The Lost Heir: Trials of an Empire Reclaimed

Chapter 023

Across the city, the Lancaster ceremony was impossible to miss. Gigantic LED billboards atop skyscrapers flickered to life, bathing streets in radiant white and gold:

“Silas Lancaster—Heir to the Lancaster Dynasty.” Drivers slowed at intersections, rolling down their windows to hear the broadcast’s opening fanfare echo from speakers mounted on lampposts.

Even in taxi cabs and buses, overhead monitors switched to live coverage, and radio DJs paused their playlists to read breaking news bulletins, their voices crackling over the airwaves.

On a bustling avenue near the financial district, clusters of office workers spilled onto the sidewalks, cell phones in hand.

They craned their necks toward the mammoth screen on the side of a glass tower.

“So that’s him?” one young banker muttered, eyebrow raised. “Silas Lancaster—who used to be Lilian Lawson’s husband.”

Her friend, a marketing executive, nodded, sipping her latte. “I always felt sorry for the guy,” she admitted. “Always stuck playing second fiddle to Lilian and her family’s status. But look at him now—he’s the star of the show.”

Across the street, a street vendor paused his midday rush to angle a small portable TV toward a group of construction workers on lunch break.

“Hey, look!” one of the men called out, pointing at the screen. “That’s Silas—never thought I’d see him up there on a stage with the patriarch.”

His buddy shrugged, grinning. “Fortune’s a fickle thing, eh? One minute you’re an underappreciated husband, the next you’re heir to the richest empire in the country.”

A few yards away, a cluster of pensioners gathered before an outdoor television in the park. One elderly gentleman shook his head in satisfaction.

“I always thought he was too mild for Lilian’s cold games. Now she’s the absurd one, crying over spilled wine.” He let out a low chuckle. “Serves her right.”

Meanwhile, at a busy intersection, a throng of teenagers hovered around a street‑side newsstand where a small radio blared the ceremony’s commentary.

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for…” The announcer’s voice resonated from a dozen boomboxes perched on stands.

The crowd leaned in, hushed as the patriarch’s words crackled over the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the universe has smiled upon us—our long‑lost heir has been found!”

A ripple of astonished cheers rose from the street. Car horns honked in celebratory blasts.

Sidewalk musicians struck up a spontaneous tune—someone’s trumpet winding out a triumphant fanfare that mingled with the radio’s jubilation.

In the subway stations, commuters huddled near the platform’s pillar‑mounted screens, craning past the safety line as the patriarch concluded: “Silas Lancaster—heir and future patriarch of this great family!”

A grinning teenager elbowed his friend. “Dude, his name’s Silas Lancaster. Sounds like a superhero.”

“More like a billionaire,” the friend replied, checking his phone to confirm the name. “Bet his I***a just blew up.”

In cafes and bars across town, conversations buzzed with the news. Some speculated on boardroom squabbles, others on social-page gossip: What would become of Lilian?

Would she fight to win him back or fade into obscurity? But everywhere, the consensus was clear: Silas Lancaster was the man of the hour.

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High above the city’s gleam, in a penthouse suite on the 58th floor, Damien lay sprawled across a king‑sized bed.

Silk sheets pooled around his waist, and on either side of him lounged two women draped in satins and lace—one tracing lazy patterns along his chest, the other toying with the tie around his neck.

The room was scented with exotic incense, and the city lights glittered through floor‑to‑ceiling windows.

A champagne‑stained throw lay discarded on the plush rug. Damien’s eyelashes fluttered as he stirred, the faint echo of distant applause drifting through the closed door.

One of the women, her hair tumbling over his shoulder, whispered against his skin, “Damien, wake up. The ceremony’s on TV…” She reached out and tapped the remote on the nightstand.

Damien groaned, blinking as he propped himself up on one elbow. The second woman slid off the bed to fetch the remote, revealing a handset encrusted with black onyx.

She pressed “On,” and the large flat‑screen TV mounted opposite the bed flickered to life, its volume low but unmistakable.

“…our long‑lost heir, Silas Lancaster!” The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers as the screen showed Silas, crisp in his midnight‑blue suit, stepping beside the patriarch to thunderous applause.

Damien’s eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched so tightly his teeth clicked together. The woman who had fetched the remote hesitated, arching an eyebrow as Damien’s expression darkened.

“What sort of pest are you?” Damien snarled, voice low and dangerous. He threw the remote onto the duvet, then lunged from the bed and punched the damask‑covered wall.

His fist made a satisfying crack against solid plaster, and the women gasped.

Damien stared at the dent his fist had made, chest heaving. He heard footsteps approaching down the hallway—security, likely checking in.

He wiped his knuckles on the sheet and turned back to the screen, fury blazing in his eyes.

The broadcast cut to a sweeping shot of the crowd giving Silas a standing ovation. Flashbulbs popped like distant fireworks.

Damien ground his teeth. He stalked to the window and looked down at the city parade of screens: the giant billboards, the café TVs, the commuters cheering in the subways.

“How dare he,” Damien muttered, voice tight with contempt. He turned back to the bedroom. “Clear out,” he snapped at the two women, voice low and commanding. “I need silence.”

They rose silently, gathering their things and slipping out with hurried apologies—silk gowns brushing the floor, heels clicking on marble.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Damien stalked back to the TV, remote in hand. He pressed “Mute,” then stomped away, every step resonating with anger and wounded pride.

He collapsed into an armchair by the window, face lit by neon reflections from the city below. Lights pulsed in the streets—flashes from paparazzi cameras, headlights flicking through the rain‑slicked avenues.

The radio, still faint in the background, resumed coverage: “Live from Lancaster Estate…”

Damien clenched his fists in his lap. “He’ll pay for this,” he whispered to no one. “He’ll pay… for rearing his head, my…” His voice trailed off as the magnitude of Silas’s rise sank in.

He felt a cold certainty that tonight’s betrayal would ignite a new war—one fought in boardrooms, back alleys, and whispered conversations.

Above him, a shaft of moonlight sliced across the ceiling, as if spotlighting Silas’s triumph for all to see. Below, the city hummed with excitement, the world ablaze with the news of the heir’s ascendancy.

And in the penthouse perched at the pinnacle of wealth, Damien Petrov—once the puppet master in Lilian’s heart—was left seething, already plotting how to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his.