The long dining hall of the Blackwell estate was as intimidating. The chandelier's golden glow spilled across polished mahogany, glinting off rows of untouched silverware. At one end sat Edward Blackwell, the patriarch—stern, sharp-eyed, the kind of man who carried authority in the set of his shoulders alone.
Beside him sat Clara, Lucian's older sister. She didn't look up from her phone as Lucian entered, though the subtle curl of her lips betrayed the disdain she couldn't be bothered to hide.
At the opposite side, Isabella lingered, smoothing the folds of her napkin as though the silence between her husband and children could be ironed away.
Lucian hesitated at the doorway, his chest tightening with unease. In the memories he inherited, dinners had always been battlegrounds—accusations, raised voices, his own bitter outbursts and his mother usually ending up with sending dinner to his room.
Now, stepping into this place felt like trespassing. Edward didn't glance up as Lucian took his seat. He carved into his steak with measured precision, not a single word escaping him. The silence was worse than any lecture.
"…Yes," Lucian muttered anyway, though no one had spoken to him. His voice sounded small against the clink of cutlery.
Clara snorted softly. "Surprised you're even sober enough to walk."
Lucian swallowed hard. The old Lucian would have lashed back, sneered, made the dinner explode into another argument. But the words caught in his throat. He couldn't defend himself—not when the accusations were true.
The clatter of silverware echoed in the spacious hall. Edward remained stone-faced, neither acknowledging nor addressing his son. That cold absence of recognition cut deeper than anger.
Finally, Isabella spoke, her tone light but fragile: "It's good that we're all together. It's been… some time."
Her eyes flicked toward Lucian, searching, almost pleading. He forced himself to meet them. For the first time since waking in this body, he managed something resembling honesty.
"…Mother, I'll… try to come more often."
The words were awkward, but Isabella's lips trembled, as though she wanted to believe them. Edward, however, lifted his wine glass with calm indifference, as if Lucian hadn't spoken at all.
When the meal ended, Clara rose first, muttering, "This won't last. It never does." Isabella lingered, giving Lucian a glance filled with quiet hope before following her daughter. Edward left without a word, not even sparing him a glance.
Lucian remained alone at the table, staring at the empty plates. The weight of the Blackwell name pressed down heavier than ever. He clenched his fists under the table.