The Lost Heir: Trials of an Empire Reclaimed

Chapter 056

Silas Lancaster’s penthouse greeted him with muted opulence: floor‐to‐ceiling windows framing a neon tapestry of the city, marble floors that gleamed beneath a crystal chandelier’s soft glow, and a living wall of ivy that whispered life into the modern aesthetic.

He’d just returned from the day’s final meetings—investor pitches, board consultations, and a late‐night strategy session.

His tailored suit was draped over the banquette in the foyer, replaced now by a simple white T‐shirt and black training shorts.

Descending the wide staircase to the main living area, he spotted Isaac—his chauffeur and confidant—standing by the panoramic windows, shoulders tense, gaze fixed on the glittering skyline.

Isaac’s crisp black jacket remained buttoned, gloves still clasped in his hand, as if he’d stepped off duty but couldn’t quite leave the evening behind.

Silas approached, voice gentle. “Isaac?”

The chauffeur started, blinking as though awakened from a dream. “Sir? I—uh, I’m fine.” He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Silas rested a hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “If it’s affecting you, it’s worth my trouble.” His tone was firm but kind.

Isaac hesitated, glancing away. Then, with a long exhale, he dropped his gaze to the floor. “It’s my youngest sister, sir. She… she’s in a bind.”

Silas guided him to the plush cream sofa. They sat side by side, the city’s pulse below them. “Tell me.”

Isaac’s voice trembled slightly. “She lost her job last month—company downsized. She’s been living at my parents’ old place, but rent’s overdue. Utilities shut off. She’s calling me every other day, panicked.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I thought I could… manage things quietly. But it’s gotten worse.”

Silas nodded, eyes sympathetic. “We’ll handle it. Speak with the head of Accounts tomorrow. I’ll have them allocate an advance—cover her rent, utilities, maybe some temporary living expenses.” He paused, ensuring Isaac absorbed the promise. “Family is everything, Isaac. Thank you for trusting me.”

A flicker of relief crossed Isaac’s face. “Thank you, sir. I… I appreciate it.”

Silas stood and offered his hand. “Come on—we’ll clear our heads.”

Isaac accepted the hand and rose. Silas led him through the penthouse’s gleaming halls to the private golf simulator room—an alcove separated by frosted glass panels.

But instead of the simulator controls, Silas brushed past them, heading toward the concealed door that led to the mansion’s private gym.

Behind the panel, the gym stretched wide: polished hardwood floors echoed beneath workouts; full‐length mirrors lined one wall;

state‐of‐the‐art equipment—from free weights to rowing machines—stood ready. In the corner, a full boxing ring sat under bright overhead lights.

“After you, Isaac,” Silas said, stepping inside. “I figure a good spar will help.”

Isaac allowed himself a small grin. “Yes, sir.”

They donned gloves—Silas’s gloves emblazoned with the Lancaster crest, Isaac’s plain black.

Silas moved to the ring, Isaac beside him. Silas tossed Isaac a towel. “Stretch a moment. Warm up.”

Isaac jogged in place while Silas shadow boxed, muscles rippling. The city lights twinkled through the gym’s window, casting their long reflections across the mat.

Moments later, the bell rang: a crisp, single note slicing through the hum of the air conditioner. They touched gloves, then assumed guard positions.

Silas led with a quick jab, testing Isaac’s defenses. Isaac responded with a solid cross to Silas’s shoulder, the punch thudding through the glove.

“Good!” Silas encouraged, rotating his hips for power. He landed a right hook to Isaac’s guard, then a left jab to his ribs.

Isaac grunted, absorbing the blow. He countered with an uppercut that Silas ducked under, rolling to the side.

Isaac followed up with a swift body shot; Silas winced, balling his gloves tighter.

They danced around the ring—two seamless partners in a silent language of strikes and parries. Silas feinted, Isaac bit on it, leaving him open for a swift cross that glanced Isaac’s jaw.

Isaac wiped sweat from his brow and launched a combination: jab, cross, hook. Silas blocked, stepping back to reset.

For ten minutes, they traded blows, each round punctuated by the bell’s chime and the scrape of gloves on canvas. Sweat beaded on Isaac’s brow, dripping onto the mat. Silas’s T-shirt clung to his chest, congregation of effort.

At one point, Isaac landed a solid body shot that forced Silas to double over. Isaac stepped forward, concern in his stance—but Silas smiled, straightened, and nodded. “Keep going,” he rasped.

They resumed, intensifying the pace. Silas leveraged his speed, darting in for jabs then retreating.

Isaac used his reach and strength, marching forward, landing punches that tested Silas’s resolve. Each strike was measured—not to maim, but to train, to sharpen.

In the ring’s center, Silas pivoted and launched a spinning back fist that Isaac barely ducked. Isaac countered with a wide left hook; Silas blocked with his forearm, eyes glinting with challenge.

They paused, breathing heavily, gloves raised—a flicker of mutual respect passing between them.

Then Silas nodded and resumed combat. A flurry of strikes and counterstrikes followed: body shots, overhead hooks, quick jabs.

At one point, Isaac feinted a left, then fired a right that grazed Silas’s temple. Silas reeled, vision momentarily blurred—but he held his ground, chin tucked, breathing steady.

Finally, the bell rang for the last round. They tapped gloves and backed off. Silas crossed the ring and wrapped an arm around Isaac’s shoulders. “Well done,” he said warmly. “You’ve improved. Very proud.”

Isaac panted, a grin splitting his face. “Thank you, sir. You’re… you’re tougher than I remember.”

Silas laughed, ruffling Isaac’s hair under the headgear. “That’s because I have to be—for all our sakes.”

Malik, the mansion’s butler, entered quietly, handing them water bottles and clean towels. “Good session, gentlemen,” he said softly.

Isaac took a long drink, then offered Silas the towel. “Thank you for this, sir. It’s been… therapeutic.”

Silas cracked his knuckles, stowing his gloves. “It clears the mind. Now, let’s get cleaned up.”

They walked together toward the locker area—enclosed in teak cubicles with plush benches—racks of towels and toiletries. Silas clapped Isaac on the back. “Enjoy some dinner afterward. My treat.”

Isaac nodded, smiling as they stepped into the showers. Through the steam and the soft hum of water, the penthouse glowed above them—a fortress not of stone, but of loyalty and respect.

Later, as they dried off and dressed, the night outside had deepened, lights twinkling like distant stars. Silas paused at the gym’s entrance, glancing back at Isaac. “Thank you—for everything.”

Isaac met his gaze, sincerity shining through. “Always, sir.”

And with that, they returned to the heart of the penthouse—master and protector, bound by trust—ready for whatever the dawn would bring.