Chapter 198
Serena
The room exploded.
Gasps, exclamations, the scrape of chairs as people half-rose from their seats in shock—it all blurred together into a wave of noise that crashed over me and left me reeling. I heard someone shout, "Fuck, the uncle's with the nephew's ex?" and another voice hissed, "How does our family have this kind of scandal?" and a third murmured, "Well, maybe Felix's actions aren't entirely his fault after all—"
But Lance wasn't finished.
"She's not just with me," he continued, his tone gaining an edge that silenced the nearest whispers, his eyes still locked on Thomas even as his thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle against my palm. "I am completely serious about her. More serious than I've been about anything in my life."
The declaration hit me like lightning. My face, already flushed, now burned so hot I thought I might combust. I tried to pull my hand back—some instinct of self-preservation, some need to not be so utterly exposed in front of this hostile crowd—but Lance's grip tightened, refusing to let me retreat.
Then he turned his head, finally looking at me instead of his uncle, and there was something in his eyes that made my heart stutter. "What?" he murmured, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear beneath the growing din. "Did you think I owed you a proper confession?"
Before I could process that, his lips quirked and he leaned in just slightly, adding in a near-whisper, "Or should I tell everyone you're only with me for my body?"
"I—" The protest died as mortification and something far more dangerous flooded through me. "I didn't—I am serious too!" The words tumbled out in a rush, defensive and flustered and completely sincere. My fingers, which had been trying to escape, suddenly reversed course and squeezed his hand back, holding on like he was the only solid thing in a world that had just tilted sideways.
The crowd's reaction intensified. I caught fragments over the roar in my ears—
"Jesus Christ, he actually admitted it—"
"The age gap alone is going to be a PR nightmare—"
"And after everything with Felix, this is what we're dealing with—"
Arthur's voice cut through the chaos, and when I dared glance at him, his expression was a complicated mix of exasperation, concern, and something that might have been reluctant fondness. "Lance," he said, his tone pitched for his grandson's ears but carrying to those nearby, "I'm... glad you've found someone. Truly. But you should have told me privately before making such a public declaration. This—" He gestured vaguely at the room's churning reaction. "This doesn't help either of your reputations."
"Arthur." Wesley's voice rang out again, and this time when he stood, there was a confidence in his bearing that commanded attention. "With all due respect, you don't need to worry about their reputations."
Every eye swung to him.
"Lance never stole Serena from me," Wesley continued, his words measured but forceful, each one striking like a hammer. "They got together honestly, after she and I were completely finished. And if I—her actual ex-boyfriend—am standing here giving them my blessing, then who the hell else has the right to object?"
A middle-aged woman I vaguely recognized from earlier family gatherings rose from her seat, her expression pinched with disapproval. "Wesley, darling, that's very mature of you, but surely you must see—the age difference, the professional relationship, the optics—there will be talk. Quite a lot of it."
Wesley's smile took on a sharp, almost feral quality that reminded me unsettlingly of Lance in negotiation mode. "Aunt Beatrice," he said, his tone deceptively pleasant, "Lance and Serena have a twelve-year age gap. You and Uncle Richard have twenty years between you." He paused, letting that sink in. "And while Serena and Lance are both CEOs of their respective companies, you were—let's see, how did the family history put it?—ah yes, you were a cocktail waitress at the gentlemen's club where Uncle Richard was a regular when you two met."
The gasps this time were accompanied by poorly stifled laughter.
Beatrice's face went through several shades of red before settling on a mottled purple, her mouth opening and closing without sound. But before the moment could settle, another voice cut in—sharper, more calculated.
"That's hardly a fair comparison, Wesley." A silver-haired man in the second row stood, his expression severe. "What matters is propriety. Lance's reputation affects us all. This relationship with a woman barely out of college, his own nephew's ex-girlfriend, sets a dangerous precedent."
Wesley didn't miss a beat. "A dangerous precedent, Uncle Edward?" he repeated, his voice dripping with mock consideration. "Didn't you marry your late wife's personal assistant three months after the funeral? I believe the family whispered about 'unseemly haste' and 'suspicious timing' for years." He paused, letting that land. "But you weathered it, didn't you? Because at the end of the day, what matters isn't the gossip—it's whether the relationship is genuine."
The man sat down abruptly, his face ashen.
Arthur's expression transformed completely—the hesitation that had clouded his features moments ago vanished, replaced by unmistakable delight. His booming laugh cut through the tension, and suddenly half the room was chuckling along with him, the scandal of Lance's confession already being displaced by the far more entertaining spectacle of family hypocrisy being exposed.
"Wesley's absolutely right," Arthur declared, his voice carrying the weight of final judgment. "If Lance and Serena are in a relationship, then this family supports them. Period. I won't have outsiders whispering about internal discord or impropriety when we present a united front." He fixed the room with a stern glare that dared anyone to contradict him. "And I'm pleased to see Wesley showing such maturity and grace. It speaks well of his character."
The implicit command was clear: Fall in line or be cast out with the troublemakers.
Most of the murmuring died down, replaced by reluctant nods and a few genuine smiles from the younger family members who probably enjoyed seeing the old guard discomfited.
But Thomas—
Thomas's expression had gone carefully blank, the genial mask slipping just enough to reveal cold fury underneath before he smoothed it away. When he spoke, his voice was silk over steel. "Father," he said, addressing Arthur with exaggerated deference, "you're absolutely right. If they're family, we support them. Which brings us back to the matter at hand." His smile returned, thin and calculating. "Felix's situation."
The room went quiet again, the brief levity evaporating.
Arthur's gaze moved from Thomas to Lance to Felix—still standing in that circle of harsh light, looking smaller and more defeated than I'd ever seen him—before returning to his eldest son. The old man's face was drawn with exhaustion and conflict, the weight of too many impossible choices pressing down on shoulders that suddenly seemed too frail to bear them.
Finally, he spoke.
"Given Thomas's health," Arthur said slowly, each word clearly costing him, "and in light of today's... happier news regarding Lance and Serena, I'm prepared to show mercy."
My heart sank.
"Felix," Arthur continued, his voice hardening, "you will not be exiled to Greenland."
The relief that flickered across Felix's face was so brief I almost missed it.
"However," Arthur added, and the steel returned to his tone, "the rest of the sentence stands. You are stripped of all assets, all positions within Lawson Capital, and the Lawson name itself. You will retain your life and your freedom to remain in the United States, but you are no longer part of this family in any official capacity. Do I make myself clear?"
Felix's throat worked as he swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Yes, sir," he whispered.
"Good." Arthur's hand came down on the table with a sharp crack. "Then this tribunal is concluded. Everyone is dismissed."