2025-06-16 15:03:33The Dinner Table
The dining hall was too bright. Too long. Too cold. The kind of room that made silence sound louder. Servants in stiff black uniforms moved like ghosts between the candlelit chandeliers and silverware that never got used by the same hands twice. The table stretched so far it looked like a runway, like the kind a jet might land on.
And everyone had a seat.
Well, not everyone.
Excel Winchester — or the man now breathing through his body — stood near the corner like some confused waiter. His mother, Sarah, was already seated at a smaller round table off to the side. Not part of the grand display. His father, Michael, sat next to her, quiet as usual, eyes lowered, hands folded on the napkin in his lap like he was waiting for someone to slap it away.
The rest of the Winchesters filled the main table.
Steve, the eldest, already halfway through his wine. Lucas, smirking with every word he muttered to his wife. Katherine sat like a statue with her chin raised too high, pretending she didn’t notice Sarah. Elias and his teenage sons whispered and giggled like kids on a field trip. Even Sebastian, the golden boy cousin, had a spot near the middle, chatting like he ran the company already.
But Sarah?
Michael?
Excel?
They weren’t part of it.
They were the leftovers.
He stood there a moment longer, then walked toward the small side table. Sarah glanced up when he pulled out the chair.
“You’re walking again,” she said. Soft. Careful.
“I’m not dead,” he replied.
She gave him that look — the one that mothers use when they’re trying to read you like a diary you never gave them permission to open.
Michael said nothing.
The clinking of plates filled the silence. Laughter bounced from the grand table, louder now. Someone dropped a fork and a servant dove to catch it like it was a grenade.
Excel’s hands twitched under the table. His lip curled. He looked up and stared at them — the whole grand display. Every shiny plate and polished wine glass and golden candlestick screamed one thing: you’re not part of this.
He leaned toward Sarah.
“Why aren’t we sitting with them?”
Sarah didn’t blink. “Eat your food.”
“No,” he said, louder than he meant to. His father shifted in his chair. Sarah’s eyes went wide for just a second.
“They’re our family,” Excel said. “You’re Alaric’s daughter. Why are we over here like... like house help?”
“Excel.” Her voice dropped. “Don’t make a scene.”
He looked at her. Then at his plate. Untouched.
His jaw locked.
Then he stood.
Chairs scraped.
Eyes turned.
He walked slowly — deliberately — across the marble floor. Every step felt heavier. The table got bigger and colder the closer he got. Conversations died mid-sentence. Glasses paused mid-air.
Alaric Winchester sat at the head, eyes fixed on a roasted duck breast. He didn’t look up until Excel’s shadow touched the edge of the table.
“Excuse me,” Excel said, steady.
Alaric’s head lifted. His fork stopped moving.
“Did you want something, boy?”
Excel’s mouth felt dry. His throat tightened. But he didn’t flinch.
“I want a seat,” he said. “A real one. For me. For my mother. For my father.”
The silence stretched like skin pulled too tight.
Steve, Alatics first son and His uncle choked on a laugh. Sebastian scoffed so hard he nearly spit his wine.
Lucas, his second uncle leaned forward. “You want three extra seats at this table? For the patient and his peasant parents?”
Elias, his third uncle chuckled. “Maybe we should get him a throne while we’re at it.”
Alaric raised a hand. Silence.
His gaze moved over Excel slowly. Like a butcher examining a cut of meat.
“My daughter,” he said, voice low, “has a heart too soft for this world. If she wishes to sit beside me, I will make space.”
Sarah flinched at the sound of her name.
“But,” Alaric continued, “her son... a boy who has done nothing, contributed nothing, and carried the Winchester name on the back of another man’s spine... must earn it.”
Excel’s hand trembled. He tightened his fist.
Alaric leaned back. “You were sick, Excel. You still look sick. Your father married into this family and took our name. Not the other way around. Your existence is tolerated. That does not earn you a chair.”
Steve raised a glass. “Well said.”
Sebastian, Steve's son and his older cousin grinned. “Maybe if he writes a good essay, we’ll consider it.”
Alaric narrowed his eyes. “Earn a seat. Then speak again.”
Excel stared at him. His lips snapped shut. He didn’t know what to say. His chest burned. His throat itched. He felt his heart thudding in his neck.
He turned. Said nothing.
He walked out.
Back in his room, he slammed the door harder than he meant to. The echo bounced like thunder. He paced. His hands ran through his hair. His lungs felt like they couldn’t stretch enough.
He stared at the walls. At the gold-framed photos of men who never wanted him.
His reflection caught in the mirror.
He looked at himself.
“I don’t belong here,” he muttered. “But I’m not eating on the damn sidelines again.”
Then the phone buzzed.
He didn’t even flinch this time.
He walked to the dresser. Picked it up.
The screen flashed.
"Tomorrow. Alaric boards flight MZ-047 to Madrid. It crashes at 6:11 PM. Fatal. All passengers. You must stop it."
Excel stared.
His breath caught in his throat.
Then a second message.
"Earn your seat. Or bury the man who owns it."
He dropped the phone on the bed.
His palms were wet. His lips trembled. His knees gave a little and he sat heavily.
Earn a seat?
They wanted proof?
He’d give themproof.
He’d save the very man who called him nothing.
And when the dust cleared...
He’d take the head of the table.
Not ask for it.
Take it.
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Latest Chapter
The Price Of A Life
The fire crackled soft, low, like it was tired of pretending it still mattered. Alaric Winchester sat in the high-backed leather chair that had probably outlived three CEOs, a glass of something old and brown resting in his hand. The flames threw gold across his skin, made the lines around his eyes look deeper than they were. Or maybe they were always that deep, and people just didn’t stare long enough to notice.Excel stood at the door.Didn’t knock.Didn’t move.Just stood there like he was balancing everything in him on the edge of that silence.Alaric didn’t look up. Just swirled the drink, slow, lazy."If you’re gonna speak," he said, "at least close the damn door first."Excel stepped in. Shut the door. The click echoed too loud. His hand stayed on the knob a second too long.He walked forward. Not fast. Not slow. Like he was walking into something that could bite."I saved your life," he said.Alaric blinked."That so?""You know it is."Alaric finally looked up.Excel wasn’t s
No Room At The Table
Sebastian couldn’t sleep. His pillow was soaked. Not with tears. With sweat. Cold, sick sweat that made his shirt cling to his back and his chest feel like it was folding in on itself. He stared at the ceiling like it owed him something. Like it might explain how everything had flipped so fast.He wasn’t just losing. He was drowning.That night after Excel exposed him, the whole house had shifted. Doors didn’t open as fast. Conversations stopped when he walked in. Even Steve didn’t speak to him in the hallway, just nodded once like he was some mailman. One of the guards at the back gate didn’t even salute. That had never happened. Not to him.He sat on the edge of his bed and cracked his knuckles, one by one, slow like bone was all he had left to control.Excel.That bastard. That ghost of a boy who couldn’t even talk right last year. The one who used to flinch when someone raised their voice. Now walking around like he owned the name. Like he was something more than a favor from Alar
Blood In Their Wine
He didn’t plan to destroy Sebastian that day. Not really. At least not in that exact hour. He only wanted to trace another thread, something tied to Victor. Something cold and undeniable. But that’s the thing about hunting shadows—sometimes you find the ones standing closest.Excel sat hunched over in the old music room, the one no one used since Anne died. It smelled like old perfume and dust and something else. Regret maybe. There were cracked picture frames stacked behind the piano. A broken wineglass in the corner. No one cleaned in here. Maybe they thought the dead were still watching.The papers were everywhere. Spread out in layers like a madman's map. He'd taken them from the archive wing, the locked cabinet Steve never checked. He thought about the elevator. The buzzes. The clue about the left hand. It had been days and it still gnawed at him. He tapped the corner of the folder against his thigh. His knee bounced. He didn’t even notice until his legs cramped.Victor Hayworth.
What Clues Had To Offer
Excel didn’t sleep that night. Not because he was afraid, not really. It was something else. Something like rage but quieter, thicker. Like oil in his blood. It moved through him in slow waves, kept him up even after the noise of the gala had died in his head. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, hands clenched like they were trying to squeeze something invisible.Victor Hayworth’s voice kept echoing in his skull. That smile, those words. "Died like a dog in a ditch."Excel’s jaw locked again. He had clenched it so long it ached now. His teeth felt like they’d fused. His fingers twitched. He could still feel the ghost of Victor's handshake. Still warm. Still smug. Still clean. So clean. Like nothing had ever bled beneath those nails. Like nothing ever touched him but silk and power and sin hidden behind legal papers.He stood up too fast and nearly tripped. His knees didn’t want to work right. The world tilted sideways and then settled. He paced. Back and forth. The carpet
Smoke, Suits And Ghosts
The suit didn’t feel like it fit. Not just the cloth, though it was tailored like armor and crisp like money. No, it was the weight of it. The smell. The clean cold feel of something that wasn’t earned by the hands wearing it. Excel adjusted the collar for the third time.“You keep doing that,” Alaric said beside him in the limo, “and you’ll look like a nervous intern.”Excel froze, then dropped his hands to his lap.“You invited me,” he said, not looking at the old man.“And I expect you not to embarrass me,” Alaric replied, sipping whiskey from a flask like it was water. “This isn’t family dinner. This is the war table.”The city outside rushed past. Glass towers like knives against the sky. Excel stared at his reflection in the tinted window. He still didn’t recognize the face looking back. But the fire inside it? That was starting to look familiar.“You’ll see everyone tonight,” Alaric continued. “CEOs, politicians, parasites in tuxedos. Eyes on you. So talk less. Watch more.”Exc
The New Target
The hall smelled like money and arrogance. The table was shorter this time, but the people around it weren’t any smaller. It was glass-topped, gold-rimmed, and surrounded by men and women who hadn’t had to ask for anything in years. Everyone wore suits like armor. The air felt expensive. Stiff. Hostile.Excel sat near the end. Not too close to Alaric, but close enough to make the others uncomfortable.Nobody said it out loud, but he felt it.They didn’t want him here.Steve Winchester tapped a pen against his folder like he owned the rhythm of the room. Sebastian slouched back, pretending to scroll his tablet, eyes darting toward Excel every few seconds. Elias whispered something to his assistant and chuckled.And Excel?He sat quietly.He didn’t speak. Not yet. He just watched. Listened. Waited.The numbers flew around — percentages, unit projections, capital shifts. They spoke fast. Over each other. Trying to out-smile, out-talk, out-shine. It wasn’t a meeting. It was a war without
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