CHAPTER 2

Xebastian sat at his sleek, polished desk, the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his corner office. His charcoal suit was perfectly tailored, hugging the broad frame of his shoulders with a refined elegance. The crisp white shirt beneath and a silk tie added an understated edge, emphasizing his impeccable taste. His stormy blue eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned through stacks of documents with precision, reflecting his intense focus. Every inch of him, from his squared jaw to his composed demeanor, exuded power. He commanded the room effortlessly, even while seated.

The door creaked open, and his secretary, Mr. Lopez, entered with a fluid, purposeful stride. The young man's presence was like clockwork—calm, professional, and always punctual. One glance at him, and it was clear that he was dependable, the type of person who made sure things ran without a hitch.

Without lifting his eyes from the documents, Xebastian spoke, his voice cool and measured. "Any updates on tomorrow's investor meeting?"

Lopez stopped at the edge of the desk, tablet in hand, and answered with a calm, steady tone. "Everything is on track, but I suggest we revise the financial forecast. The Q3 numbers might raise concerns."

Xebastian's eyes flicked up, a flicker of curiosity behind his composed exterior. "How bad?"

Lopez scrolled through his tablet, the soft glow lighting his face. "Not a disaster, but there are some dips. Investors may ask questions. I recommend positioning it as reinvestment into future growth."

Xebastian leaned back, fingers steepled, considering. "Smart. Make sure the narrative is bulletproof. We can't afford to look weak."

Lopez nodded. "Already handled. On another note, the media's poking around about the AI project launch."

Xebastian's lips curved into a smirk, amusement gleaming in his eyes. "Let them dig. They'll get nothing until we're ready. Anything else?"

Lopez hesitated briefly, his brow furrowing slightly as he delivered the final point. "Yes. The board is requesting more... involvement in project development."

Xebastian's expression hardened, the calm demeanor barely concealing his irritation. "Involvement? They don't understand a fraction of what we're doing."

Lopez shrugged lightly, not phased. "They control the funding. It's just their way of asserting control."

Xebastian clenched his jaw, biting back his annoyance. "Fine. Schedule a meeting, but keep it brief. I don't have time for hand-holding."

Lopez gave a subtle nod, adjusting his glasses. "Done. Anything else before I head out?"

"That's all," Xebastian replied, already turning back to his work. "You can go."

The door clicked shut behind his secretary, leaving Xebastian alone with his thoughts and a mountain of work that stretched deep into the night.

Hours later, long after the rest of his employees had gone home and Moscow's sprawling city lights had softened under the darkness of the night, Xebastian remained at his desk. His eyes strained from the constant glare of his laptop screen, but the work still demanded his attention. The quiet hum of the city filtered in through the thick glass windows, a muffled reminder of the world beyond his office.

Finally conceding to his fatigue, Xebastian closed his laptop and leaned back in his leather chair. The cushions creaked under the shift in weight as he massaged his temples, trying to alleviate the headache that had settled deep behind his eyes. A glance at the clock told him it was well past midnight.

He stood up and crossed the room, his tall frame casting long shadows against the dim light from his desk lamp. He approached the massive windows, looking out over Moscow's skyline, the city pulsating with life far below. The streets, still busy with late-night traffic, resembled veins of light coursing through the concrete jungle.

Retrieving a cigarette from his pocket, Xebastian lit it with a snap of his lighter. The tiny flame briefly illuminated his chiseled features before vanishing with a sharp click. He inhaled deeply, the acrid taste of tobacco filling his lungs, then exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift lazily toward the glass.

Just as he began to relax, the shrill ring of his phone shattered the silence. Glancing at the screen, his mood soured instantly when he saw his father's name.

He answered the call curtly. "Yes?"

His father's voice came through, steady yet weighted with urgency. "Xebastian, you need to be here by next month."

Xebastian's frown deepened. "What's happening?"

There was a pause, followed by the sound of his father's measured breath. "This isn't something I can discuss over the phone, son."

Xebastian's hand tightened around the phone, suspicion gnawing at him. "I'll be there," he said, resigned. He wasn't one to refuse his father when things seemed this serious.

A sigh of relief echoed from the other end. "Good. I know this is sudden, but when it involves Mr. Vandeleur, we have no choice."

That name sparked immediate interest in Xebastian. "Mr. Vandeleur?" He knew the name well. The Vandeleur family had been close to theirs for years, but the patriarch, Mr. Vandeleur, was more than just a family friend—he was a business magnate, a man with influence that extended far beyond his own enterprises.

"Yes, him," his father confirmed, his voice laden with stress. "I'll explain more when you arrive."

The call ended abruptly, leaving Xebastian to ponder the implications of his father's words. His presence was being demanded earlier than expected, and the mention of Mr. Vandeleur added a layer of mystery that unsettled him.

With renewed determination, Xebastian threw himself into his work over the next few weeks, pushing through tasks at a relentless pace to wrap up his responsibilities in Moscow.

On his final night in the city, he headed to his favorite bar, a private and luxurious establishment that catered exclusively to the elite. The dim lighting, rich mahogany furniture, and plush leather seating created an atmosphere of quiet sophistication, offering a much-needed escape from the intensity of his work. It was a place where the powerful could relax in privacy, shielded from the prying eyes of the outside world.

The moment he stepped inside, the bartender gave him a nod of recognition. Xebastian was a regular, one of the few patrons granted VIP status. He made his way to his usual seat at the bar, where the bartender was already preparing his drink—a glass of Dalmore 62, one of the rarest and most expensive whiskies in the world. The amber liquid shimmered under the soft light, promising an experience as rich and complex as the man about to enjoy it.

"Good evening, Mr. Dmitrieva. The usual?" the bartender asked, already pouring the drink.

Xebastian gave a small nod, his mind still half-occupied with thoughts of the States and the impending meeting with his father. He lifted the glass, inhaling the deep, earthy aroma of the whiskey before taking a slow sip. The taste was as exquisite as always, a blend of dark chocolate, dried fruits, and a subtle spice that lingered on his palate. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to savor the drink, letting it dull the edge of his thoughts.

"Another," Xebastian said quietly, placing the empty glass back on the counter.

As the bartender refilled his drink, Xebastian felt a familiar hand clasp his shoulder. "Long time, my friend. I was starting to think your work finally consumed you," came a deep, playful voice from behind him.

Xebastian smirked without turning. "Nikolai," he said, acknowledging his old friend, the owner of the bar. He didn't need to look to recognize the man's presence—the snake tattoo that coiled up his arm and onto his neck was iconic enough, even in their circle.

Nikolai slid into the seat next to him, his imposing figure not lost on anyone who passed by. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features that hinted at both danger and loyalty. His shirt sleeves, rolled up to reveal the intricate details of the snake tattoo, only added to his imposing aura.

"You're working yourself into the ground again," Nikolai said, gesturing for a drink of his own. "When was the last time you had some fun, eh?"

Xebastian took another sip of his whiskey, allowing the warmth to settle in his chest. "I've had plenty of 'fun.' Just not the kind you're thinking of."

Nikolai scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Please. You're married to your work, man. All those contracts and numbers, they won't keep you warm at night."

Xebastian gave a dry chuckle. "I'm not deprived, Nikolai. I just have priorities. Work happens to be one of them."

His friend raised an eyebrow. "And the other priorities? Women, maybe? Or have you finally found someone worth your time?"

Xebastian's smirk deepened, though his eyes remained distant. "I haven't found anyone worth that much effort. But I'm not complaining."

Nikolai shook his head, laughing. "Well, I've got a little something to brighten up your night. Consider it a farewell gift before you fly back to the States."

Xebastian raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? And what exactly is this gift?"

Nikolai leaned in slightly, his voice dropping as his eyes flicked to the entrance. "See for yourself," he murmured.

Xebastian turned his head just as a woman approached their side of the bar. She moved with an effortless grace, her long black hair cascading in soft waves over her shoulders. She wore a sleek, form-fitting dress that accentuated her curves, and her striking green eyes shimmered beneath the dim lights. She was every bit the vision of a supermodel, her beauty undeniable, and precisely the type that usually caught Xebastian's eye.

"Xebastian Dmitrieva, I've heard a lot about you," she said, her voice smooth as silk. She extended her hand toward him, her gaze lingering with an air of seductive confidence. "I'm Chandria. A pleasure to finally meet you."

Xebastian took her hand, his grip firm but polite. "Likewise," he replied, a small smile curling at the corners of his lips.

Nikolai winked at Xebastian from the corner of his eye. "I'll leave you two to get acquainted," he said with a grin, backing away and leaving them alone.

Chandria slid into the seat beside Xebastian, and they engaged in light conversation, her sultry voice filling the space between them as she sipped her drink. As the evening wore on, their mutual interest became clear. There was no need for pretense—both knew exactly what the night would lead to.

Before long, they left the bar together, stepping out into the cool Moscow night. The nearest hotel was only a short drive away, and when they arrived, there were no questions, no hesitation. They entered the room, and the door closed softly behind them.

The moment they were alone, the tension that had simmered between them boiled over. Their lips collided in a fierce, heated kiss, hands greedily exploring each other's bodies. Clothes were discarded in the blink of an eye, forgotten on the floor as they gave in to the raw, physical hunger that had been building all night.

Xebastian's hands gripped her waist as they tumbled onto the bed, their movements frantic and desperate. Whatever happened after that—the heat, the passion, the fleeting escape—became a blur of sensation, one that Xebastian would barely remember the next morning.

Xebastian stepped off his private jet, breathing in the sharp, foreign air of the United States—his first breath here in five years. As his polished shoes clicked against the tarmac, he felt an uncharacteristic sense of nostalgia creep into his usually steely composure. He quickly dismissed the feeling, focusing on the sleek black car waiting for him nearby. His driver stood at attention, holding the door open, while Mr. Lopez, his ever-efficient secretary, followed dutifully a few steps behind, carrying a leather briefcase.

"Inform my father that I'll be arriving at the manor shortly," Xebastian said, his voice cool and detached, as he slid into the plush backseat. The interior of the car was a sanctuary of luxury—the faint scent of leather and expensive cologne wrapped around him, reminding him of the life he'd built meticulously over the years. Mr. Lopez settled beside him, already dialing a number.

"Noted, sir," Lopez replied, his tone professional as always. Moments later, his voice shifted into a courteous tone as he relayed Xebastian's message to his father. Xebastian barely listened, his attention shifting to the tablet in his hand—the latest model from his company, a device that represented years of innovation and perfection. His lips curled into a rare, satisfied smile as he scrolled through glowing consumer reviews. His empire was thriving.

"Send me the rest of the documents that need my signature," Xebastian ordered without looking up. "And what's on my schedule for today?"

Lopez, who had just ended the call, responded with the efficiency Xebastian had come to expect. "At 11:30 a.m., you have lunch with your family. At 2:30 p.m., there's an online meeting with Executive Director Mr. Sokolov. After that, your time is free for the remainder of the day."

Xebastian's eyes flicked to him. "That's it?"

"Yes, sir. I'd recommend using the afternoon to rest, considering the long flight—"

Before Mr. Lopez could finish, the car lurched to a violent stop. Both men were thrown forward against their seatbelts. Xebastian's hand shot out, gripping the edge of his seat, his expression not betraying a hint of the annoyance rising within him.

"What the hell happened?" Lopez demanded, his voice tight with panic.

The driver, visibly shaken, turned halfway in his seat to answer. "I'm so sorry, sir! Someone—someone just ran across the road. I had to stop."

"Get out and see what's going on," Lopez snapped, already reaching for his seatbelt.

The driver hurried out of the car, clearly unnerved. Xebastian watched him through the windshield, his expression unreadable but his instincts sharpening. There was something off about this.

"I'll check as well," Xebastian said, pushing open his door before Lopez could offer to do it for him. His leather shoes made contact with the sun-scorched pavement, and the heat pressed down on him as he strode toward the front of the car.

The scene before him made him freeze for a moment.

There, sitting on the hot asphalt, was a young man—no more than his early twenties, by the look of him. His golden-brown curls shimmered in the sunlight, framing a face that was strikingly beautiful in a way that made Xebastian hesitate. The boy's skin was pale, his eyes wide and deep blue, like an ocean caught in a storm. He wore nothing but purple silk pajamas, and in his trembling hands, he clutched a tattered white teddy bear, its stuffing spilling from a tear along its side.

For a moment, Xebastian's mind went blank. The oddity of the scene—the beauty of the boy juxtaposed with his odd attire and his childlike expression—seemed to slow time. It was only when Mr. Lopez approached from behind that Xebastian forced himself to snap out of his daze.

"Are you hurt?" Xebastian asked, his voice involuntarily softer, a tone he wasn't used to employing. The boy didn't seem to hear him, his round eyes fixed on the teddy bear he clutched to his chest.

"Teddy…" the boy whispered, his voice fragile. "Teddy needs a hospital…"

Xebastian blinked, feeling something tug at his chest, something unfamiliar and unwelcome. The boy's desperation was palpable, but it wasn't for himself—it was for the toy in his hands. His mind was clearly elsewhere, trapped in a different time or place. Xebastian had seen this kind of behavior before, but never so starkly in someone who seemed so… out of place.

Squatting down to the boy's level, Xebastian gently took the bear from his hands, inspecting the torn fabric. "You want me to take Teddy to the hospital?" he asked, playing along, his tone betraying a mixture of bemusement and concern.

The boy's face lit up with childlike hope, nodding vigorously as if Xebastian had just offered him a lifeline.

Xebastian exhaled, standing up and offering a hand to the boy. "Alright. Let's take Teddy to the hospital. Can you stand?"

The boy tried to rise, his legs wobbling like those of a newborn foal. Without thinking, Xebastian reached out to steady him, their eyes meeting for a brief moment. The connection was electric, and Xebastian immediately felt a strange jolt, something he hadn't experienced in years.

"Careful," he murmured, more to himself than to the boy.

With quick movements, Xebastian untied his own polished shoes, slipping them off and leaving himself in just his socks. He handed the shoes to the boy, who stared at them in confusion.

"Put these on," Xebastian said gently, but firmly.

The boy blinked, looking up at him with those wide, ocean-blue eyes. Slowly, as if trying to comprehend what was happening, he slid his feet into the too-large shoes. Xebastian watched in silence, noticing how delicate and graceful the boy's movements were, despite the clumsiness that came with his apparent confusion.

From behind, Lopez observed the entire exchange, his eyebrows raised in surprise. In all his years of service, he had never seen his boss—usually cold and composed—act this way. Xebastian, the man who struck fear into his business rivals, was kneeling in the street, offering his shoes to a boy who seemed like he didn't belong anywhere near this world.

"Sir," Lopez spoke up, glancing at his watch. "You have lunch with your family in less than an hour—"

"Uno," Xebastian interrupted, his tone brokering no argument.

"Yes, sir?"

"Tell my father I'm going to be late. Something important came up. We're taking this boy to the hospital ourselves."

Lopez opened his mouth as if to protest but quickly snapped it shut, nodding instead. "Understood, sir."

Xebastian helped the boy to his feet, steadying him as he guided him toward the car. "Let's go," he said softly, opening the door. The boy hesitated for a moment, clutching his teddy bear tightly before climbing into the backseat. Xebastian followed, settling beside him while Lopez, still processing the situation, moved to the front seat.

As the car began to roll forward again, Xebastian stole glances at the boy, who was now staring down at his torn teddy bear, cradling it as though it were a precious, fragile thing. The boy's silence was thick, filling the space between them.

"What's your guardian's name?" Xebastian asked after a long pause.

The boy looked up at him, his forehead scrunched in thought. "Grandpa… Sir Grandpa."

Xebastian frowned slightly. "Your grandpa. But what's his name?"

"Sir Grandpa…" the boy repeated, his voice uncertain.

Xebastian sighed, realizing that this wasn't going to be as simple as he'd hoped. The boy's behavior, his childlike responses—it all pointed to something deeper. Xebastian wasn't a doctor, but he had funded enough programs to recognize the signs of someone living with an intellectual disability.

"All right," Xebastian said softly, leaning back in his seat, his gaze lingering on the boy beside him. "We'll figure that out later. My name is Xebastian."

The boy looked up, his large, ocean-blue eyes focusing intently on Xebastian's face. His lips parted, and he opened his mouth as if to respond, but no sound came out. He blinked, his brow furrowing in concentration, clearly struggling with something as simple as repeating a name.

"Can you say it?" Xebastian asked, his tone surprisingly gentle for a man of his stature. He repeated his name, slower this time, hoping it might help. "Xebastian. Xe-bas-tian."

The boy's mouth moved silently, his lips trying to form the unfamiliar syllables. "Xe… Xe…" he began, the sound almost inaudible. He hesitated, then tried again, the effort visible in the way his tongue worked to mimic the sound.

"Xeb... Xe-bas...tyan?" he repeated, but the pronunciation came out garbled and clumsy. A flicker of frustration crossed his delicate features, but he didn't give up. He frowned in concentration, trying one more time, pushing himself to get it right.

Xebastian watched him struggle, feeling an odd pull in his chest. There was something endearing about the boy's determination, something almost admirable in his effort to say a simple name.

"Xebby?" the boy finally asked, his voice hopeful, as if searching for approval. His lips curved into a tentative smile, clearly pleased with himself for managing to get at least part of it right.

Xebastian blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected nickname. From the front seat, Mr. Lopez quickly turned his head, feigning interest in the passing scenery to hide the smile he was fighting.

A small, amused smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Close enough," he said, shaking his head in amusement. "But what about you? What's your name?"

The boy's face brightened, as if he had just remembered something important. "Lucas," he said softly. "My name is Lucas."

Xebastian leaned back, letting the name settle in his mind. It suited him—the mysterious, beautiful boy sitting beside him, clutching a torn teddy bear as though it were the most precious thing in the world.