Chapter 6 Ominously Brewing  

“Are you ready?” he cried, his tone dancing between playful and dramatic. The room answered in waves of laughter, gasps, and cheers. Ethan, though—Ethan sat still, every sense sharp, as if his skin itself was listening.

“Here we gooooo…” the MC sang, milking the silence, milking the anticipation. The drum roll swelled. Glasses clinked nervously against tables. Even Chloe, who never ran out of breath, sat frozen, lips parted as if in prayer.

And then—

“The number is… 007!”

The air cracked open. Applause. Screams. The crash of pure, wild excitement.

For a heartbeat, Chloe sat motionless, blinking, as though her brain had to process the words twice. Then she exploded.

“Oh my GODDDDDDDD!” She shrieked so loudly that Ethan winced. “Ethan! ETHANNN! We were chosen! Number seven! That’s us!”

Her chair scraped back as she jumped up, hands flying over her head, waves bouncing wildly, tears sparkling in her eyes. The sound of her joy blended with the crowd’s thunder, as if Chloe herself were another spotlight in the room.

Ethan… only smiled. A quiet, tugging smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Around them, other guests leaned closer, clapping, offering congratulations like champagne bubbles—light, fleeting, effervescent.

“Well done, sir,” a lady in diamonds at the next table murmured, raising her glass.

Ethan nodded politely, smile still fixed, though inside he felt his stomach coil tight, as if something heavy and unseen had just been placed in his lap. Nervous wasn’t a word he used often—he hated it, even—but here it was, clawing at his ribs. Why am I unsettled? he thought. It’s just dinner… just a man. Just…

But the thought refused to finish.

Chloe didn’t notice, of course. She was too busy clutching his arm and bouncing like she’d just won the lottery.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Her voice drowned his thoughts, spilling into the night. “We’re chosen, Ethan! We’re actually having dinner with Tim Dorian!”

“Congratulations to the lucky winners!” the MC announced with flourish, pointing toward their table with mock jealousy dripping in his tone. “An attendant will be with you shortly to usher in the next step.”

Chloe gasped so loud it turned heads, and Ethan had to resist the urge to cover her mouth.

The MC winked to the rest of the room, hand waving dramatically as the lights shifted once again. “And to the rest of us…” He paused, voice dipping into a sultry rhythm. “…Let’s paaartyyyyyy!”

Music crashed alive, bass thumping, glasses raising, cheers erupting like fireworks. The hall became a storm of colour and sound, sequins flashing under lights, champagne spraying in the air like liquid stardust, and in the middle of it, Ethan sat, smile soft but heart pounding, as Chloe’s grip on his arm reminded him—there was no escaping now.

Dinner with Tim Dorian was coming.

And for reasons he couldn’t even name, that thought shook him more than he wanted to admit.

— —

 ~~

“Nooo! Mother, please… don’t leave me!”

Timothy’s cry tore through the night, a broken sound from a boy too young to carry so much sorrow, too fragile to lose the only anchor he had left. His small hands clutched at her frail body, his voice cracking as if each syllable might shatter him in half.

Elena lay across his lap, her breath shallow and jagged. Her once-bright face was pale now, shadows etched beneath her eyes, lips trembling with every failing heartbeat. Blood stained the corners of her mouth, and Timothy wiped at it with the edge of his worn sleeve, his tears falling faster than he could stop them.

Their downfall had begun years ago, the day that woman in pink—Madison Wellman had ripped the world out from beneath them. She had smiled while destroying them, painting Elena as a murderer, a temptress who had stolen Nashville’s “golden man.” And the city had believed her.

From that moment, their lives were reduced to whispers and pointing fingers. Murderer. Liar. Trash. They lost their home. They lost friends. They lost their dignity.

Timothy never forgot the sting of those words. He never forgot standing small and trembling in the streets, shouting with all the courage he had. “Leave my mother alone!”

Most people laughed. Others… shoved him into the dirt, fists pounding until his ribs ached, until his breath came in sobs. Sometimes they shoved Elena too, her weak body crashing against the cobblestones as she tried to shield him.

And Timothy—his heart broke a little more each time. He wanted to fight. He wanted to protect her, but he was just a boy, fighting the weight of an entire city’s hatred with nothing but his voice.

Now, inside the decaying shell of a shack that barely kept the rain out, there was no crowd, no accusers—only silence, rot, and the sound of her life slipping away.

The place stank of damp wood and mildew. Rats skittered in the corners, cockroaches crawled where the walls peeled. Fester, the stray cat that had made their ruin its home before them, crouched nearby. Somehow, the creature had chosen them—sat by them through hunger and nights of crying. And now, as Elena’s chest rattled with the effort to breathe, Fester let out a long, mournful meow, as if he already knew the ending Timothy refused to accept.

Timothy’s tears streamed unchecked down his dirt-streaked cheeks. His chest heaved with sobs as he clung tighter to her frail frame, shaking his head violently.

“No, no, please, Mama! Don’t leave me too! I’ll be good—I’ll work, I’ll fight, I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t leave me!” His voice cracked, the words spilling out fast, desperate, a child’s last bargain with the universe.

Elena’s hand—so thin, her veins pressing against paper-like skin rose tremblingly. She cupped his wet cheek with what little strength remained, her touch gentle though her body shook.

Her eyes searched his, dull now but still carrying that flicker of love that had kept him alive all these years.

“You must… let go of the past, Timothy,” she whispered. Her voice was soft, ragged, each word tearing itself free from failing lungs. “Fight… fight for yourself now.”

Her words pierced him deeper than any insult, deeper than the fists of the boys who had beaten him. His body shook, his tears turned to sobs so violent they rocked them both.

“No, Mama, no! Don’t say that. I need you! I can’t—” His cries grew raw, his small frame curling around her like he could shield her from death itself.

But her hand slipped from his cheek. Her chest rose once, a fragile breath. Fell.

And stilled.

For a moment, the world itself seemed to stop. No wind. No sound. Just a boy clutching his mother’s body in a room that reeked of decay.

Fester crept closer, pressing against Timothy’s leg, letting out another low, grieving mewl—as if to keep him company in the silence that had swallowed the world.

Timothy pressed his face into her chest, sobbing until his throat burned raw. Every sound he made was pain made flesh—anguish pouring from a child who had lost the only person who had ever truly seen him.

Her final words echoed in him, cruel and beautiful all at once:

Let go of the past… fight for yourself now.

And in that suffocating darkness, Timothy’s tears dried into salt on his skin. Somewhere beneath the grief, a spark ignited. A vow.

He would fight. He would rise.

And one day, Madison Wellman would pay.

The scream still echoed!—haunted Timothy, chasing him even now as he stood in the exquisite restroom staring at his reflection in the mirror.

Crystal chandeliers glimmered above, refracting light onto the marble walls and gold fixtures. The soft thrum of violins filtered faintly from the showroom outside. The room was built for lavishness, but what Timothy glimpsed in the mirror before him was a ghost—the boy who knelt in the earth, clutching his dying mother.

His hands trembled slightly as he turned on the faucet. Ice water splashed over his hands, and the recollection of a voice that accompanied it into nothingness. He leaned forward close, beads running down from his fingertips, his face reflected looking at him with the same black, hollow eyes that had seen too much too soon.

Her voice… her last words.

“You must let go of the past, Timothy… fight for yourself now…”

Those words weren’t just a memory anymore. They were his heartbeat. His fire. His reason for breathing.

Timothy Hemsworth had died in that shack. That boy—the scared, broken child who begged the universe for mercy was gone.

Now, there was Tim Dorian.

A man sharpened by suffering. A man forged by hunger, betrayal, and a mother’s final plea. A man who wanted revenge with every fibre of his being. Revenge against Madison Wellman. Revenge against the city that spat on his family’s name. And more than anything—justice, a chance to clear Elena’s memory once and for all.

He straightened, smoothing back his perfectly styled hair, studying the reflection in the gilded mirror. People called his face “angelic”—soft, symmetrical, disarming. But beneath that calm veneer lived rage, bitterness, and a vengeful soul cloaked in charm.

This angel had come to collect, and his game had only just begun.

Just then, his phone buzzed against the marble counter. He glanced down. The name glowing on the screen made his lips curve into the smallest, most genuine smile he had shown all night.

“Hello, Mom,” Tim said softly, answering.

“My baby,” Olivia Dorian’s warm voice spilt through the receiver, maternal and proud. “I watched it on Fashion World. You did so great! I’m super proud of you.”

Tim’s chest eased for a moment. Olivia wasn’t his blood, but she had become his saving grace. The woman who found him on the streets. The woman who fed him, clothed him, gave him the Dorian name and made him into someone the world would respect. Someone dangerous.

“Thanks, Mom,” he replied, his tone lighter than it had been all night.

“So,” she continued, laughter in her voice, “are you coming home now? Fester and I miss you.”

Tim chuckled dryly, shaking his head as if she could see him. “I want to badly, but… I have a dinner date with some potential investors. Kiss Fester goodnight for me, and don’t wait up, okay? I love you.”

“I love you too, hun. Be safe.”

“I will, Mother.”

The line clicked off, leaving him in silence again.

A knock sounded at the door, breaking his thoughts.

“Tim,” Paul, his assistant, said from outside. “The guests are already awaiting you in the dinner area.”

Tim slipped the phone into his pocket, his lips forming the kind of smile that charmed rooms into silence. “Thank you, Paul. I’ll be out soon.”

He turned back to the mirror one last time. His reflection looked flawless—an angel wrapped in silk and power, but behind those eyes? A storm was raging. A storm that would tear everything in its path.

Tim Dorian adjusted his cufflinks, inhaled slowly, and thought:

The plan has already begun.

 — —

“Mr Tim will be joining you soon enough,” the waiter said with a courteous bow.

“Thank you!” Chloe chimed quickly, her voice bubbling with barely contained excitement.

Ethan, despite himself, shook his head at her.

“What?” Chloe shot back, pausing mid-squeal to look at him.

“You very well know how much I loooove this man,” she stressed dramatically, clutching her chest. “And I’m getting to meet him for the first time. I’m allowed to gloat!”

Ethan arched a brow, his lips tugging into a restrained smirk. “Well, your self-adored fashion icon is quite rude. Keeping us waiting like this.”

Chloe gasped, feigning heartbreak. “Et!”

“Yes,” Ethan continued smoothly, leaning back against his seat. “I mean, who arrives late to the very dinner they requested? That’s plain rude.”

Chloe let out an awkward laugh, her eyes darting around the elegant lobby as if she could melt into the velvet walls. “Will you keep your voice down, Et! C’mon now—”

But Ethan never got the chance to finish his retort.

Because behind them, a voice cut through the air. Calm. Controlled, but carrying weight like iron wrapped in silk.

“Well… you should have left if you feel so offended about waiting just a little bit.”

The words froze the space around them.

Slowly, both Ethan and Chloe turned. And there he was.

Tim.

Standing only a few feet away, framed by the soft golden light of the lobby’s chandeliers. His presence seemed to bend the room around him—tailored suit hugging his form, auburn hair catching the glow, but it was his eyes that struck hardest. Deep brown. Gentle on the surface, yet heavy—boring into Ethan with something unspoken. Something Ethan felt in his chest before his mind could even register it.

Chloe gasped so sharply it almost echoed. Her hands flew to her mouth in shock.

Ethan rose, deliberate and composed, his movements slow but steady—masking the tension coiling inside him. Their eyes locked, and in that silence, the air thickened. Every heartbeat seemed louder than the last.

For a moment, no one said a word. Only the weight of that charged atmosphere pressed down on them all.

Then Chloe, unable to take it anymore, whispered the obvious into the suffocating quiet.

“…Oh. This is awkward.”