Chapter 88
Lance
Felix's smile widened fractionally. He knew I knew. And he knew I couldn't say anything about it without looking paranoid in front of Arthur.
He took the seat beside Arthur—the position of trust, of favor—and a servant materialized with fresh place settings. Within moments, Felix had a full plate in front of him, and he was making appreciative noises about the food that mirrored Arthur's earlier enthusiasm.
"Magnificent spread," Felix said, cutting into his steak. Then, as if noticing Wesley for the first time, his voice took on a note of concern. "Wesley? You look terrible. What's wrong?"
Wesley's head snapped up, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and wariness.
"Nothing," he muttered. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine," Felix pressed, his brow furrowing. "You look absolutely miserable. Like someone ran over your dog. Or—" he laughed lightly, "—like you're having girl troubles."
Arthur chuckled. "Oh, that's probably it. I suspect our Wesley is having regrets about that Vance girl. The one he broke up with. What was her name? Serena?"
"Serena Vance," Eleanor supplied helpfully, her tone perfectly neutral.
"That's the one!" Arthur nodded. "Pretty thing. Smart too, if I recall. Probably realizing what he gave up, eh, Wesley?"
Wesley's knuckles went white around his fork. "She's not—that's not—" He stopped, visibly struggling for control. "She's a liar. A manipulator. That's all. I'm better off without her."
"Then why do you look like someone died?" Felix asked, his voice sharpening beneath the concern—a blade wrapped in velvet that Arthur seemed entirely oblivious to. "Come on, nephew. If something's eating at you, spit it out. Bottling it up like this does nobody any good—least of all yourself."
He paused, letting his gaze drift meaningfully toward Arthur. "And it's hardly fair to your great-grandfather, is it? Making him sit through dinner with this cloud hanging over the table."
Arthur's expression shifted, becoming more serious. "Felix has a point. Wesley, if there's something troubling you, you should speak up."
I set down my knife and fork with deliberate precision. The clink of silverware against china seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet.
"There's a reason we don't air personal grievances at the dinner table," I said, my voice cutting clean through Felix's performance. "Meals are for eating. Not for whatever this is."
Felix turned to me, his expression a perfect mask of wounded concern. "But Lance, surely when our nephew is clearly suffering, we should—"
"Should respect his privacy," I finished. "If Wesley wants to discuss his personal life, he can do so at an appropriate time. Not when he's been ambushed at dinner."
"Ambushed?" Felix's laugh was light, incredulous. "I'm trying to help—"
"Are you?" I met his eyes directly. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you came here with a very specific agenda. And it has nothing to do with Wesley's wellbeing."
The temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees.
Felix held my gaze for a long moment, then turned back to Wesley, his expression shifting. The concerned uncle mask slipped slightly, replaced by something colder. More calculating.
"Wesley," he said quietly. "If you have something to say—something that's eating you up inside—this might be your only chance. These people—" he gestured around the table, "—they all care about you. They all want to help you. Don't you think they deserve to know the truth?"
Wesley's expression flickered—confusion giving way to something harder, more resolved. But uncertainty still lingered in his eyes. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to almost a whisper.
"Felix... are you sure this is the right time? I mean—" he glanced at the half-finished plates around the table, "—everyone's still eating. Maybe we should—"
Felix's expression changed.
The warmth vanished. The concerned uncle act dropped away like a mask someone had simply stopped holding up. His eyes went cold—flat and calculating in a way I'd rarely seen.
I'd worked with Felix for years. Watched him charm clients, manipulate board members, smile his way through hostile negotiations. But he almost never let the mask slip. Almost never showed what was really underneath all that practiced warmth.
When he did, it meant someone was about to get destroyed.
"Wesley." Felix's voice was quiet. Almost gentle. "Don't hesitate. Lance never does—he sees what he wants and takes it." A pause. "Not everyone has that clarity, of course."
The words landed like a physical blow.
Wesley's face changed instantly—the uncertainty burning away, replaced by something raw and furious. The comparison to me. The implication that he was weak, indecisive, less than.
Felix knew exactly which button to push.
Wesley's hands pressed flat against the table. His jaw set.
Eleanor straightened in her seat, her expression shifting from amused detachment to something sharper. She never intervened in matters between Felix and me—never took sides, never stepped into our power plays. But now her voice carried that note of command she usually reserved for managing Arthur's more impulsive decisions.
"Wesley, perhaps we should—"
It was too late.
Wesley was already standing, his chair scraping backward. His hand came up, finger extended, pointing directly at me with the kind of trembling rage that came from months of hurt finally finding a target.
"Arthur!" Wesley's voice cracked, but the words rang out with devastating clarity. "My own uncle—Lance—stole my girlfriend! He took her from me!"