Chapter 163

Chapter 163

Alexander

Graduation dinners were apparently a big deal in my family, which meant it wasn’t just a dinner; it was an event, a production, a controlled storm of personalities, history, power, and love all colliding under one roof while pretending to be calm and elegant. I stood in the living room, adjusting the cuff of my sleeve while staring at my reflection in the tall glass doors, taking a slow breath because tonight wasn’t about business, wasn’t about internships, and definitely wasn’t about expectations, even though those expectations lived in every room I walked into now.

Twenty. The number still felt strange in my head, like I had skipped a few chapters somewhere and landed in a role I was still adjusting to, yet when I straightened my shoulders and ran a hand through my hair,

I saw him staring back at me, the resemblance to my father becoming more obvious every year: a sharper jawline, darker features, and the same controlled posture and expression that rarely gave away what I was thinking. The only thing that broke the illusion was my eyes, my mother’s silver shade staring back at me, catching light in a way that made people look twice before realizing they were staring.

“You’re brooding again,” Lila’s voice said from behind me.

I didn’t turn immediately because I already knew what she looked like tonight. Lila never entered a room quietly, not because she demanded attention, but because attention followed her naturally, and when I finally glanced over my shoulder, she leaned against the hallway wall, arms folded, smirking like she had caught me doing something embarrassing.

“You’ve been staring at yourself for, like, two minutes,” she added.

“I was adjusting my sleeve,” I replied calmly.

“You’ve adjusted it four times,” she said.

“I like symmetry.”

She snorted, pushing herself off the wall and walking toward me, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. At nineteen, she carried herself with confidence that came from being raised around power without letting it consume her, though lately I could see the business discipline forming in her expressions, especially after she started interning with my mom and her own mother at Quantum.

“You look like Uncle Xander,” she said, studying me critically before reaching up and fixing my collar without asking.

“I get that a lot,” I replied.

“You move like him too,” she added, stepping back and tilting her head. “It’s creepy sometimes.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly.

“But,” she continued, narrowing her eyes slightly while looking directly into mine, “your eyes still give you away.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You have Aunt Zia’s eyes when you’re thinking too hard,” she said.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does to me,” she replied casually, already reaching for the door handle. “Come on, they’re probably arguing about wine selection without us.”

She pushed the doors open before I could respond, and noise instantly spilled into the living area: laughter, overlapping conversations, glasses clinking, and the familiar rhythm of our family occupying space like we owned oxygen itself.

The dining room was no longer normal; they decorated it, and now it just looked like a spacious, fancy dining room in some restaurant. The room was warm with golden lighting, a long polished table set with enough detail to make most corporate dinners look lazy, and every seat already filled or claimed by jackets and handbags that meant someone was just temporarily distracted by another conversation.

“Look who finally showed up,” my grandfather called, lifting his glass slightly in greeting.

“Blame him,” Lila said, pointing at me as she slid into her seat beside Aunt Angie.

“I was on time,” I said, taking the chair between my parents, which had apparently become tradition at events like this without anyone officially deciding it.

“You were outside fixing your sleeve,” my mom said softly, smiling without looking up from adjusting her napkin.

I stared at her. “How do you even know that?” I asked.

“Mother instincts,” she replied smoothly.

“She watched you through the reflection in the glass door,” my dad added calmly, sipping his drink. I sighed while Lila laughed across the table.

Dinner began the way it always did, chaotic but structured, conversations splitting into smaller groups before merging again, Grandma Serena and Grandpa Julian discussing travel plans with Great-grandmother Evelyn while Uncle Lucas and my father debated market expansion strategies for doctors and businessmen alike that slowly turned into playful competition about whose company had handled a crisis better.

Grandma Isabella kept redirecting conversations toward lighter topics whenever business talk started dominating the table, and honestly, she deserved an award for managing that balancing act.

“So,” Uncle Lucas said suddenly, leaning forward and pointing his fork at me, “full time at Thorne Group now. “Are you ready for the wolves?” he asked.

“I’ve been around wolves my whole life,” I replied calmly.

“Confident answer,” Grandpa Julian said, chuckling.

“He gets that from his father,” Grandma Serena added warmly.

“I get it from watching all of you,” I said honestly, glancing around the table.

My dad studied me quietly, not smiling, but I could see approval flicker across his expression before he nodded once, like he had just confirmed something to himself.

“And you?” Great-grandmother Evelyn asked, turning toward Lila.

“Still interning,” Lila replied, straightening slightly. “Mom and Aunt Zia keep pretending they’re not testing me every day, but they are.”

“We’re evaluating you,” my mom corrected gently.

“You made me redo a client presentation five times,” Lila said.

“It improved each time,” Angie added proudly.

“That’s because she kept finding new ways to make it harder,” Lila replied.

“That’s because you kept handling it,” my mom said, her tone calm but firm, and I saw the way Lila’s shoulders relaxed slightly at the praise she tried not to show she wanted.

I watched the exchange quietly, realizing how easily Lila navigated our family dynamic and how naturally she balanced confidence and respect, something I admired more than I probably ever said out loud.

At some point, glasses were refilled and plates were replaced with dessert, and my grandfather leaned back in his chair, studying me with the same sharp attention he used during business meetings.

“You know,” he said slowly, “when your father was your age, he thought he could run the world in six months.”

“I still think that,” my dad replied calmly.

“That’s because you almost did,” Granpa said, shaking his head slightly before looking back at me. “The difference is, he didn’t listen to anyone back then.”

“I listen,” I said.

My dad glanced sideways at me.

“Most of the time,” I added.

“That’s already progress,” Grandpa said, smiling faintly.

The conversation drifted again, but I felt my mom’s hand rest lightly over mine under the table, a small gesture she probably didn’t realize she was doing, and I squeezed her fingers gently in return, because even though I was stepping into my own path now, some things never needed to change. She was my mother, and I will always be her kid; she will always see me as a little boy.