Chapter 228
Serena
The name dropped into the silence like a stone into deep water.
Saint's Cove.
I didn't know what it meant, but the atmosphere at the table told me everything I needed to know. This wasn't some scenic overlook or childhood vacation spot. This was a wound, raw and bleeding, deliberately reopened.
Felix's eyes gleamed with triumph, the kind of satisfaction that came from landing a killing blow. Thomas had gone pale, his carefully maintained composure cracking at the edges. He shifted in his seat, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, trying to formulate some excuse, some deflection.
But Lance—
God, Lance was the most terrifying of all.
His hand had gone white-knuckled around his knife and fork, the metal groaning under the pressure. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping, and his eyes—Jesus, his eyes looked like they could incinerate Felix where he sat. I'd seen Lance angry before, cold and controlled, the kind of fury that dismantled empires with a phone call and a signature.
This was different. This was raw. Visceral. The kind of rage that ended with blood on the floor.
I grabbed his arm, fingers digging into expensive fabric, and leaned close. My voice came out in an urgent whisper. "Lance. What is Saint's Cove? Where is that?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't, maybe. Every muscle in his body had gone rigid, coiled like a spring about to snap.
"Saint's Cove?" Arthur's voice cut through the tension, thoughtful and distant. He frowned, tilting his head as if trying to place an elusive memory. "That name sounds familiar. Why can't I remember...?"
"Dad!" Thomas's laugh was too loud, too forced, his face contorting into something that was supposed to resemble a smile but looked more like a grimace. "If you can't remember, don't worry about it! It's nothing important! Let's just finish dinner, shall we?"
He reached for his wine glass with a hand that trembled slightly, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. But Felix wasn't done. Of course he wasn't.
"Oh, it's easy to forget," Felix said, his tone light and conversational, as if discussing the weather. He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, taking his time, savoring every second of the bomb he was about to drop. "After all, it's part of our family's tragic history. A place of sorrow. Who would want to remember the spot where Lance's mother killed herself?"
The words hit like a freight train.
I felt my entire body go cold. Fuck.
Felix had deliberately thrown Saint's Cove onto the table like a live grenade. Had deliberately dragged Thomas's name into it. And the way Thomas sat there—frozen, eyes darting between Felix and Lance like a man watching his execution date get moved up—
Oh god.
My mind raced, connecting dots I didn't want to connect. Lance's mother. The woman whose portrait hung in the east wing, beautiful and haunting and impossibly sad. The accident that had destroyed Lance's childhood, that had turned him into the man he was today—cold, controlled, armored against the world.
Not an accident.
The thought crystallized with horrifying clarity. Not suicide either.
I didn't have time to process it further. Lance set down his silverware with deliberate precision, each movement controlled despite the fury radiating off him in waves. He stood, pulling me up with him, his grip on my hand almost painful.
"We're finished," he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "Grandfather, we're leaving."
Arthur looked up, confused. "Finished? Lance, you haven't eaten anything—"
"Arthur." I jumped in, forcing my voice to stay steady even as my heart hammered against my ribs. "Lance has been dealing with my accident all day. He's exhausted. We both need to rest."
It wasn't entirely a lie. I could feel the tension coiled in Lance's body, the way his control was fraying at the edges. If we stayed here one more minute, something terrible was going to happen.
Arthur's expression softened with concern. "Of course, of course. You two get some rest. We'll catch up tomorrow."
I managed a smile that felt like broken glass on my face, then let Lance guide me toward the entrance. His hand was still locked around mine, grip tight enough to bruise. We were almost through the grand doors, almost off the estate grounds—
"Lance!"
Footsteps behind us. I turned to see Thomas hurrying after us, his face a mask of awkward concern that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You've been drinking," Thomas said, slightly breathless. "Are you sure you don't want someone to drive you home? It's late, and—"
"That won't be necessary." Lance's voice was ice. "Uncle Thomas."