After a long, taxing day, Eamon finally decided to go home once the meeting with the Desrosiers had wrapped up. The tension had been thick, the discussions long-winded, and although he held his composure as always, his body now felt the weight of it all. He couldn't recall the last time he had returned to his apartment, not just to grab a change of clothes or check his mail, but to actually be home. More often than not, he slept on the firm leather couch in his office, surrounded by stacks of files and glowing monitors.
When the elevator opened with a quiet chime, Eamon stepped into the penthouse apartment he called home. It was a loft-style space perched near the top of a sleek high-rise, nestled in the heart of Veldris City's Central Business District. The apartment was spacious, with an open floor plan that stretched wall-to-wall beneath high ceilings and was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows. During the day, golden sunlight flooded the interior, breathing warmth into every corner. At night, the glass walls transformed into a canvas of glittering skyscrapers, their lights blinking like distant stars.
Eamon enjoyed the sense of clarity and peace he gained from being up this high, away from the buzz of traffic and constant city noise. Up here, Eamon felt as though he could breathe much more easily.
Ironically, he'd never wanted a penthouse. It felt too indulgent and an unnecessary expense, especially for someone who was rarely home to enjoy it. He originally intended to purchase a small, functional apartment just blocks from the Sauveterre Law Firm, something practical and efficient, but his mother had insisted on taking him to view this penthouse when it went on sale. He'd rolled his eyes, more humouring her than anything else.
Then he saw it.
The streaks of sunlight, the peace and of course, the view. It all whispered to some quieter part of himself. He hadn't expected to fall in love with a space that felt more like a sanctuary than a showcase. He hadn't had enough for the down payment at the time, but after a reluctant deal with his father, one laced with terms and more than a few passive-aggressive comments, he'd signed the contract and moved in.
His mother, of course, had been delighted. Not only was the apartment spacious and well-fitted for entertaining, but it also included a private rooftop pool, which he argued was "good for keeping you in shape." Eamon didn't argue as he preferred swimming as his primary form of exercise. Most importantly, the building boasted top-tier security: 24-hour surveillance, secure elevator access, and several security check-ins. For the son of Edmun Sauveterre, these things were non-negotiable.
Eamon truly valued his home; he wouldn't admit it to anyone, and hardly to himself. Although the apartment was beautiful.
It was also lonely.
Over time, he dreaded spending time at home. The echo of his own footsteps across the hardwood floor felt louder than the city below.
There had been a stretch, a few months ago, when he seriously considered moving back into the family estate. Just for a short while. Just until the loneliness didn't sit so heavily on his chest, but the thought of being twenty-six and living with his parents because he couldn't stand being alone felt pathetic, even to him. Besides, his father would never let him live it down.
Instead, Eamon threw himself into work. He volunteered for cases no one wanted, stayed late without complaint, and handled the most difficult clients. Colleagues whispered that he was gunning for a rapid promotion, or that he was desperate to prove something to his father. While both were partially true, the deeper reason was far more embarrassing.
He simply didn't want to be alone.
He would've stayed again tonight, curling up under his coat on the office couch, if his father hadn't cut through a conversation earlier with a stern warning masked as a suggestion. "You're running on fumes," Alessia had said, eyeing her son's pale face and red-rimmed eyes. "Go home. Eat. Sleep. You'll be useless otherwise."
Eamon hadn't even bothered arguing, and now, as he padded across the wide living space, he felt the ache in his body fully settle in. He bent down to slip off his stiff leather shoes, replacing them with soft, grey slippers waiting loyally by the door. Despite the openness of the loft, the areas still managed to feel separate and private.
He strolled toward the sitting area, unhurried, the weariness in his limbs settling with each step. As he reached the modular grey sectional couch, he shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it carelessly onto one of the cushions. The couch sat low to the ground, plush and inviting, with an abundant scattering of throw pillows in varying textures. Linen, velvet and woven cotton. This adds layers of comfort without clutter. This area, much like everything else in his apartment, the space was a careful balance between comfort and sophistication.
At the heart of the room stood a large coffee table made of warm natural wood, its grain rich and visible beneath a matte finish. It was a piece that grounded the room, surrounded by carefully curated items: a stack of heavy, hardcover art and architecture books, and a minimalistic handcrafted clay sculpture, abstract but with a vague humanoid form, which he had won at a charity auction. He'd been bidding to distract himself from a client disaster that week, not expecting to win. Yet now, the statue stood like a quiet sentinel among his belongings, a reminder that beauty could come from impulse.
Beneath it all lay a neutral-toned geometric rug, soft underfoot and chosen specifically to offset the harder edges of the room. It added a cosy, textural warmth that softened the surrounding industrial accents. In the far corner near the windows, a tall potted fiddle-leaf fig reached toward the ceiling, its deep green leaves catching the ambient light. It stood as a living contrast to the apartment's cool palette of steel, slate and glass.
The entire apartment had been decorated in muted tones: slate greys, deep taupes, and pale, powdery blues, accented with natural wood and brushed steel. Eamon had selected every detail himself, down to the drawer handles and curtain textures. The result was a space that could've easily felt cold and distant, yet it didn't. It was calculated but warm, much like the man who lived there, poised, intelligent, and impossible to ignore.
Eamon sank into the couch with a long exhale, his posture momentarily unguarded. He leaned back lazily, rolling his neck before reaching up to tug his tie loose. The silk gave way easily, pooling in his lap as he popped open the top buttons of his shirt. The white fabric shifted to reveal the faint end of a tattoo curling just under his collarbone, black ink vibrant against golden-brown skin, the abstract lines hinted at a story. He'd gotten it impulsively the day he graduated from law school, a gift to himself. His father had nearly thrown a fit, muttering something about lawyers needing to be respectable and clean-cut.
Eamon hadn't regretted it. It was one of the few things he'd done entirely for himself.
After a few quiet minutes, he stood again. His movements were slow, deliberate, but never clumsy. With long, confident strides, he crossed the room to a small yet beautifully designed coffee and wine bar tucked neatly between the kitchen's edge and a towering pane of glass. The built-in shelves were a blend of warm wood, matte black metal, and thick glass. On display were his collection of espresso tools, fine-stemmed wine glasses, and a row of handmade ceramic mugs, each slightly misshapen, yet charming. Two low bar stools sat tucked under the narrow counter that overlooked the city below, and on its surface, a few small potted herbs added a breath of greenery.
This more private corner hinted at Eamon's appreciation for small and slow indulgences. A space for espresso in the early hours, or wine in the unwinding haze of night.
He reached up for a wide-bowled glass and retrieved a half-finished bottle of red wine from the rack. It was a merlot—deep, rich, and smooth. He poured a generous amount into the glass, watching the liquid swirl and catch the ambient light. He brought it to his nose, inhaling its aroma, before taking a long, satisfying sip. The warmth of it settled into his chest.
Returning to the couch, wine in hand, he bypassed the television entirely. Instead, he tapped the controls of his stereo, letting soft music drift into the space. The tones were slow and smoky, curling into the corners of the room like a second kind of light.
He sank back into the cushions, letting the music and the wine do their work. His mind, like always, didn't rest for long, processing the events of the day.
Although he had only met with three clients that day, it felt as though he'd carried the weight of ten. For reasons he couldn't entirely explain, each meeting had wrung him out in different ways. Emotionally, mentally, and, in some cases, morally.
His first meeting, which had dragged him out of bed at an unholy hour, had been with Mr M, a man Eamon already had little patience for. A prominent businessman with a carefully cultivated public image, and also a serial adulterer. One of his mistresses had recently given birth to an Alpha son, and now, after the tragic death of his legitimate Alpha heir earlier in the year, the mistress had decided to pursue inheritance rights for her own child.
The case itself wasn't complicated. In fact, Eamon had already laid out several sound strategies that would allow Mr M to settle things quietly and without scandal. But, of course, that wasn't what Mr M wanted.
No. Mr M wanted to annihilate the woman.
He insisted that she was trying to trap him, that she was only after his wealth, and that his own child would be better off under his custody and far away from a "scheming Omega." Eamon hadn't witnessed a full-grown Alpha throw a tantrum like that in years. The man practically roared in his chair, slamming his palm on the desk when Eamon gently suggested a diplomatic approach. By the time the man stormed out, having half-ignored Eamon's advice yet again, Eamon had already developed a dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes.
His second meeting, held just after noon, was with two Omega clients, Mr W and Mr B, a married couple in the middle of a discrimination case. Their story was, sadly, not uncommon. After their wedding, their landlord began a campaign of thinly veiled harassment: raising their rent arbitrarily, posting anonymous noise complaints, and finally, evicting them under the pretence of a lease violation.
What was worse, he hadn't stopped there.
He'd actively slandered them in the local housing market, calling up agencies and other landlords in the area, ensuring the couple had no place to go. They ended up staying in a temporary Omega shelter, which was technically only for those in immediate danger, which they weren't. As a result, they were charged a large sum for their extended stay. They had struggled to find alternative housing, and the mounting stress had left them frayed.
Eamon had taken the case on the grounds of discrimination, slander, and financial restitution for the shelter fees. It wasn't a particularly complex case from a legal standpoint. The evidence was solid, and the law was technically on their side, but its sensitive nature guaranteed a media firestorm, not to mention mountains of paperwork and hearings that would drag on for months.
On top of that, there was also Mr W's fertility treatment.
Currently in the early stages of the process, the treatment had left him understandably emotional. During today's meeting alone, he had cried twice, once while discussing their wedding, and again while offering Eamon a box of his homemade almond shortbread cookies. Mr B, ever the more stoic of the pair, had simply wrapped an arm around his husband and squeezed his shoulder, the quiet tenderness between them grounding the moment.
Despite the long road ahead, they were hopeful. Ecstatic, even. They had mentioned multiple times how grateful they were that someone had finally agreed to take them seriously. With little in the way of connections, they'd been rejected by firm after firm, despite having the money to afford decent legal representation. When Eamon accepted their case, they paid his retainer without flinching and had been trying to express their gratitude ever since.
Every time they met, they brought him something homemade: spiced pecans, hand-rolled truffles, herbal teas. Eamon was beginning to suspect Mr B might've been a chef in another life.
They were, in every sense, a good couple. Loving and vulnerable. Undeserving of the bullshit they'd endured. Eamon had made a quiet promise to himself that he would not allow the world to trample them any further.
His thoughts, already spiralling into strategy and timelines for both cases, were cut short by the sharp ring of his phone vibrating on the counter. The screen lit up with a familiar name: Mom.
He exhaled, one corner of his mouth lifting tiredly.
"Hello, Mom."
"You sound tired." Edmun Sauveterre's voice floated through the speaker, gentle but laced with disapproval. "You only ever go home when your father threatens to fire you. That's not healthy, Eamon."
Eamon sighed, already bracing himself against the well-meaning lecture. "I know. I'm sorry, Mom. I just… struggle to rest when there are active cases. My brain doesn't slow down."
"That might be true," Edmun replied swiftly, clicking his tongue in that familiar motherly scold. "But you keep taking on new clients before you finish the ones you already have. You're not a machine, darling."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and leaned back against the couch, the wine glass balanced in his hand. "You're right. I know you're right. I promise I'll take a proper break once I wrap up the cases I'm working on now."
There was a pause on the other end. "You've been saying that since law school," he muttered, but his voice had softened. "You're too much like your father sometimes. She used to burn herself out in the same way. I won't sit back and watch you waste away either."
"I'm not her," Eamon said gently. "But I understand. I really do."
"Just don't let your confidence turn into arrogance," Edmun warned, though now there was a trace of amusement in his tone. "Even you can crash."
"It's hard not to be arrogant when I'm always right," Eamon replied, his lips twitching with a smile.
"That mouth of yours—" Edmun laughed, the warmth in his mom's voice chasing away some of the fatigue in his bones. "Listen, I made you a proper meal. It's on the kitchen island. And I stocked your fridge again. You'd better not let the ingredients spoil, or so help me—"
"I won't, I swear. Thank you, Mom. You didn't have to."
"I wanted to, and you need it. You'll feel better if you eat something besides coffee and takeout."
"I will. I'll eat properly tonight. I promise."
"Good. Now rest early, honey. You sound exhausted."
"I will. Goodnight, Mom."
There was a brief pause, as though he hesitated before adding, softer this time, "Em… I love you."
Eamon closed his eyes and leaned his head back, the warmth of the words settling around his chest.
"Love you too, Mom."
Eamon turned off his phone, his mother's voice still lingering warmly in his mind. That familiar affection settled into his tired bones like a soft blanket, easing a weight he hadn't realised he was carrying. He made a quiet mental note to visit his childhood home soon. It had been too long.