed her head.

Erin: “Would you follow me home and see me to my apartment door?”

She asked as she clutched the envelopes to her bosom. Tristan smiled and nodded.

Tristan: “No problem.”

Erin smiled.

Erin: “Thank you, Tristan! You’re so generous!”

She nodded and promptly walked down the hall. Tristan watched her go and pursed his lips.

Tristan moved down the corridor, his Oxfords clicking rhythmically against the polished floorboards. He pushed open the heavy double doors to the lounge.

Tristan settled into the leather sofa, the material creaking softly under his weight. He reached into his navy suit jacket and withdrew a sleek, gold case. He snapped it open and selected a single Sobranie, the black paper and gold-foil tip gleaming in the low light. He produced a heavy brass lighter, the mechanical flick of the flint echoing in the quiet room before a steady flame bloomed. He took a long, slow drag, the rich tobacco smoke curling around his head as he stared into the shadows, the weight of the day’s headlines lingering in the back of his mind.

Rosemary stormed inside, slammed the door, and looked visibly distressed. Tristan raised an eyebrow.

Tristan: “Is everything all right, Rosemary?”

He asked her. Rosemary threw her arms up.

Rosemary: “Who does she think she is?!”

Tristan raised an eyebrow.

Tristan: “What do you mean?”

Rosemary turned to Tristan.

Rosemary: “Erin asking you to follow her home?! You’re her boss, not a bodyguard or a boyfriend!”

Tristan blinked, looking perplexed.

Tristan: “...Why does me doing that affect you so much?”

He asked, taking in another drag.

Rosemary: “You are taken, Tristan!”

She huffed. Tristan exhaled a thin, precise stream of smoke and adjusted his position on the sofa, his expression remaining maddeningly composed.

Tristan: “Rosemary, please. You are catastrophizing a simple act of professional courtesy. Erin is clearly shaken by the recent news reports, and as her employer, it is my responsibility to ensure her safety. My personal life has no bearing on standard workplace conduct.”

He tapped the ash from his cigarette into the crystal tray, his eyes never wavering from hers.

Tristan: “Now, unless you have an actual client matter that requires my immediate attention, I would prefer to finish my cigarette in peace.”

He said with irritation. Rosemary gaped at him.

Rosemary angrily rose and stormed out of the lounge room, slamming the door behind her. Tristan rolled his eyes and took another drag. Like mother, like daughter, he thought.

Rosemary glared at Erin before snatching her purse and marching outside.

Rosemary reached the 1984 brown Toyota Cressida, the metallic paint shimmering dully under the afternoon sun. She fumbled with her keyring, the heavy metal clinking as she slotted the key into the driver-side door. With a sharp twist and a mechanical thunk, the lock yielded. She pulled the handle and slid onto the plush, velour-covered seat. Rosemary slammed the door, the heavy steel echoing through the parking lot.

She shoved the key into the ignition and turned it firmly. The 2.8-liter straight-six engine coughed once before humming to life with a smooth, computerized idle. She reached for the dashboard, sliding the climate control lever to the max to coax some air from the vents, then adjusted her rearview mirror with a jerky, frustrated movement. Shifting the automatic transmission into reverse, she felt the car lurch slightly. She backed out of her designated spot, the power steering whirring as she spun the thin-rimmed steering wheel. With a final, angry glance toward the office building, Rosemary shifted into drive and accelerated, the Cressida’s engine whining as she sped away toward the palm-lined street.

Tristan stepped onto the balcony, watching her zoom away. Why is she like this? He wondered as he rolled his eyes.

~

Tristan stepped outside with Erin beside him as he locked up his office. The humid evening air clung to them as they crossed the asphalt lot. Tristan’s 1987 Toyota MR2 Convertible sat low. Parked directly beside it was Erin’s gray 1987 Honda Civic, a practical contrast to the sporty lines of the mid-engine Toyota.

They reached her driver-side door, and Tristan came to a halt, maintaining a respectful distance. Erin turned to him, her expression finally softening from the tension of the day.

Erin: “Thank you for walking me out, Tristan. With everything in the papers… it means a lot to have a gentleman looking out for me.”

Tristan offered a polite, reassuring nod, his hands sliding into the pockets of his navy trousers.

Tristan: “It’s no trouble at all, Erin. Please, drive straight home and keep your doors locked. I’ll follow you home.”

Erin: “I will.”

She stepped into the Civic and pulled the door shut with a solid thud. Tristan waited until the Honda’s engine hummed to life.

Tristan approached his car. He reached into his pocket, retrieved his keys, and unlocked the driver-side door with a sharp, mechanical click, and slunk into the driver’s seat. He inserted the key into the ignition and turned it firmly. Behind his head, the mid-mounted 1.6-liter twin-cam engine barked into life, settling into a steady, energetic thrum that vibrated through the chassis.

He reached for the center console, his hand finding the leather-wrapped shifter. He depressed the clutch and slotted the lever into first gear with a crisp, precise movement. Releasing the handbrake, he eased the MR2 forward just as Erin’s gray Honda Civic reached the edge of the lot.

He watched her taillights dip as she pulled onto the palm-lined boulevard, and he followed, the pop-up headlights of the Toyota cutting through the deepening evening haze. They moved through the city streets, passing neon-lit storefronts and billboards for the latest summer blockbusters, their cars weaving through the light traffic until they arrived at the gated entrance of her apartment complex.

Erin steered the Civic into an open spot near the stucco entrance of her building, her headlights reflecting off the polished chrome of a nearby parked sedan. Tristan pulled the MR2 into the adjacent stall, the mid-engine thrum echoing briefly against the concrete before he cut the ignition. The silence that followed was heavy with the humid evening air and the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets in the manicured hedges.

Tristan stepped out of the low-slung convertible, smoothing the front of his navy suit jacket and adjusting his tie. He met Erin at the front of her car, his Oxfords clicking softly on the asphalt as they walked side-by-side toward the building’s heavy glass doors. The yellow glow of the overhead security lights cast long, dramatic shadows across the entryway.

At the door, Erin turned to face him, her keys clinking in her hand.

Erin: “Thank you again, Tristan. I know it’s out of your way, but I feel much better knowing I’m home safe.”

Tristan offered a small, courteous smile and a slight tilt of his head.

Tristan: “It was my pleasure, Erin. Ensure your deadbolt is thrown as soon as you’re inside. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow morning.”

Erin: “I will. Goodnight, Tristan.”

She disappeared into the lobby with a final wave. Tristan waited until he heard the heavy latch click shut before turning back toward his car, his expression shifting back to a contemplative, professional mask as he prepared for the drive home.

~

Rosemary was seated in the living room, facing her ex-husband, Fen. Relaxing on the sofa, Fen wore nothing but silk bikini briefs beneath an open teal silk dressing gown, revealing his bare chest and peacock tattoo as he puffed on a kiseru. He rested his bare feet on the coffee table.

Rosemary: “Fen, did you not hear a word I said?! That whore is all over our daughter’s boyfriend!”

She snapped.

Fen: “I never pegged your sexy boss man to be into diapers.”

He snorted.

Rosemary: “We have two daughters, Fen.”

She corrected him.

Rosemary: “It’s Ivy.”

Fen laughed.

Fen: “I thought your boss was shagging a man, and hated Ivy—not that I blame him. She’s like her mother, and look at how we ended up.”

He said wryly. Rosemary glared at him.

Fen: “And I see Archie is just as fuckin’ miserable.”

He added. Rosemary’s jaw dropped.

Rosemary: “Fen, Erin is moving in on Tristan—our daughter’s boyfriend! You need to protect her, too!”

She said firmly.

Fen: “Sure, I will protect your sexy boss from Ivy’s claws. I wish someone did that to me when I married you.”

He sneered at her. Rosemary angrily rose.

Rosemary: “Fen, you are LAZY and irresponsible! She bought your house and kept you here, so the least you could do is ensure sluts don’t steal her boyfriend!”

She snapped.

Fen: “Rose, listen, that man doesn’t want Ivy.”

He laughed. Rosemary threw her arms up.

Rosemary: “Ivy wouldn’t lie to me!”

Fen laughed.

Fen: “I guess you don’t know her, huh?”

Rosemary’s face flushed a deep, indignant red as she glared at him.

Rosemary: “How dare you!”

She hissed, her voice trembling with indignation.

Rosemary: “She is not some schemer! She loves him, and she is too innocent to see the vipers like that secretary circling him!”

Fen merely shrugged, leaning back further into the sofa cushions, his peacock tattoo rippling with the movement.

Rosemary: “You have always been blind to the good in people, Fen. That is why you sit here in this house, rotting away while I actually try to manage our family’s future.”

She grabbed her purse and glared at him with icy resolve.

Rosemary: “If you will not help, then get out of my way.”

She stormed out. Fen took another drag.