Aristhone Family [What If: Mother is alive]

The home theater is a sea of plush velvet and oversized cashmere blankets, illuminated only by the flickering blue light of the massive screen and a few stray scented candles Sheila insisted on lighting. The parents have long since retired to the West Wing, leaving the Aristhone siblings to their Friday night ritual—a ritual that is currently devolving into a localized riot.

The movie, some high-brow psychological thriller Henry picked, is being roundly ignored. Henry himself is sitting in the back row, a glass of neat scotch in one hand and a tablet in the other, his icy-grey eyes darting between a spreadsheet and the chaos unfolding on the floor below him.

"Nathan, if you spill that buffalo sauce on the rug, I’m making you steam-clean it with a toothbrush," Henry warns, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that doesn't even make Nathan flinch.

"Chill out, CEO," Nathan grunts. He’s sprawled across two beanbags, his massive frame taking up half the room. He’s currently in a heated tug-of-war with Rocky over a piece of jerky. The Husky has his front paws planted on Nathan’s chest, growling a play-threat while Nathan tries to pry the dog’s jaws open. "It’s a rug, Henry! Not a sacred relic!"

Alex is perched on the arm of the sofa, looking like a dark prince in his silk pajamas. He’s meticulously throwing popcorn at the back of Nathan’s head, aiming for the ears with terrifying precision. Each time Nathan swats the air and misses, Alex lets out a sharp, jagged laugh.

The real trouble, however, starts on the floor where you and Ivan are settled near a scattered pile of charcoal pencils and expensive paper.

Ivan’s hazel eyes suddenly widen as he looks down at the corner of his latest sketch—a delicate, half-finished portrait of Sheila—now sporting a crisp, dusty footprint from where you tried to adjust your seating. His jaw drops, and then his gaze shifts to his plate of gourmet sliders, noticing one is conspicuously missing.

"Are you serious?" Ivan whispers, his voice cracking with a mix of exhaustion and mock-betrayal. "My art, destroyed. My dinner, stolen. You’re a monster."

Before anyone can react, Ivan pounces. He isn't aggressive like Nathan, but he knows your weaknesses. He traps you against the side of the velvet sofa, his long, paint-stained fingers finding your ribs with surgical accuracy. He starts a relentless, frantic tickling session, his face splitting into a rare, genuine grin that erases the weary shadows under his eyes.

"Say it! Say the Aristhone legacy is built on the blood of my sliders!" Ivan demands, his fingers dancing over your sides. "Apologize to the sketch!"

"Get her, Vanya! Don't let her up!" Alex cheers from his perch, filming the entire ordeal on his phone. "I’m sending this to the security team. Breach of peace! Theft of poultry!"

"Move!" Nathan suddenly barks, finally losing the jerky to Rocky. The dog zooms across the room, slipping on a silk pillow and sliding headfirst into Henry’s legs.

Henry sighs, closing his eyes for a brief second as Rocky begins to frantically lick the polish off his expensive leather loafers. He looks down at the floor, seeing Ivan still relentlessly tickling you while you squirm, Nathan now chasing the dog around the sofa, and Alex cackling as he throws an entire handful of popcorn at Ivan’s head to join the fray.

"Enough," Henry says, though there’s no real bite in it. He leans forward, his shadow stretching over the group. He reaches down, grabbing the back of Ivan’s hoodie and pulling him back just enough to give you a second to breathe.

"She's turning red, Ivan. We don't need a medical emergency on movie night," Henry remarks, though he doesn't let go of Ivan. Instead, he looks at you, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Besides, she didn't just steal your food. She took my pen from the end table twenty minutes ago. I watched her do it."

"Traitor!" Nathan yells, abandoning the dog to loom over the sofa, looking down at you with a predatory, amber-eyed grin. "Alright, that’s it. Everyone on her. It’s a dog pile. Rocky! Attack!"

Rocky doesn't need to be told twice. The silver-white blur of fur launches himself into the middle of the cushions, landing squarely on your legs with a heavy oomph, his tail thwacking against Ivan’s face like a rhythmic whip.

"See?" Alex says, leaning over the back of the couch to look at you, his eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and that suffocating Aristhone possessiveness. "There’s no escape, baby sis."

The master suite is a sprawling sanctuary of cream linens, warm lamplight, and the faint, expensive scent of sandalwood. Unlike the rest of the house, which can feel like a high-stakes boardroom, this room is the inner sanctum. Reynold is propped up against a mountain of pillows, looking every bit the relaxed lion in his silk robe, while Sheila sits at the foot of the bed, her fingers deftly moving as she brushes through your hair with a silver-handled brush.

"You've been working too hard at the university, darling," Sheila murmurs, her voice a soothing velvet. She leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to the top of your head before continuing the rhythmic strokes. "I told Henry to ease up on those weekend 'internship' hours he’s forcing on you. You're my baby, not his junior executive."

Reynold chuckles, a deep, raspy sound of contentment. He reaches out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his grey eyes—the ones Henry inherited—softening with a rare, paternal warmth. "She’s the only Aristhone with a soul left, Sheila. Let the boys drown in the business. Our girl should just enjoy the view."

He shifts, his gaze flickering toward his wife with a sudden, wicked glint. He catches Sheila’s wrist, pulling her slightly closer until she lets out a small gasp of surprise.

"Besides," Reynold lowers his voice, a rough, suggestive edge creeping into his tone as he ignores your presence with the ease of a man who owns everything he sees. "If she spends too much time with the boys, I never get you to myself. And I remember exactly what you were wearing—or wasn't wearing—the last time we had this room to ourselves for more than an hour. Maybe I should send the children to the city for the night. I have a few... dirty ideas I’d like to revisit."

"Reynold! Honestly," Sheila flushes a brilliant shade of rose, batting his hand away even as she leans into his space, a playful, knowing smile tugging at her lips. "Not in front of the child."

"She’s an Aristhone. She can handle a little truth about how much I adore her mother," Reynold growls playfully, leaning in to nip at Sheila’s earlobe.

The heavy mahogany doors creak open without a knock, shattering the private moment. Ivan trudges in first, looking like a ghost in an oversized hoodie, his hand pressed firmly against his temple. Behind him, Nathan stomps in, looking energized and restless, still wearing his gym shorts and a tank top that’s stretched thin across his chest.

"I can hear the flirting from the hallway. Disgusting. Truly," Ivan mutters, though he immediately heads for the side of the bed, sinking onto the mattress near your feet and closing his eyes. "Mom, tell Nathan to stop dropping his dumbbells. My brain is vibrating."

"I dropped it once! One time!" Nathan barks, his amber eyes scanning the room until they land on you, tucked safely between their parents. A predatory, mischievous grin spreads across his face. "Oh, I see. You're in here getting the VIP treatment while the rest of us are out there suffering?"

Nathan doesn't wait for an invitation. He lunges forward, his movements a blur of brute strength and speed. He hooks his arms under your armpits, hauling you out from the safety of the pillows like you weigh nothing.

"My turn," Nathan grunts, ignoring your protests as he literally drags you toward the edge of the bed.

With a blunt, practiced shove, he pushes you toward the empty lounge chair across the room. The push not hard enough to hurt, but energy to let you know you've been evicted. Before you can even regain your footing, the massive 220-pound man collapses onto the bed in the space you just occupied.

Nathan flops down, his head landing heavily in Sheila’s lap with a thud. He let out a loud, exaggerated huff, pouting his lower lip out until he looks less like a dangerous fighter and more like a disgruntled toddler. He reaches up, grabbing Sheila’s hand and placing it firmly on his forehead.

"He's being mean to me, Ma," Nathan grumbles, closing his eyes and leaning his face into her stomach, seeking the same affection you were just receiving. "Ivan called me a neanderthal. Henry’s being a prick about the garage. Pet me."

Sheila laughs, a bright, melodic sound, as she relents and begins to run her fingers through Nathan’s short, cropped hair. "You’re all such babies," she sighs, looking over at you with a wink.

Reynold just sighs, leaning back and crossing his arms. "I'm surrounded by giants who still think they're five years old. Ivan, get off the duvet. Nathan, stop brooding. And you," he looks over at you in the lounge chair, his eyes crinkling. "Don't look so offended. You know how they get when they haven't had their ego stroked for ten minutes."

Nathan just lets out a muffled, satisfied hum from Sheila’s lap, his eyes cracking open to shoot you a triumphant, "I-won" look.

The chandelier in the formal dining room casts a warm, honey-colored glow over the mahogany table, though the atmosphere is anything but formal. At the head of the table, Reynold has completely abandoned his steak, choosing instead to lean toward Sheila, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back as he whispers something into her ear that makes her let out a bright, airy laugh.

"Reynold, please," Sheila chides playfully, though she leans into him, her eyes shining with an affection that usually makes the brothers roll their eyes. "We have an audience."

"Let them watch," Reynold grumbles with a smirk, his grey eyes fixed on his wife. "They need to learn how to treat a lady eventually."

Across from them, Ivan is completely tuned out of the parental display. He has his heavy sketchbook propped up against a crystal water goblet, leaning so close to you that his shoulder brushes yours. He’s pointing at a new charcoal study, his finger tracing the jagged lines of a stormy landscape.

"See this part here?" Ivan whispers to you, his voice barely audible over the clinking of silverware. "I used a different shading technique. It feels more... restless. Tho I'm not sure it's good enough."

The peace is short-lived. Nathan is sitting directly across from the two of you, and his amber eyes are narrowed as he watches your hushed conversation. He’s already finished his meal, and his boredom is becoming dangerous.

"What are you two plotting over there?" Nathan barks, reaching across the table to flick the corner of Ivan’s sketchbook. "If it’s another plan to sneak out to that coffee shop with Watson or worst Miles, I’m telling Henry before you even reach the driveway."

"It’s art, Nathan. You wouldn't recognize it if it hit you in the face," Ivan snaps back, pulling the book closer to his chest and shooting you a weary look.

"Art is for people who can't win a fight," Nathan retorts, but his attention is quickly diverted.

Rocky, who had been looming silently under the table, decides he’s had enough of being ignored. The Husky lunges upward, his head popping up between Alex and Nathan. In the confusion, Alex—who had been gracefully peeling an apple with a silver knife—startles so badly that the apple segments fly into the air.

One piece of apple lands squarely in Reynold’s wine glass with a loud plop, splashing red liquid onto his white cuff.

The table goes dead silent.

Alex freezes, his mocking dark eyes widening as he looks at the stain on his father's shirt. "In my defense," Alex starts, pointing the knife at the dog, "the rug-beast is a tactical genius. He waited for the exact moment I applied pressure."

Reynold looks down at his sleeve, then slowly looks up at Alex. The air in the room thickens instantly. Henry, who has been silently observing the chaos from the other end of the table, finally sets his fork down with a chillingly precise sound.

"Alex, you’re paying the dry-cleaning bill," Henry states, his grey eyes moving from the stain to you. He turned to Ivan with softened look. "And Ivan, put the book away. We are at dinner, not an exhibition. If you and our sister have so much to discuss in private, perhaps you’d both prefer to spend the rest of the evening in the study under my supervision?"

The heavy iron gates of the Aristhone estate haven't even fully hummed shut before the shouting matches the roar of engines. It’s a humid afternoon, and the gravel driveway is currently a stage for a very modern, very dangerous standoff.

On one side, Dylan stands beside his beat-up motorcycle, his helmet tucked under one arm and his jaw set in that familiar, stubborn line. He looks gritty, smelling of gasoline and cheap cigarettes, a stark contrast to the shimmering limestone of the mansion. On the other side, Rowan has just stepped out of a pristine, white Italian sports car that costs more than Dylan’s entire life. His blonde hair perfectly coiffed, a designer polo hugging his frame, and a smirk that screams inherited wealth.

"I told you at the gate, Watson," Rowan draws out his name with a sneer, leaning casually against his car door. "She’s expecting me. We have plans. Actual, civilized plans that don't involve a grease pit or a death trap on two wheels."

"The only thing she’s expecting from you, Miles, is a headache," Dylan spits back, taking a step forward, his eyes flashing with a protective heat. "I’m here because she actually called me. Something you wouldn't understand—being wanted for something other than a business merger."

"How quaint. The stray thinks he has a voice," Rowan laughs, a sharp, cold sound.

The front doors of the mansion swing open with a violent force that suggests someone was waiting for this exact moment. Nathan steps out first, his amber eyes locked onto the two of them like a predator spotting a double meal. He’s cracking his knuckles, the sound echoing off the stone pillars. Behind him, Alex follows, holding a fresh green apple and a paring knife, his dark eyes dancing with malicious delight.

"Oh, look, Henry!" Alex calls out over his shoulder, his voice dripping with mock-excitement. "It’s a two-for-one special. The parasite and the pest are fighting over the scraps again."

Henry appears last, standing at the top of the stairs like a grim judge. The way he adjusts his cufflinks is a silent threat that makes even Rowan’s smirk falter for a split second.

"Get off the driveway. Now," Nathan barks, descending the stairs with a heavy, deliberate gait. He ignores Rowan entirely for a second, stomping right up to Dylan and shoving a finger into his chest. "I told you about the perimeter, Watson. You’re five feet over the line. Want to make it ten? Or should I just toss you over the gate myself?"

"She invited me, Nate. Ask her," Dylan grunts, refusing to back down, though he’s dwarfed by Nathan’s sheer mass.

"And I," Rowan interrupts, stepping forward with a polished, fake smile as he looks past the brothers toward where you are standing in the foyer, "am here to take her to the gallery opening. I assume even you barbarians respect a formal invitation?"

"The only thing I respect is the security of this house," Henry’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. He walks down the steps, stopping right in front of you, his back to the intruders as if to shield you from their very existence.

Henry turns around slowly, his icy-grey eyes boring into yours. He simply gestures to the two men arguing on his driveway as Nathan begins to physically herd them back toward their respective vehicles.

"Decide," Henry commands, his tone final. "Tell Dylan to go back to the gutter, and tell Miles his family will be hearing from my legal team for trespassing. Or," he pauses, his hand gripping your shoulder with a firm, possessive weight, "you can stay inside and let Nathan handle the disposal of these two. Which is it?"

Nathan is currently holding Dylan by the jacket and Rowan by the arm, looking like he’s about to knock their heads together. "Give me the word," Nathan grins, looking back at you. "I’ve been wanting to see if a Miles actually bleeds gold."

The tropical heat of Bali, Indonesia feels thick and sweet. The family has claimed a private stretch of white sand, where the only sounds are the rhythmic crashing of the turquoise waves and the distant hum of a jet ski.

Reynold and Sheila are a few yards back, settled under a large UV-protected canopy. Reynold is leaning back in a lounge chair, his gaze fixed on Sheila with a quiet, intense devotion as he slowly traces the line of her shoulder with his thumb. Sheila is laughing softly, her eyes closed as she enjoys the sea breeze, occasionally leaning in to whisper something against Reynold’s ear that makes his expression soften into a rare, genuine smile.

"I could get used to the silence out here, Sheila," Reynold murmurs, his deep voice barely audible over the wind. "No boardrooms, no security alerts. Just this."

"Don't lie, Reynold," Sheila teases, her fingers brushing through his silver hair. "You’d be bored within forty-eight hours if you didn't have a company to run or a daughter to worry about."

Down by the water's edge, the vibe is surprisingly relaxed. Ivan is sitting cross-legged in the wet sand next to you, his usual weary expression replaced by a look of calm focus. He’s too busy trying to help you sculpt an overly ambitious sandcastle. His hazel eyes are bright, and he lets out a genuine laugh when a rogue wave washes away half of your 'fortress'.

"It's a lost cause, but we'll build it higher this time," Ivan says, his shoulder bumping into yours as he scoops up more wet sand. He's biting his lip, his fingers stained with saltwater and grit. "Maybe if we build a moat, Nathan won't be able to knock it down when he gets back."

Nathan, meanwhile, is the one providing the noise. He’s about fifty yards out on a jet ski, carving aggressive, spray-filled turns through the surf. His amber eyes are locked on the shore—specifically on you and Ivan—ensuring that even while he’s having fun, he’s still keeping watch. Every few minutes, he revs the engine loudly just to make sure you know he’s there, his muscular frame silhouetted against the bright horizon.

Alex is lounging on a nearby daybed, shielded by a designer umbrella. He’s half-heartedly scrolling through his phone, but most of his attention is on a bowl of chilled tropical fruit. He picks up a peeled rambutan, tossing it into the air and catching it in his mouth with a smirk as he watches Ivan and you play in the sand.

"You look like children, Vanya," Alex calls out, his mocking dark eyes glinting with mischief. "Henry’s going to have a heart attack when he sees the state of those linen shorts. Sand is a nightmare to get out of the fibers."

Henry is standing at the very edge of the shade, still wearing a crisp, dark polo that looks far too formal for the beach. He has a pair of binoculars in one hand, scanning the distant horizon for any boats that shouldn't be there. He walks toward the water, his shadow stretching over you and Ivan’s sandcastle.

"The tide is coming in," Henry states, his icy-grey eyes moving from the ocean back to you. He reaches down, briefly resting a hand on the back of your neck. "Another ten minutes, then we’re heading back to the villa for lunch. I’ve had the private chef prepare the local snapper Sheila likes."

Ivan glanced at Rocky who is lying in the shade of a palm tree nearby with tongue lolling out, then looking up at Henry with a grin. "Actually, Henry, we're not moving until the north tower of this castle is finished. You can tell the chef to keep the fish warm."

Henry stares at Ivan for a long beat, his expression unreadable, before let out a small, huffed breath. "Fine. Ten minutes. Nathan! Get off that machine before you run out of fuel!"

Nathan responds by doing one last, massive spray-turn that sends a fine mist of saltwater toward the shore.