The morning after the negotiations, the Blackwell dining table felt heavier than usual.
Lucian entered quietly, his steps steady, his suit neat despite the faint exhaustion shadowing his face. Like the last few days, there was no sluggishness, no scent of alcohol clinging to him. He simply took his seat, nodding once in greeting.
His mother's eyes lifted first. They lingered on him longer than before, searching, weighing, before she offered a plate toward him. "Eat, Lucian," she said softly.
It was such a simple gesture, yet one he hadn't received from her in years.
Clara, across the table, caught the moment and her lips curved faintly—not in warmth, but in cold irony. "It seems the directors are whispering about you this morning. Imagine that. A sober Lucian at work."
Lucian met her gaze evenly. "That was the idea."
Her smile sharpened. "Don't flatter yourself. One decent showing won't wipe away years of humiliation. You think a single negotiation changes what you've done to this family?"
The words hit with a precision born of old wounds. His mother's face tightened, but she said nothing, her hand still resting lightly on the teapot.
Lucian's fork stilled over his plate. The old him would have lashed back, throwing venom, tearing at Clara until both of them were left bleeding. But instead, he set it down gently and leaned back.
"I don't expect you to believe me," he said, voice low but steady. "But I don't intend to stop here."
Clara's eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise in them at his restraint. She said nothing more, turning her attention back to her meal with a cold finality.
Edward, silent until now, folded his newspaper and placed it on the table. His gaze swept over Lucian—measured, piercing. "You managed to hold your own yesterday. That doesn't mean the company will suddenly support you. Or that we will. Think carefully about your next step."
Lucian inclined his head once. "I will."
No more was said.
Breakfast carried on in a strained silence. Clara finished quickly, rising with the soft click of her heels as she left for the company. Edward followed soon after, pausing only once at the doorway to glance back at Lucian—expression unreadable, but the faintest trace of consideration in his eyes.
And then they were gone.
The house fell quiet again, save for the faint clink of porcelain. His mother reached to refill his cup, her hand pausing midway. For the briefest moment, her lips softened into something that almost resembled a smile. Almost hope.
Then she, too, excused herself.
Lucian sat alone at the vast table, untouched tea cooling before him. The silence was familiar, yet different now—less suffocating, more like space he needed to fill.
He exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. Winning the boardroom had been the first step. Winning back his family… that would take far more than numbers and strategy.
But for the first time, he felt the fight was worth it.