Easton Sinclair worked as a professor at Springfield University. Despite hailing from a wealthy lineage that lacked nothing but the gates of heaven itself, he chose a quiet, academic life. He didn't need the money—he needed purpose, a way to escape the chaos that often surrounded his name.
He stood in the restroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror, lost in thought. The faint hum of the hotel lobby's classical music reached his ears like a distant whisper. He hated these family dinners. Always filled with pretentious smiles and forced conversations. Tonight had been no different.
Without warning, the door creaked open behind him.
"Easton," came a soft, sultry voice.
He tensed instantly. He didn't need to turn—he knew the voice too well.
A delicate, manicured hand slid onto his shoulder, fingers trailing with unnecessary intimacy. He met her gaze in the mirror.
"What do you want, Mary-Anne?" he said through clenched teeth.
Mary-Anne. His stepmother. A woman more dangerous than a serpent in silk.
He never understood why her parents gave her such a saintly name. There was nothing remotely holy about her. What 29-year-old marries a 79-year-old man unless it's for wealth? She didn't even hide it. But if she thought she could wrap him around her finger just because she married his father, she had picked the wrong man to play with.
She leaned closer, wrapping her arms around his torso, her voice like poisoned honey in his ear. "Oh, my love... don't be so tense."
In one swift motion, Easton gripped her throat and slammed her against the tiled wall.
"You might be my father's wife, but you don't cross my line," he growled. "The next time you try that stunt, I won't hesitate to end it here—and trust me, Mary-Anne, no one will miss you."
She stared at him, pale, breath caught in her throat. When he let go, she slid down the wall like a puppet cut from its strings. He turned and walked away without looking back.
Mary-Anne rubbed her neck gently, her lips twitching. "Stubborn idiot," she hissed under her breath. "But one day, Easton... you'll be mine. Just wait."
---
Outside the hotel, Samantha—his twin sister—approached him quickly in her elegant, curve-hugging gown. A crimson lipstick accentuated her sharp features, and a feather scarf fluttered around her neck like a movie star from the '60s. She was the female version of him—tall, poised, and annoyingly persistent.
"At least you could've told me you were leaving," she said, heels clicking on the pavement. "If not for the hotel staff, we wouldn't have known."
He responded with a simple, "Hmm."
She raised a brow. "Are you alright?"
He didn't answer. What was there to say after their father had publicly humiliated him—calling him an 'unfamiliar son' in front of strangers? His sisters Anni and Sinia were married off to billionaires living abroad, safe from the madness. Samantha was the only one who still played the family diplomat.
He got into his car without another word.
---
The road back home, Tones & I City Road, was nearly empty. Streetlights cast ghostly glows on the asphalt. His foot pressed harder on the accelerator, his frustration pouring into the speedometer. Tonight had been a disaster.
BAM!
The car jolted. He slammed on the brakes, heart pounding.
"What the hell...?" he muttered, peering into the rearview mirror.
Nothing.
He stepped out cautiously and walked to the back of the car. There—just near the rear tire—lay a small figure, barely moving.
A baby fox.
But not just any fox.
Its fur shimmered with streaks of white and blue, as if it had been dipped in moonlight. He knelt down, blinking in disbelief.
"What kind of creature are you...?"
He'd only ever seen the typical reddish-brown foxes in textbooks and wildlife clips—not something that looked like it had stepped out of a fairytale.
His first instinct was to walk away. Pretend he hadn't seen it. But he wasn't that kind of man. Not completely.
"Damn it," he sighed and gently scooped the limp creature into his arms.
---
Back at Night Sky Apartments, he carried the fox upstairs to his spare room. It was a cozy, unused space meant for storage or impromptu guests, but tonight it was a makeshift animal rescue center.
He turned on the bedside lamp and carefully placed the fox on the bed.
"What am I even doing...?" he muttered, shaking his head.
He fetched a bowl of warm water from the kitchen and dabbed it gently across the fox's fur. Its tiny chest barely rose.
"Come on, little guy... wake up."
The fox stirred.
Easton flinched, eyes widening as the creature opened its eyes—a brilliant, almost glowing shade of violet. He had never seen anything like it.
"How more strange can you be, Foxy?" he whispered, gently stroking its soft fur.
The fox attempted to stand, only to collapse with a whimper.
Guilt stabbed at his chest.
He lifted it carefully and carried it down to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and grabbed leftover pizza, placing it in front of the fox on the kitchen island.
"Alright. Food. You eat now, and we pretend none of this ever happened."
The fox sniffed it—and turned its head away.
Easton groaned. "You know, foxes like you die of hunger for being picky. Is that what you want? Huh?"
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Because if you're secretly suicidal, I'll do you a favor and roast you with some herbs. Might be tasty."
The fox blinked at him with those mysterious purple eyes, clearly unimpressed.
"Okay, fine," Easton muttered. "Be that way."
He tried again, this time with a slice of ham.
Same reaction.
"Seriously?"
The fox suddenly jumped off the stool and limped away, dragging its little body toward the living room.
Easton sighed, rubbing his forehead. "You are going to be the death of me."
He followed it and reached down to scoop it up—but the fox hissed and swiped at him, tiny claws catching the side of his neck.
"Ow!" he winced.
With a roll of his eyes, he grabbed an empty noodle bag and wrapped it around his hands as makeshift gloves. Then he picked up his phone and dialed.
"Jenna," he said as soon as it connected. "I need you. And bring your animal rescue kit. Yeah… no, I'm not joking.."