Chapter Two-Hundred Sixty-Six: Shattered Foundations

Chapter 266

Shattered Foundations

The morning sun broke through the suburban quiet of Pink Top City, casting warm, golden angles across the kitchen counters.

Jaxon was already moving effortlessly around the stove. His red-black hair was loosely tied back, and he wore a red silk robe embroidered with a winding, gleaming gold dragon across the back. The robe swished lightly around his legs as he tended to the meal: perfectly steamed white rice, a bowl of hot miso soup, lightly salted grilled fish sizzling in a pan, and rolled tamagoyaki resting on a serving plate.

Jordi stepped into the kitchen-dining room combination after he had showered and gotten dressed. He wore a sharp, black Italian-cut suit that framed his shoulders flawlessly, paired with a crisply pressed lilac shirt and a rich, dark purple tie that mirrored the vibrant shade of his hair. His sheer socks slid noiselessly against the floorboards as he walked up behind Jaxon.

Jordi: “Smells wonderful…”

He whispered, wrapping his arms gently around Jaxon’s waist and resting his chin against his shoulder, taking in the contrast between the cool, smooth red silk and Jaxon's warmth.

Jaxon smiled, tilting his head back slightly to meet Jordi’s gaze.

Jaxon: “Figured you needed a proper start before dealing with the Donati zoo all day.”

He picked up a pair of chopsticks and transferred the fish onto two ceramic plates, neatly arranging the traditional Japanese spread across the table. He poured himself a cup of green tea and a cup of fresh coffee for Jordi.

Jordi let out a soft chuckle, taking his seat and adjusting his tie.

Jordi: “You spoil me, Jaxon.”

Jaxon: “Well, you have to put up with Blair.”

He teased, leaning against the counter, watching with a fond grin as Jordi picked up his chopsticks to take the first bite. Tell me about it, he thought.

Jaxon pulled out the chair across from Jordi, the red silk of his robe whispering against the polished wood as he sat. He smoothed the sleeves back and picked up his own chopsticks.

Steam rose from the miso soup, mingling with the scent of savory grilled fish and sweet tamagoyaki. For a few moments, the kitchen fell into a peaceful, comfortable rhythm, broken only by the gentle clink of ceramic bowls and the morning breeze rustling through the kitchen curtains.

Jordi: “The fish is perfect, Jiro…”

He said, taking a sip of the warm broth before glancing up with an appreciative smile. He looked strikingly sharp in his lilac shirt and dark purple tie, a sharp contrast to the easy, relaxed aura Jaxon carried in his morning robe.

Jordi set his bowl down and reached across the table, gently covering Jaxon’s hand with his own. His thumb brushed over the back of Jaxon's fingers.

Jordi: “Knowing I get to come back home to this makes dealing with Blair’s tantrums much easier…”

Jaxon's smile softened, his dark eyes meeting Jordi’s with easy warmth. He flipped his hand over to intertwine their fingers briefly before tapping his chopsticks playfully against the rim of Jordi’s rice bowl.

Jaxon: “Eat up, corporate man.”

He chuckled softly.

Jaxon: “You have a whole city to help keep energized, and I’ve a few more hours of sleep to catch before Darker Desires calls.”

Jordi stood up from the table, smoothed the front of his black Italian-cut suit jacket, and gave Jaxon a warm, lingering parting kiss.

Jordi: “Don’t work too hard on that beauty sleep.”

He teased quietly.

Jaxon: “Never do.”

He shot back with a lazy grin from behind his teacup.

Stepping to the entryway, Jordi slid his feet into his sleek, black leather zip-up boots. The silver hardware clicked crisply as he zipped them up, perfectly complementing the sharp break of his trousers over his sheer socks. Grabbing his leather briefcase and keys, he stepped out into the bright, sun-drenched morning and strolled to his Ferrari 328 in the driveway.

Jordi unlocked the door and settled into the driver’s seat. He set his briefcase on the passenger seat, adjusted his rearview mirror, and turned the key in the ignition. The mid-engine V8 roared to life with a throaty, resonant purr, vibrating through the quiet neighborhood.

Glancing toward the front window, Jordi caught sight of Jaxon leaning against the glass, the red silk robe with the gold dragon gleaming from inside, raising a hand in a slow, knowing wave. Jordi flashed a confident grin, threw the Ferrari into reverse, and backed out of the driveway. He shifted gears and drove down the road on his way to downtown Pink Top City.

~

Across the city, the heavy growl of a different beast echoed down the Flamingo Corridor. Fabien gripped the steering wheel of his 1970 Shelby Mustang, the engine’s raw power thrumming through the chassis as he cruised along the palm-lined strip.

He wore a rugged denim jacket over a black T-shirt that boldly proclaimed “Nuklear Intoxikation Sucks.” A pair of classic Ray-Bans shielded his eyes from the intensifying morning glare, reflecting the neon signs and glass facades of the corridor as they blurred past. Below the dashboard, his relaxed attire continued with well-worn jeans and simple flip-flops resting loosely against the pedals.

Fabien shifted gears, the Mustang surging forward with a metallic roar. He leaned back into the leather seat, one arm propped on the door frame, perfectly at ease in the mechanical chaos of the morning rush.

Fabien turned his head to make sure there was no oncoming traffic, flicked on his signal, changed lanes, and guided his car onto the ramp leading to the exit for the Donati Tower.

He navigated the winding ramp, the Mustang’s engine echoing against the concrete walls until the Donati Tower finally loomed overhead, a monolith of glass and steel piercing the morning sky. Fabien slowed as he reached the entrance, rolling past the security gate before plunging the car into the cool, fluorescent-lit depths of the underground parking structure. He maneuvered through the maze of support pillars, the tires crunching softly on the polished concrete as he sought out his designated spot.

He stepped out of the car and entered the tower, stepping into The Ocean Concourse. He slid off his Ray-Bans, folded the temples, and slid them into his denim jacket pocket. He saw Blair sitting down by the fountain, pouting. He wore a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt, orange shorts, white calf socks, and red sneakers.

Fabien: “Hey, Blair, here for my job interview!”

He snorted.

Blair: “Yeah, and you’re late!”

He huffed.

Fabien: “I am?”

He laughed.

Blair: “It doesn’t matter. Let’s get up and get you in your office.”

He rose and stomped toward the elevator, using his key card to insert it into the elevator control panel. Fabien ran his finger over the tower map.

Blair: “Fabien, get in the elevator!”

He demanded. Fabien stumbled over a laugh and entered.

Fabien: “On the third level, there’s a Café Donati; mind if I grab a bite?”

Blair slammed his finger on the sixty-fourth floor.

Blair: “Yes, I do mind, Fabien! You’re not Ashley! You shouldn’t be eating a lot, or you’ll get fat!”

He huffed. Fabien gaped at him and laughed a bit.

Blair: “Fabien, you’re going to be a working man, so you can’t eat as you do because you’re gonna be doing a lot and you won’t have time to eat as Ashley does! I still love them despite how fat they are, and they’re not wanting to date me!”

He whined.

Fabien: “That baffles me. You’re such a nice guy!”

He said dryly.

Blair: “I know.”

When they reached their destination, Blair stomped down the corridor.

A sprawling, circular mahogany table stood in the center. Resting atop a bed of emerald velvet, evergreen boughs, and amber autumn leaves was an entire world in miniature, sealed beneath a polished curve of glass. At its heart, a brass-trimmed steam locomotive puffed a faint wisp of imitation smoke, poised as if caught mid-journey across a meticulously sculpted countryside.

The tracks looped past a miniature brick depot—complete with tiny, painted passengers waiting on the platform—and arched over a stone viaduct spanning a glassy, resin river.

Around the base of the glass case, scattered like forgotten relics of a bygone era, lay vintage brass whistles, a weathered conductor’s lantern, and tarnished commemorative tokens.

Fabien: “Holy shit, look at this.”

He approached the display and read the plaque. He ran his finger over it.

Fabien: “This display was made by Dr. Sylvia Hughes and is here on display to honor her memory and love for trains.”

He read it aloud.

Blair: “WHY ARE YOU STARING AT DUMB TRAINS?! YOU HAVE A JOB INTERVIEW!”

He screamed at him. Fabien turned to him.

Fabien: “Uh, Blair, didn’t she save your life?”

Blair: “Yeah, and here I am giving you a job!”

He snapped.

~

Behind his desk sat Demetrio Donati, a thick, smoldering cigar clamped between his teeth, trailing ribbons of aromatic smoke into the air.

Demetrio: “Tell me the substation repairs in the South District didn’t blow our budget out of the water.”

He asked around the cigar, not taking his sharp eyes off the stack of quarterly grid reports in front of him. With practiced ease, he walked over to the desk, opened his briefcase, and set a crisp manila folder in front of Demetrio.

Jordi: “Under budget by four percent, Demetrio.”

He replied smoothly, offering a confident, professional smile.

Jordi: “And the full load testing passed at five this morning. Pink Top City is running at full capacity.”

Demetrio took a slow pull from his cigar, letting out a thick puff toward the ceiling, and a thin, satisfied grin broke across his face.

Demetrio: “That’s why you’re on my payroll. Sit down—let’s talk about the offshore grid expansion.”

Reaching into the interior breast pocket of his Italian-cut suit jacket, Jordi withdrew a pair of sleek black square-frame reading glasses. With a practiced, fluid motion, he unfolded the delicate temples and slid them onto the bridge of his nose.

He took the high-backed leather chair opposite Demetrio, crossing one tailored trouser leg over the other, the silver pull of his zip-up boot catching the ambient sunlight that slanted across the mahogany surface. From his briefcase, he produced a secondary, thicker dossier labeled Project Helios: Coastal Grid & Offshore Relays 1987–1988.

Jordi: “Let’s look at the preliminary schematics for the offshore infrastructure.”

He began, his tone settling into an effortless, authoritative cadence. He opened the file, laying out detailed blue-line schematics and dense columns of projected wattage.

Tapping his finger against the top financial ledger, the lenses of his glasses caught the faint blue haze drifting from Demetrio’s cigar.

Jordi: “If we divert power through the subterranean cables off the North Marina shelf, we can bypass the municipal zoning disputes entirely. It shaves three weeks off the excavation phase and insulates the main Pink Top City line against the late-summer storm surges.”

Demetrio leaned in, squinting through the rising veil of smoke, his elbows planted on the desk as the glowing ember of his cigar hovered near the edge of the blueprints. He tapped a finger against the projected cost estimates, a low, calculating rumble in his chest.

Demetrio: “And the environmental commission? Those bastards at the state board have been breathing down our necks about the tidal habitats.”

Jordi: “Already handled.”

He replied, adjusting his glasses slightly by the corner of the frame, a faint, confident smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

Jordi: “I had legal draft an addendum referencing the 1984 Palm Tree Energy Preservation Clause. We provide them with independent monthly marine telemetry from our relay buoys, and they clear the underwater permits without dragging us through public hearings. Demetrio Donati keeps the power on, and the state gets to pat itself on the back for green oversight.”

Demetrio chuckled, a gravelly, smoke-thick sound, and tipped the ash of his cigar into a heavy crystal tray on his desk. He leaned back in his leather executive chair, regarding his young assistant with genuine approval.

Demetrio: “Sharp as a razor, Jordi. You think like a Donati.”

Jordi hoped he meant him and not Blair. He slid the second phase of the offshore budget forward for review.

Blair barged in with Fabien following him. Demetrio and Jordi turned to face him, wide-eyed.

Demetrio: “Blair, would you please knock before entering? What did you need?”

He asked with irritation.

Blair: “Jordi, get your FAT ASS out of that chair, out of the office, and out of here because Fabien said he will take your job!”

He whined. Demetrio rubbed his temples. Jordi glowered at Blair. Fabien hooked his thumbs in his pockets, looking around the office admiring it.

Demetrio leveled a cold, stern gaze at his grandson.

Demetrio: “Blair, that is enough. This is a place of business, not a playground for your whims. Jordi stays right where he is, and you will learn some professional decorum or remove yourself from this office immediately.”

He flicked the ash off his cigar; his patience clearly evaporated.

Blair stomped his feet.

Blair: “FABIEN CAN ANSWER PHONES AND COUNT! HE CAN DO THIS BETTER THAN THAT FAT PIG!”

He screamed. Demetrio rubbed his forehead.

Demetrio: “Blair! Enough! You will not speak of my associates—or anyone else in this building—with such disrespect. Your entitlement is exhausting, and your disruption ends now.”

He gestured sharply toward the door with his cigar.

Demetrio: “Leave. Both of you. Take your friend and go wait in the reception lounge until you’ve composed yourself.”

Fabien: “Oh, but I quit my job at Danny Donger’s. Blair promised me a job.”

He said with fake sadness. Jordi rolled his eyes. Demetrio heaved a deep sigh, rubbing his temples.

Jordi: “Fabien, it’s not the time to joke. Get Blair out of here.”

He sighed.

Blair: “YOU FAT PIG!!! I HATE YOU!!”

He screamed at Jordi and ran out.

Fabien: “I guess I’m not getting the job.”

He laughed.

Jordi: “No, Fabien, but you got your entertainment.”

He said with irritation.

~

The heavy mahogany doors had barely clicked shut behind Fabien before the silence of the executive corridor was shattered by a raw, jagged scream. Blair didn’t just run; he collided with the walls of the hallway, his sneakers squeaking violently against the polished marble as he reached the circular alcove where the train display sat bathed in soft, respectful light.

Blair: “I HATE EVERYONE! I HATE THIS TOWER! I HATE THAT FAT PIG, JORDI! I SOMETIMES HATE ASHLEY! I HATE DUMB TRAINS!”

He shrieked, his voice cracking with a high-pitched, infantile fury. Without a second of hesitation, he scrambled onto the mahogany table. His weight caused the bed of emerald velvet and autumn leaves to shift, the resin river cracking under the sudden pressure of his sneakers.

With a violent stomp, he brought his heel down directly onto the brass-trimmed steam locomotive. The delicate metal crumpled with a sickening crunch, the tiny wisp of imitation smoke extinguished forever. Blair didn’t stop there; he began to jump, his white socks slipping on the track as he crushed the miniature brick depot into red dust and kicked the painted passengers across the floor like discarded pebbles.

The stone viaduct snapped under his next lunge, sending shards of meticulously sculpted plaster into the glass curve of the case. He reached down and grabbed the vintage conductor’s lantern—a piece Sylvia had cherished—and hurled it against the wall, the glass shattering in a glittering explosion.

Blair: “IT’S NOT FAIR! IT’S NOT FAIR!”

He wailed, his face turning a blotchy, frantic red as he continued to trample the memory of the woman who had saved his life, leaving nothing but a wreckage of brass and broken dreams in his wake.

The thunderous crash of the glass case and Blair’s piercing wails echoed through the heavy office doors, freezing the air inside Demetrio’s office. Demetrio’s cigar fell from his mouth, hitting the carpet with a shower of sparks as he and Jordi bolted toward the hallway. They rounded the corner into the alcove, only to skid to a halt before a scene of absolute carnage.

Jordi gasped, his hand flying to the knot of his tie. The meticulously crafted world Sylvia Hughes had built was gone—reduced to a jagged boneyard of splintered mahogany, shattered glass, and crushed metal. Blair stood atop the wreckage, his chest heaving, his face twisted into a grotesque mask of infantile rage as he ground the remains of the stone viaduct under his heel.

Demetrio: “Blair… what have you done?”

Demetrio’s voice wasn’t a roar; it was a low, vibrating tremor of pure, horrified disbelief.

He stepped toward the ruins, his eyes fixed on the mangled conductor’s lantern lying against the baseboard. That lantern had been a gift from Sylvia after his own heart surgery—a symbol of the life she had preserved.

Jordi: “This is… this was Sylvia’s memorial.”

Jordi whispered, his usual professional composure replaced by a searing, cold anger. He looked at the tiny, painted passengers scattered like debris and then up at Blair.

Jordi: “She saved your life, you ungrateful bastard! I witnessed her turning into that monster and helped put her out of her misery! Do you even realize what you’ve destroyed?!”

He screamed.

Blair: “SCREW YOU, FATTY!”

He cried.

Demetrio: “GET DOWN!”

Demetrio finally found his roar, the sound booming off the marble walls like a cannon shot. His face was a dark, dangerous shade of crimson.

Demetrio: “Get off that table this instant! You have desecrated the memory of the only reason you are still breathing! I have tolerated your tantrums, your laziness, and your idiocy, but this? This is an abomination!”

Blair flinched, his frantic energy suddenly evaporating into a pathetic, trembling fear as he looked down at the wreckage of brass and broken dreams beneath his feet. Fabien stood in the shadows of the corridor, the smirk finally wiped from his face as the weight of the desecration settled over the hall.

Blair: “EVERYONE HATES MEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”

He whined, ran to the elevator, pushed the button, and got in.

Demetrio stood frozen in the sudden, ringing silence of the corridor, looking down at the wreckage of the train display as his face seemed to age years in seconds. He slowly knelt, ignoring the way his pristine suit fabric pulled against the floor, and picked up a small, broken piece of the brass engine. He stared at it, his shoulders slumping as a profound, heavy sorrow replaced his fury. He looked at Jordi, his voice barely a whisper.

Demetrio: “He didn't just break the glass, Jordi… He broke the last bridge to the only person who ever truly understood what I was trying to build.”

Jordi knelt to Demetrio and put his arms around him. Demetrio hugged Jordi back and sobbed silently in his arms.

Fabien looked away, standing there awkwardly, not knowing what to say or do.

Demetrio pulled away from the hug, wiped his eyes, and looked at Fabien standing awkwardly in the shadows. He turned to Jordi.

Demetrio: “Escort him to his car, please.”

Jordi nodded and rose.

Jordi: “Come on, Fabien, I’ll take you to your car.”

Fabien rubbed the back of his head and followed him to the elevator.

In the elevator, Fabien and Jordi stood in silence.

Jordi: “Did you get what you wanted?”

He asked him.

Fabien: “Hey, I didn’t tell Blair to go destroy that display.”

He said sharply. Jordi hung his head.

Jordi: “I’m sorry… You’re right.”

He pursed his lips.

Jordi: “He’s getting worse, Fabien.”

Fabien looked away.

Fabien: “Yeah, I know.”

~

When five o’clock hit, Jordi finally leaned back in his high-backed leather chair, the low hum of the tower’s air conditioning providing a lonely soundtrack to the end of a long, emotionally taxing day. He reached up and slid his reading glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose before folding them and tucking them back into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. The manila Folders were stacked with military precision; the Project Helios dossier was safely returned to his leather briefcase.

He stood, smoothing the front of his black Italian-cut suit, and grabbed his keys from the mahogany desk. The silence in the executive suite felt heavy, still echoing with the remnants of Demetrio’s heartbreak and Blair’s destructive fury. Jordi didn’t linger; he stepped out of the office and made his way to the elevators, the descent to the parking garage feeling like a slow decompression from the stifling atmosphere of the upper floors.

The elevator doors chimed and slid open into the cool, fluorescent-lit depths of the underground structure. The air here was thick with the scent of concrete and old exhaust. Jordi’s footsteps echoed crisply as he navigated the maze of support pillars toward his designated spot. There it sat—the Ferrari 328.

He unlocked the door with a satisfying click and settled into the leather driver’s seat. He set his briefcase on the passenger seat and took a deep breath, letting the tension of the Donati zoo bleed out of his shoulders. He turned the key in the ignition. The mid-engine V8 roared to life instantly, a throaty, resonant purr that vibrated through the floorboards and up into his chest. It was a sound of freedom. He shifted into gear, the tires chirping softly on the polished concrete as he began the drive out of the monolith and toward the warmth of home.

~

Jordi drove into his driveway. He hadn’t slept in his own bed in days, and hadn’t seen Lena or his grandfather. He was avoiding them because he was seeing Jaxon. He killed the engine, took his briefcase, and stepped into his house. He knelt to unzip his boots and slid his feet out, fanning his toes. He saw his grandfather watching game shows in the living room.

Abraham: “Well, look who decided to come home?”

He grumbled. Jordi hung his head. He said nothing and went straight to his bedroom. He swung his gaze to Lena’s room and noticed she wasn’t there.

~

Thirty minutes later, Jordi stepped out of his bedroom wearing a yellow button-down shirt with wide lapels, black suspenders, and jeans. He saw his grandfather was sleeping, sitting up in the living room. He slid his feet into his boots and stepped out the door.

He stepped out onto the porch, the humid evening air settling over him as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Black cigarettes. He tapped one out, the crisp snap of his Zippo lighter cutting through the quiet as he brought the flame to the tip. Jordi took a long, contemplative drag, the glowing cherry illuminating his face for a brief moment before he exhaled a slow, heavy cloud of smoke into the twilight.

He stepped off the porch and went walking down the street. As he strolled up the street, he saw the pathway to the manor where Madelyn and her friends resided. He paused, looked up the pathway, and froze when he saw the garden had fairies.

He took a deep breath and went up the path, slowly approaching the garden and kneeling down to look at the fairies.

The fairies were tiny, luminescent figures fluttering among the flowers, their wings shimmering with a soft iridescence that caught the moonlight. As they moved, they left behind a faint trail of sparkling dust that hung in the air like grounded stars. Jordi watched them dance with profound wonder, the ethereal light of their tiny bodies creating a sharp, beautiful contrast against the garden’s quiet darkness.

When the door opened, Jordi acted instinctively. He lunged for the side of the house and slammed his back against the wall as he peered over the corner. My training from Minerva does come in handy, he thought.

He saw Lena step out, speaking to Ashley. Jordi’s mouth was ajar. He looked away and gritted his teeth.

Lena: “See you tomorrow, Ashley!”

She called out and waved to them as she walked down the path. When Jordi heard the door click shut, he climbed the fence, got on top, and landed in the neighbor’s yard, dashing out of there and right back onto his street.

When Jordi walked on the street, he caught up to Lena.

Jordi: “Hey.”

He smiled. Lena brightened when she saw her older brother. She wrapped her arms around him. Jordi smiled and hugged her back.

Lena: “Where were you?! You never come home anymore…”

Jordi sighed.

Jordi: “Sorry about that…”

Lena: “Why is that?”

Jordi: “Work.”

He said tersely.

Lena: “You sleep at work?”

Jordi ran his hand over his hair.

Jordi: “No, Lena, I don’t.”

Lena paused, and she gazed up at her big brother.

Lena: “Jordi, is everything okay?”

Jordi paused for a moment and closed his eyes, dreading her reaction, but he had to tell her, and he didn’t want Jaxon to be some dirty little secret. He meant more to him than that.

Jordi: “Look, Lena, there’s something I need to tell you… It’s about Jaxon and me…”

The words fell out of his mouth before he registered it. Lena turned to him.

Lena: “Jaxon hasn’t spoken to me in a while! Is everything okay?”

Jordi let out a long, steadying breath, the cool night air feeling sharp in his lungs. He met her gaze, his expression softening as the defensive posture he usually held around his grandfather fell away.

Jordi: “He’s fine, Lena. He’s safe with me.”

He replied, his voice dropping into a register that was intimate and unguarded.

Jordi: “Look, it just happened. Vasilos was trying to burn us alive, and then I saved him, and when I held him in my arms…”

He said with hurt.

Jordi: “He’s been quiet because… well, because things between us have changed. We’re together, Lena. We’ve been seeing each other for a while now.”

He watched her expression shift from concern to betrayal.

Lena: “You were seeing him?! That’s why Jaxon never came around?!”

She cried.

Jordi winced at the raw hurt in her voice, but he didn’t pull away. He reached out to steady her, his eyes reflecting a mixture of guilt and absolute certainty.

Jordi: “I’m so sorry I kept it from you, Lena. I hate that you feel cast aside, but it wasn’t some casual choice. After that night with Vasilos... after seeing how close I came to losing him to that fire... everything just clicked. It’s complicated and messy, and I know it’s a lot to take in. He makes sense to me in a way nothing else does right now.”

Lena: “YOU KNEW I LOVED HIM, JORDI!”

She screamed and shoved him back. Jordi knitted his eyebrows.

Jordi: “How can you love him?! You weren’t dating!”

He countered.

Lena: “You knew I wanted him and you… You were angry at him because YOU wanted him!”

She bawled. Jordi knitted his eyebrows and heaved a deep sigh in his chest.

Jordi: “Well, Tristan told me you were flirting with Fabien at his place, so you didn’t love him that much!”

He fired back.

Lena: “Because I thought Jaxon wasn’t interested!”

She cried.

Jordi: “Because he’s not?”

The sharp crack of the slap echoed through the quiet street, a sudden and violent punctuation to the rising tension. Lena’s hand had connected with Jordi’s cheek before he could even blink, the force of her betrayal and fury manifesting in a stinging, physical blow. Jordi’s head snapped to the side, and he stood frozen as the heat began to bloom across his skin, his eyes wide with a stunned, hollow disbelief. For a moment, the world around them seemed to fall away, leaving only the heavy, suffocating weight of the silence between them as they both reeled from the realization that their bond had finally fractured.

Lena embraced herself as she walked back to herself.

Jordi stood frozen in the middle of the pavement long after the sound of Lena’s retreating footsteps had faded. The street’s silence felt predatory, pressing in on him from all sides. He slowly raised a trembling hand, his fingertips brushing against the heat radiating from his stinging cheek where the ghost of her palm still lingered.

His shoulders finally buckled, sagging under a crushing weight that no tailored suit could mask. As the first hot tear escaped and carved a jagged path through the fading warmth on his face, a choked, broken sob escaped his throat. He looked down at his shadow, stretched thin across the asphalt, and realized with hollow, gut-wrenching finality that by choosing Jaxon, he had shattered the only family he had left.

~

Jordi stepped into his house. His grandfather laughed at him.

Abraham: “Wahh, wahhh! You big baby!”

He taunted him. Jordi ignored him and went down to the basement to the loft he had set up for Ashley. He stood down there staring at everything he had set up for Ashley. He slowly went to the bed, crashing on it, face down, staring blankly at the wall.

He turned over, his hand gliding under the pillow where he slept when he slept down here. He felt something. He pulled out a small canvas satchel tied with hemp string. He untied it and out fell a crystal vial of mystical spirit water with a note attached. It read, “In our culture, we give these to the person we love the most, and I love you the meowst! Your purr-ter, Ashley!”

Jordi read the note again, the innocent, playful words—I love you the meowst—tearing through the numbness he had been clinging to since he left the street. The contrast between the cold, biting rejection from Lena and this genuine, unadulterated affection from Ashley was too much to bear. The weight of his isolation in the house, the mocking laughter from his grandfather upstairs, and the crushing guilt of his choices all collided at once.

His breath hitched, and the silence of the basement loft was suddenly ripped apart. He buried his face in the pillow, his shoulders heaving uncontrollably. A raw, guttural sound tore from his throat—a wail of pure, unadulterated grief that echoed against the basement walls. He wasn’t just crying; he was sobbing violently, his body wracked with tremors as the dam finally burst. Tears soaked into the fabric beneath him, and he clutched the crystal vial to his chest as if it were the only thing anchoring him to reality, his loud, heaving sobs filling the dark space as he surrendered to the crushing weight of his loneliness.

Jordi wiped his face with the back of his hand, surged off the bed, and sprinted up the basement stairs. His boots thundered against the wood as he flew past the living room and out the front door, not even acknowledging his grandfather's taunts. He dove into the Ferrari, the engine igniting with a violent roar that matched the internal turmoil ripping through him. With a screech of tires that tore through the quiet neighborhood, he gunned the engine, the car fishtailing slightly before rocketing down the street and disappearing into the night.

~

Jordi sat on the edge of Jaxon’s bed wearing his black silk pajamas as he held the crystal vial between his fingers.

The weight of the crystal vial felt heavy in his palm, a fragile reminder of a simple love he wasn’t sure he deserved anymore. His mind drifted back to the shattered glass and crushed brass in the Donati Tower—the literal wreckage of a legacy—and then to the stinging heat of Lena’s palm against his cheek. He had traded his family’s peace for this, and the guilt tasted like copper in the back of his throat.

Yet, as he listened to the low, steady rhythm of Jaxon’s breathing in the quiet room, the suffocating pressure in his chest finally began to ease. He was exhausted, broken in ways he couldn’t yet articulate, but for the first time since the sun rose, he didn’t feel like he had to keep running. Here, in the red-tinted shadows of Jaxon’s sanctuary, the world was allowed to be quiet, and Jordi finally allowed himself to breathe.

He unscrewed the cap to the vial. I hope no one needs me for a bit, he thought and drank the contents. He drained the vial and swallowed every last drop.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pang in his chest. He clutched his chest as his heartbeat accelerated and he felt as if every nerve in his body was on fire. The windows in the bedroom burst open, the shards shooting him, puncturing his skin, tearing the fabric of his pajamas. He rushed to Jaxon, only to find him gone.

Jordi: “JAXON?!”

The floor caved in from under him, taking everything in the room and swallowing Jordi whole.