Chapter 194
Serena
His fingers tightened around mine almost unconsciously, and I felt a flutter of warmth at the gesture even as he explained.
"It's what we do when the family faces a major internal threat. No outside visitors, enhanced security, complete information lockdown. It's designed to contain damage and prevent any... complications from reaching the outside world."
"Complications," I repeated flatly. "You mean like the press finding out one of your own tried to have his cousin and nephew killed?"
"Among other things."
The car rolled to a stop in front of the main house, and I took in the scene with growing unease.
Staff members were moving in and out with unusual urgency, their faces carefully blank in that way that meant they'd been told to see nothing and say less. Several cars I didn't recognize were parked in the circular drive—expensive, understated vehicles that screamed old money and serious business.
Lance helped me out of the car, his hand settling at the small of my back as we headed toward the entrance.
"The full tribunal is here," he said quietly, nodding toward the unfamiliar cars. "All the senior family members. They don't gather like this unless something's seriously wrong."
I felt his hand tighten slightly against my spine, and when I glanced up at him, I caught something vulnerable in his expression—a flicker of tension around his eyes, a tightness in his jaw.
This wasn't just about Felix facing justice. This was about Lance's family, his legacy, the empire his father had died trying to protect.
Without thinking, I reached for his hand again.
He looked down at our joined fingers, surprise flickering across his face, and then something softer, warmer. His lips curved into a small, genuine smile that made my heart do something complicated in my chest.
"Come on," I said, giving his hand a squeeze. "Let's go watch that bastard get what's coming to him."
---
Nothing could have prepared me for what waited inside.
The Great Hall—because of course they had a Great Hall, complete with a name—was a study in architectural intimidation.
The ceiling soared nine meters overhead, supported by carved mahogany columns that probably cost more than my entire company. Massive oil paintings of stern-faced Lawson ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow every movement with cold judgment.
But it was the setup in the center of the room that made my breath catch.
Felix sat alone on a straight-backed wooden chair—no cushion, no armrests, nothing to offer even the illusion of comfort.
He was positioned directly beneath a massive Venetian crystal chandelier that blazed with what must have been a hundred lights, all focused downward like an interrogation lamp.
There was nowhere to hide, no shadows to retreat into. Every line of his face, every tell in his body language was exposed under that merciless glare.
Facing him, arranged in a precise semicircle, were three enormous high-backed chairs upholstered in deep green velvet. They sat on a raised platform—just high enough to force Felix to look up, to literally put him beneath those who would judge him.
Arthur occupied the center seat, his eighty years sitting heavily on his shoulders for once.
To his right sat an elderly woman I didn't recognize—severe silver hair pulled into a tight bun, eyes like chips of ice behind wire-rimmed glasses.
On Arthur's left was a man who looked to be in his sixties but somehow seemed older than Arthur himself, his face deeply lined, his hands gnarled with age and what might have been old injuries.
Behind them, in the shadows, at least a dozen other people sat in smaller chairs arranged in rows.
I recognized Eleanor among them, her face carefully neutral. The others I didn't know, but their expensive clothes and the way they held themselves marked them as family—the extended Lawson clan, gathered to witness one of their own fall.
It looked exactly like a courtroom.
No—it looked worse. More intimate. More personal.
In a real courtroom, you could hide behind lawyers and procedure. Here, there was nowhere to run from the weight of family judgment.
Lance guided me to two empty seats near the edge of the semicircle, his hand steady on my elbow as I sank into the chair.
My heart was pounding, my palms damp with nervous sweat. I'd wanted to see Felix face consequences, but this... this was something else entirely.
Arthur's voice rang out across the hall, heavy with a grief that sounded genuine.
"Felix Lawson."
He paused, letting the name hang in the air like an accusation.
"You stand accused of conspiracy with organized crime, of attempting to orchestrate the kidnapping of Serena Vance, of plotting the murder of your cousin Lance and your nephew Wesley."
His voice cracked slightly on Wesley's name.
"You have brought shame upon this family, endangered its future, and betrayed every trust ever placed in you."
Felix said nothing.
His head was bowed, his hands clenched in his lap. From this angle, I could see the bruises darkening his jaw—Wesley's handiwork from the restaurant—and what might have been a split lip.
He looked smaller somehow, diminished, stripped of all the charm and manipulation that had made him dangerous.
Arthur leaned forward, and the movement drew every eye in the room.
"The tribunal has reviewed the evidence. We have heard testimony from multiple witnesses. We have examined financial records, surveillance footage, and communications that prove beyond any doubt your guilt."
He paused, and in that silence, I swear I could hear Felix's breathing—quick and shallow, like a trapped animal.
"By the authority vested in this tribunal under the Lawson Family Charter of 1847," Arthur continued, his voice hardening into something that could have been carved from stone, "you are hereby stripped of the Lawson name. All rights, privileges, and protections afforded to members of this family are revoked, effective immediately."
A collective intake of breath rippled through the room.
Even I felt the weight of those words—to be cast out from a family like this, to lose not just your name but your entire identity, your place in the world.
But Arthur wasn't finished.
"Furthermore," he said, and now his voice carried the kind of cold finality that made my spine straighten involuntarily, "you are to be exiled to the Thule Monitoring Station in Greenland, where you will serve as a permanent resident under family supervision. You will not be permitted to return to the United States under any circumstances. You will not be permitted contact with anyone outside the station without explicit approval from this tribunal. This sentence is effective for the remainder of your natural life."
The room erupted.