The tension in the Desrosiers manor had shifted since Acheron's breakdown. The air felt heavier. The silence was no longer comfortable; it was brittle.

The lights in the living room were dimmed to a low golden glow, the only sound coming from the occasional creak of the old pipes or the wind brushing against the windows. Ivy sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a lukewarm mug of herbal tea she hadn’t touched in over an hour.

Oaklen leaned against the doorframe, watching her in silence. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the lines on his face deeper than usual. Neither of them had spoken since Eron slammed the bathroom door hours earlier. The sound of him retching still echoed faintly in their ears.

"He’s still in his room," she murmured.

Oaklen moved to lean against the counter beside her, arms folded tightly over his chest. His usually composed expression was tight with guilt.

"I checked on him. He’s not crying anymore, but... he didn’t want to talk."

Ivy exhaled, placing the mug down with a soft clink. "He said he was barely holding himself together. I can’t get that out of my head."

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” She continues, her voice tight, like it had been wound too tightly inside her chest.

Oaklen moved to sit across from her, his eyes tracing the steamless rim of her cup. “You’re trying to hold this family together,” he said softly. “You always have.”

She laughed bitterly. A soft, exhausted sound. “And look where that’s gotten us.”

Oaklen looked away. “He’s hurting, Ivy. And we’re... helpless. That’s the part no one ever warns you about, isn’t it? The part where you can’t fix it. No matter how much you want to.”

“I’m not trying to fix it,” she snapped, but her voice cracked halfway through. She inhaled shakily and dropped her gaze. “I’m just trying to keep us moving forward. If we don’t push through this, we’ll drown in it.”

Oaklen rubbed his palms over his face, the stubble rasping against his hands. “Maybe he needs time. Maybe he’s not ready to go to court. Or see Sauveterre again. Maybe—”

“We don’t have time, Oaklen,” Ivy interrupted, her voice hardening. “We have influence now. The moment we pause, the Blackwells bury everything. Evidence disappears. Witnesses back out. We need momentum.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, quietly, “But at what cost?”

Ivy looked up at him not in anger, or in defence, but in worn rawness.

“I see him, Oak,” she murmured. “I see how he flinches when I speak too loudly. How he forces himself to eat in front of us. I know I’m pushing him. But if I stop... I’m scared I won’t know how to reach him anymore.”

Oaklen reached across the table and took her hand in his, warm and calloused. She didn’t pull away.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, gently. "Maybe he just needs space."

She shook her head. "Space isn’t enough. We’re trying so hard to fix everything, but all we’re doing is cornering him."

Oaklen was silent for a moment, the guilt in his posture deepening. "We should have pulled him out of that school earlier. The moment we noticed something off."

"I was scared," Ivy confessed. "Scared of overreacting. Scared of making him feel like he was broken. But I think… I think I broke him anyway."

Oaklen stepped forward, pulling her gently into his arms. "He isn’t broken, Ivy. He survived. He’s still here. That has to count for something."

Her grip tightened. "I just want him to feel safe again."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Eamon Sauveterre sat in his office, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he read through a pile of case documents. His golden eyes were fixed, focused, calculating.

The low buzz of fluorescent lighting hummed in the background as Eamon tapped his pen against the edge of a thick folder. The Sauveterre Law Firm rarely slept, especially not in the upper floors where the higher-profile cases landed. 

A different case lay before him now: a land dispute between two Omega entrepreneurs and a wealthy Alpha investor trying to backdoor them out of their own property. The matter was clear-cut, but Eamon’s notes were thorough. He flipped a page, added a question mark beside a name, then leaned back in his chair.

He should be focused. Normally, this was his zone: scrutinising numbers, memorising dates and signing paperwork. A familiar and comforting pattern.

His eyes couldn't help but drift to the corner of his desk. There sat a separate file, one thinner than the others but hauntingly heavier. Desrosiers is written in bold on the front cover.

He hadn’t intended to get so invested.

Yet here he was, checking his phone every hour for an email from Ivy. For a message confirming Acheron had reviewed the documents. For a request to move forward. But it had been silent.

He pulled the file closer.

Acheron Desrosiers. Eighteen. Omega. Victim of brutal assault. Healing physically, but... emotionally?

Eamon ran a hand down his face, then opened the drawer to his right and pulled out a small voice recorder. He clicked it on and began dictating softly.

“Note: Client family has yet to reach out to schedule next meeting. The timeline is slipping. Based on psychological evaluations, trauma may be impeding progression. Consider reaching out directly… or not. Risk of overstepping. Monitor another week before follow-up...”

He clicked the device off.

The silence afterwards sat heavily in the room. He stood, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window. From here, the city looked like a galaxy split across black marble, glittering lights, distant movement and unknowable lives.

Somewhere in that sea of lights was a boy curled around a sketchbook and a family teetering on the edge of implosion.

For reasons he didn’t dare name yet, Eamon cared. More than he should.

Just as Eamon returned to his seat, his office phone rang, the internal line. He answered it out of habit.

“Mr Sauveterre,” his assistant's voice came through, calm but clipped. “There’s a visitor downstairs asking for a meeting without an appointment.”

He frowned. “Name?”

A brief pause. “Tobias Blackwell.”

Eamon’s jaw tightened. “Let him up.”