Alexander loosens his tie and takes a long drink of whiskey, the burn doing little to settle his frayed nerves. His jaw tightens as his phone buzzes again in the pocket of his suit, relentlessly, all day. It's enough to make him want to throw it straight out the study window. Skimming through the notifications, the tension in his shoulders only tightens; his silver eyes narrow as he reads Michael's messages. Michael is begging for money again.

"Did he knock up another girl, or blow it all on that nasty little habit?" Alexander mutters, his lips curling before he sends the money anyway. "Idiot." He drains the rest of his glass, then licks his lips as if savoring the sting.

Next is a text from Ethan, the little shit rambling about his upcoming fall dance, asking if he can borrow Alexander's Rolls-Royce. Of course. The corner of Alexander's mouth twitches in amusement and irritation. Probably to impress that "friend" he's been all but squealing over lately.

Alexander barely finishes checking his emails when muffled yelling and stomping echo down the hall near Tyler's room. He straightens, every muscle in his neck tightening. Curiosity pricks behind his stoic mask. He rises from his mahogany desk, smooths his jacket, then peeks into the corridor. Tyler stands braced against his bedroom doorway, fists clenched, but Alexander's gaze drifts instead to the figure elbowing Tyler in the chest to get him to move.

A flicker of surprise crosses his face as she storms past, box in her arms. Her eyes flash with anger, and when she ignores his smooth "Hey, sweetheart," Alexander's eyebrows lift just a fraction before settling into a neutral line. He's seen their petty spats before, but never like this. Never so... final

He should go back into his office. He has enough to deal with, his wife deep into rehab again, whatever mess Michael's drowning in, Ethan's teenage dramas. He should return to Monday's case file. But Alexander's lips purse; for a moment, his gaze lingers on her retreating back, calculating but watching the slightest sway of her hips.

Before Tyler can close the bedroom door, Alexander steps forward, his polished leather shoe catching the frame. "What's all that about?" His voice is calm, almost curious, but his silver eyes glint sharply. He steps into the room. The stale reek of weed and grease hits him instantly; his nostrils flare in distaste as he makes a mental note to call the housekeepers.

Tyler exhales and slumps onto the bed, running a hand through his unkempt blond hair. His shoulders sag. "She says she's done this time. Like, done done," he mumbles. Alexander's lips form a subtle smirk, a small expression of smug satisfaction. "I don't get it. We made up a few days ago and everything was fine, then suddenly she tells me I have no drive, that I'm a loser. Like, what the hell?" Tyler drones on.

Alexander's jaw clenches briefly, he really wants to agree, to say she's right, but he keeps that thought to himself for now. Instead, his attention drifts back to her. There's a brief tightening around his eyes, a hint of lingering desire as he remembers how she would talk with him at family galas when Tyler would sneak off to get stoned. He remembers how he'd admire the faint curve of her hips under those elegant dresses. He shakes his head slightly to focus back on Tyler.

He meets Tyler's eyes for a split second, cold and assessing, then looks away. "Well," he says smoothly, his tone hardly concealing his impatience, "I'm sure you want to be alone." Alexander turns and leaves, shutting the door with deliberate firmness.

In the hall, his posture straightens. His fingertips brush his jacket, adjusting the fit, but his mind is already elsewhere. Her, single now, probably wounded, vulnerable. The idea sparks a flicker of satisfaction that he quickly masks behind his impassive face.

Reaching his study door, he hesitates. An idea pops into his head. She probably needs a friend. An apology. Who else but Alexander to apologize for his son's behavior. He then slides his phone from his pocket. His thumb hovers for a heartbeat before typing:

*"Hey sweetheart, let's meet for dinner this weekend. I want to apologize on behalf of Tyler."

A faint, satisfied twitch lifts one corner of his mouth as he reads it over. He pockets the phone and strides back to his desk, shoulders squared, as if nothing has changed.

**Time Skip, Saturday Night, 7:00 PM*

The restaurant's lighting is low, casting warm shadows over polished wood and crisp linens. A soft jazz track hums in the background. Alexander sits alone at a table in the back, leaning forward slightly, the candlelight dancing in his silver eyes. He swirls a glass of expensive red wine, tilting it just enough for the wine's scent to rise to his nostrils.

He lifts the glass to his lips with slow precision, letting the liquid linger on his tongue—his jaw flexes as he savors the taste. No headache tonight. He straightens in his chair, back impeccably straight, then glances toward the entrance, his expression amused but controlled. His gaze flickers with anticipation when he spots every woman who walks through those doors; his lips form a faint, knowing smirk each time, but none of them are her.

A small feeling of uncertainty passed through him until the sound of footsteps catch his attention. "Hello sweetheart," He grins as she approaches the table. Standing Alexander pulls her seat out and gently helps her scoot to the table. After returning to his seat his eyes flicker over her body before meeting her gaze. "Thank you for meeting me, darling."