The Lost Heir: Trials of an Empire Reclaimed

Chapter 051

A crisp autumn light slanted through the glass façade of Aureum Market—an elite supermarket favored by the city’s most powerful families—casting diamond blooms across the polished marble floors.

Lilian Lawson stepped inside, the chime above the door announcing her arrival.

She paused to take in the gleaming deli counters, the rows of exotic cheeses, the lush displays of Japanese fruits, and the hushed elegance of patrons in tailor‐made coats.

Even the shopping carts boasted leather handles and chrome frames.

She turned a corner and froze: Silas Lancaster stood at the extreme end near the wine cellar, flanked by a broad‐shouldered man in a tailored black suit—his unmistakable chauffeur‐turned‐bodyguard.

Silas, dressed in a navy cashmere overcoat, held two bottles of rare Bordeaux as he approached the checkout.

The cashiers at the register smiled at him with an almost flirtatious warmth—one even teased, “Mr. Lancaster, back so soon? I saved a bottle of that 1959 for you.”

Lilian’s heart clenched. A wave of heat and cold collided in her chest.

She stumbled backward, her fingers clutching the edge of a glass display case laden with truffles for support.

The world tilted for a moment: Silas, confident and adored, while she, his ex‐wife, hovered unnoticed.

She pressed her palm to her forehead, closed her eyes, and drew a breath that trembled with longing and regret.

When she opened her eyes, Silas was already stepping out, the bodyguard guiding him through the ornate exit doors.

Lilian’s shoulders slumped in helpless despair as the last sliver of him vanished into the night.

Steeling herself, she returned to the purpose she’d come here for. She roamed the aisles—hand‐picked salmon fillets, micro‑greens, saffron threads—each selection a mechanical act, her mind elsewhere.

She watched a sommelier restocking rare vintages, a personal shopper negotiating with a maître d’ about caviar allocations. The opulence around her felt mocking.

At last, her arms laden with selections—white truffles, wagyu steaks, artisanal pasta—she joined the queue at the same register Silas had used.

The cashier smiled politely, scanning her items with professional efficiency. Mid‐scan, the cashier’s eyes flicked to Lilian’s face—recognition sparked, then was tamped down.

“Ms. Lawson,” she said with practiced cordiality, “will that be all?”

Lilian offered a wan smile. “Yes, thank you.” She presented her credit card, watched as the cashier swiped it.

The total flashed on the screen in crisp numbers—proof of her continued privileges, yet hollow.

As Lilian gathered her bags, the cashier turned to her coworker, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Can you believe she used to be Mr. Lancaster’s wife? I heard she was awful to him—so harsh. Always putting him down.”

The other cashier nodded, leaning in. “Yes, I heard she embarrassed him at every event. And now look at her. He’s the toast of the city, and she’s… well.” Her tone dripped sympathy mixed with schadenfreude.

Lilian’s ears burned as she heard fragments—“doesn’t deserve him,” “tables have turned,” “wish she’d just disappear.” She tightened her grip on her bags, her vision blurring with unshed tears.

She forced herself not to react, swept past the registers, and made for the exit.

The glass doors swooshed closed behind her, a final barrier between her humiliation and the world outside.

In the dimming dusk, Lilian slipped into her car—a black electric sedan whose interior smelled of new leather and polished wood veneer.

She settled into the driver’s seat, the city lights reflecting off the dash. Her fingers found the steering wheel, white‐knuckled.

Before she even turned the ignition, she brought her fist down on the wheel—once, twice, three times—each blow a punctuation of anger and sorrow.

A single tear escaped and traced a hot line down her cheek as she finally started the engine. The car purred to life, but her heart thundered louder.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. The dashboard lights blinked comfortingly as she inhaled and exhaled, each breath shaking.

The luxury around her—a designer handbag on the seat beside her, gold‐plated accents—felt meaningless in the face of her brokenness.

She rested her head against the headrest for a moment, closing her eyes, letting the tears fall unabated.

The city outside moved on: streetlights turned on, traffic hummed, and distant laughter drifted from a late‐night café.

But in Lilian’s car, time stood still in a pool of grief and regret.

Finally, she wiped her cheeks with a trembling hand, smoothed her blouse, and turned the key to drive home—away from the sight of him, the sting of whispered slights, and into the long night where she would wrestle her own failures and the lingering ache of lost love.