The clinking of silverware echoed softly through the dining room as Lex sat across from his mother at the long oak table. It felt too big for just the two of them now. It used to seat five—before his father died.
His mother set down a plate of braised pork belly and rice, sliding it toward him with the same precision she'd used since he was a kid. Her movements were graceful, deliberate.
"Eat," she said gently, sitting down with her own plate.
Lex picked up his fork, eating slowly.
"You've been quiet lately," she said after a few moments. "Its different."
Lex smirked faintly. "I'm tired of being predictable."
His mother arched a brow. "Tired, huh? You sound more like grandfather."
Lex's grip on the fork tightened. His great-grandfather, William Latham, had been a pillar in the family—a hard man, but fair. His respect wasn't handed out easily.
"He used to say the same thing," she continued, scooping a bit of rice with her chopsticks. "'Predictability gets you eaten alive in business.'"
Lex chuckled softly. "Sounds like him."
Her eyes softened, but there was something distant in the way she stared at the plate.
"Your grandfather used let you sit in his office while he worked." she said quietly. "He Said you had the same eyes he did."
Lex's expression shifted, the memory surfacing like an old photograph. He remembered those days—sitting in a leather chair too big for him, watching his grandfather sign papers and lecture him about responsibility.
"Yeah," Lex said, pushing a piece of pork around his plate. "He also said I needed to stop slouching or no one would take me seriously."
His mother laughed softly. "That sounds right."
For a while, they ate in silence, the kind that felt comfortable in its familiarity.
Then she set her chopsticks down carefully, her gaze lifting to meet his.
"You saw Barnie today, didn't you?"
Lex paused, not surprised she'd figured it out. His mother always saw more than she let on.
"I did," Lex admitted. "He's… keeping busy."
Her eyes darkened just slightly. She didn't speak for a long moment, then exhaled slowly.
"You need to be careful with him, Lex."
"I know."
"No, you don't." Her voice was firm, but not unkind. "Your father never thought Barnie would betray him either. Until he did."
Lex swallowed, the weight of the letter pressing against his ribs.
"I won't make the same mistake," he said softly.
She studied him carefully, as if trying to peel back the layers he wasn't showing.
"You remind me of him sometimes," she said after a moment. "Your father. But you're sharper around the edges. More like William."
Lex didn't answer right away. His father had been honest—too honest for Barnie's world. Lex wasn't sure he'd inherited that trait.
"I've been thinking," Lex said, leaning back slightly. "About college."
His mother frowned. "What about it?"
"I don't think I'm going back to high school."
She set her chopsticks down with a soft clink.
"Lex," she began carefully.
"I'm serious," Lex said, meeting her gaze. "I already know more than the teachers at that school. College makes more sense."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but there was no anger in her expression. Just concern.
"You're seventeen."
"And you know I can handle it," Lex replied smoothly. "Dad wanted me to push ahead anyway. Said I shouldn't wait just because the system says so."
She was silent for a long time.
"You're not your father," she said softly.
Lex's jaw tightened. "I know that."
Her eyes softened again, but she didn't back down.
"Skipping steps is dangerous. Even for someone like you."
Lex exhaled slowly, picking at the rice with his fork. She wasn't wrong. But time wasn't something he could waste. Not with Barnie circling.
"I'll think about it," he said, offering her a faint smile.
She nodded, though he could tell she didn't believe him.
After dinner, Lex lingered at the sink, washing the dishes while his mother returned to her evening routines.
His gaze drifted toward the study—where his father's secret waited, locked behind an old wooden panel.
One step at a time.