Dorian pulled into the family mansion just before dusk, engine cutting off into silence.
He stepped out, already loosening his tie, expression set in that usual unreadable calm.
Inside, the house felt the same—grand, quiet, and heavy with expectation.
A maid greeted him; he barely nodded, already moving past.
He didn't pause until he reached the dining room doors—the doors opened for him.
The dining room was already full. Dad mid-speech. Mom mid-sip. And Grandma Adela at the head, eyes sharp.
Dorian dropped the lilies beside her plate. "For you. Since you 'missed me'."
Adela didn't touch the flowers. She leaned in, instead. Inhaled.
Then she smiled. Slow. Cat-caught-the-canary slow.
"Dorian Ashford," she said, loud enough for the table to hear. "Since when do you wear _Femme Fatale_?"
His father stopped talking.
Dorian looked down at his sleeve. The scent was faint now, but unmistakable. Jasmine. Pear. Woman.
"I don't," he said, too fast. "Flower shop was crowded. Someone spilled—"
"Mm." Grandma plucked a lily from the bunch, twirled it. "Smells like you were crowded with a _girl_. A very expensive girl." She patted his hand. "I like her already."
"It's not—"
"Sit, boy. You smell like trouble and secrets. My favorite."
Dorian leaned back .The whole table was looking at him now.He ignored and ate his food
"How's the company?". Miranda Dorians stepmom asked in an overly sweet voice.that sounded irritating to Dorian.
"Fine" he replied curtly leaving no room for further conversation.
" I head u secured the TMS contact that's big congrats son." his father said proudly.
He half smiled and briefly replied.
She turned to Dorian.
"You're expanding."
"Yes."
"You're acquiring."
"Yes."
"And you're still alone."
There it was.
Dorian leaned back slightly.
He already saw that coming.
"I'm not having this conversation."
"You don't get to choose that," she said calmly.
His father nodded.
"She's right. At some point, you need stability."
Miranda smirked.
"Or at least someone who can stand by you "Miranda said her voice dripping with unsettling sweetness
Dorian's jaw tightened.
"And did I tell you I am interested in that" he said.
"For once," Miranda said, sitting forward, "have you considered that not everything revolves around what you want?"she said clearly trying to sound calm
There it was.
Opposition.
Not subtle.
"mind your business."irritatin dripped from his voice
His father's expression hardened instantly. "Dorian. You will not speak to her that way."
Dorian let out a short, humorless breath.
"You know what? I'm done." He dropped his napkin onto the table. "Thanks for dinner. I enjoyed it."
Sarcasm, clean and cutting.
He stood.
"Dorian—" his father started.
Dorian didn't stop.
"Son, come back here!"
Ignored.
The doors shut behind him.
Silence fell again—but this time, it lingered.
Miranda shifted, frowning. "I just—"
Adela raised a hand.
Miranda went quiet.
A beat.
"I just wanted to help," she muttered under her breath.
"I know, honey," her husband said, though his tone lacked conviction.
Adela didn't look at either of them.
Her gaze stayed on the closed doors.
It had taken her a month to get Dorian back to this table.
Now?
Only God knew how long it would take again.
Selena sat curled into the corner of her charcoal linen couch, a half-melted bowl of vanilla ice cream balanced on her knees. Her two-bedroom apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the AC and some 2000s sitcom playing on the 65-inch TV mounted on the exposed brick wall. She wasn't really watching. The laugh track felt like static.
The lock clicked.
Her head snapped up, spoon halfway to her mouth. The door to her apartment — solid oak, not some flimsy thing — eased open and Marcus walked in, plastic bags of takeout cutting red marks into his fingers. The smell of garlic and chili oil cut through the clean, citrus-candle scent of her living room.
"Hi, Marcus," she said. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
He kicked the door shut with his heel, dropped the takeout on the walnut coffee table, and shrugged off his jacket. "Hi," he said, collapsing onto the other end of the sectional.
Selena immediately dug into the takeout, pulling the containers out one after the other — Singapore noodles, dumplings, egg rolls. Comfort food. _Damage control food_. Marcus was her best friend. Her only real friend since college.
He didn't touch the food. He was too busy staring at the crime scene: half-empty pint of Jeni's, a silver spoon stuck in it, sitcom reruns, and Selena in her cashmere hoodie.
He knew that uniform.
"Ice cream and sitcoms," he said quietly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Worry cut a line between his brows. "I know what that combo means, Sel. What happened?"
He'd known her since freshman year. He knew her tells. When Selena was mad, she didn't scream. She went silent. She ate sugar and drowned in other people's fake problems on TV.
She didn't answer. Just shoved a dumpling in her mouth. Chewed like it owed her money.
"_This_ is really good," Selena mumbled around a mouthful of noodles. Marcus always kept her favorite mango sorbet in his freezer — a habit from college. The noodles were spicy enough to make her eyes water. Good. She needed to feel _something_ besides that white-hot rage.
"Nice try," Marcus said, smirking at her puffy eyes. But his voice was careful. He knew better .
"I'm fine," she lied, she laughed awkwardly.
She walked to the fridge
She narrated the entire ordeal to him
"Gosh. Looks like you had a really rough day, your laughter sounds worst than the bad television You keep watching…" he said, watching her chug cold water from the fridge. Condensation beaded on the glass bottle, dripping onto her hoodie.
Selena slammed the bottle down. "Because of that asshole, I lost Milan." Her voice broke, then went ice-cold. "Three weeks of work. My biggest client. Gone." She dragged a hand through her hair. "I tried explaining. I _begged_. he wasn't having it. The only mercy was he didn't sue _me_ for breach of contract." A laugh, no humor in it. "Considerate."
Marcus's jaw ticked. "So what about the guy?" Casual tone. Dead eyes. "Have you sent him the invoice?".
Selena tilted her head. A slow, dangerous smile cut across her face — the same one she used before she destroyed people in orgo exams. "You bet I have," she said, low. "And he _has_ to pay for damages.
Dorian sat on the edge of his custom B&B Italia couch. He had change into a casual outfit.his hair slightly ruffled
but he still radiated _billable hours_. Spreadsheets glowed on his laptop, numbers swimming. His focus undivided, his eyes scanned the document line after line
His phone chimed.
One new email. No subject. Just: _Invoice - Floraison_.
He grabbed his phone off the travertine desk, thumb smudging the screen.
He opened it.
Surprise — cold and sharp — flashed in his eyes.
$9,247.63.
He let out a short, humorless breath. Of course she would. For a spilled bottle of "scented water."
Then he scrolled.
_Jasmine absolute, Grasse 2024, 15ml — $1,200. Italian pear essence, single-source, 30ml — $450. White musk, vintage 2018, 20ml — $600. Labor: 21 days @ $400/day — $8,400. Milan client penalty — $2,000. Emotional distress — priceless._
Line by line. Clinical. Meticulous. No rage. Just math.
He couldn't deny it. It was a better-structured invoice than half his portfolio companies sent him.
_She's good_, the thought slipped in before he could kill it. _Damn good._
He leaned back, dragging a hand through his hair. The amount was insulting. He could buy _Floraison_ twice over before lunch.
His thumb hovered over _Pay Now_. $9,247.63. Outrageous. But Dorian Ashford didn't carry debts.
He tapped it.
_Processing…_
Then his phone rang — _Board Emergency. Tokyo Deal._
He answered the call.
He listened.
His face changed the longer the voice on the other end spoke—calm at first, then slowly darkening.
"Mm" he said
The call ended, he shut his laptop.
He walked over to the side of his bed,
reached for the packed luggage waiting by the side.
He knew he would have to make this trip. He had hoped the issue wouldn't escalate and they could keep it under control.
He walked out of the room and handed the luggage to the guard stationed outside.
"get the Car ready."
The guard nodded instantly and moved.
Dorian didn't wait to see it happen.
He was already in motion down the corridor.
The mansion felt quieter than usual—but it wasn't peace. It was pressure. Staff stepped aside as he passed, sensing the shift in him. No one spoke to him. No one needed to.
New York wasn't optional.
It was already late.
And Dorian did not arrive late.
He moved faster now—not rushed, not chaotic, but absolute.