The Lost Heir: Trials of an Empire Reclaimed

Chapter 057

The grandfather clock in the corner struck two in the morning, its chime rolling through the marble halls of Mat Lancaster’s private wing.

Outside, a high wind rattled the leaded glass windows, stirring the potted palms that flanked the door.

Inside, the heavy thump of leather on stone drowned out the storm’s whisper.

Mat Lancaster stood shirtless beneath the harsh glare of overhead industrial lamps.

His private gym—an expansive room of polished teak floors, lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and rows of state-of-the-art equipment—felt like a cathedral to discipline.

A full boxing ring rested in the center, its ropes creaking softly in the draft.

But Mat paid no heed to the ring. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, fists balled, and struck the reinforced concrete wall with merciless force.

Each punch echoed, sounding like a drumroll of anger. His knuckles reddened, sweat beading on his brow, trickling down his chest in warm rivulets.

Again and again: wall, fist, wall, fist. The cadence matched the turbulent thoughts swirling in his mind.

Elena’s face floated before his eyes—her gentle arch of eyebrow when she saw him at Lancaster Industries, the cool detachment in her gaze, the soft, sincere smile she offered Silas.

His knuckles stung, but he didn’t relent. Each blow was a question: Why had he let her slip away? Each thud was penance; each echo a reminder of failure.

His arms trembled, sweat glided into his eyes, stinging. He wiped his forehead on the back of his hand, breath ragged, heart pounding.

And then he struck again, the wall absorbing his frustration as he whispered, “I’ll fix this. I’ll get her back.”

The heavy gym door swung open. Cary Vale, Mat’s oldest friend and a former special forces operative, stepped inside, framed by a gust of wind and flickering torch sconces outside.

Cary’s dark hair was cropped close, and she wore black workout leggings and a fitted tank top that showed toned arms ready for combat.

Mat froze mid-strike, fist raised inches from the wall. Cary regarded him coolly. “Training the wall again at this hour?” she teased, stepping onto the wooden floor.

Mat pivoted, lowering his hand. “What—are you volunteering to take its place?” He smirked, though fatigue softened his gaze.

Cary smirked back. “Might be more of a challenge than you.”

She strolled to the boxing ring and climbed in, rolling her shoulders. “Come on, Mat. Show me what all this anger’s for.”

Mat wiped sweat from his chest with a towel, then climbed in beside her. “I’ll try to remember you’re a lady,” he quipped.

Cary’s grin turned wicked. “That’ll be your undoing.”

The bell rang—a single sharp note that split the air. They saluted lightly, gloves raised. Immediately, Cary lunged with a quick jab to Mat’s ribs.

He absorbed it, pivoting on his ankle and delivering a snap punch to her shoulder. She gasped but smiled, her eyes fierce.

They closed the distance. Mat feinted left, then unfurled a right hook aimed at her jaw. Cary ducked, slipping under his arm and rocking forward into a low leg sweep.

Mat stumbled, but blocked with his forearm and sprang back to evade her follow-up kick to the chest.

They danced around the ring: Mat’s power against Cary’s agility.

He pressed with straight punches and crisp combinations—jab-cross, uppercut—while she circled, bobbing and weaving, her footwork a testament to hours of field training.

Cary countered with a front kick as Mat moved in, catching him just below the ribs and sending him reeling.

Mat chuckled, retreating to reset. “That’s new.”

“Adapting,” Cary replied, voice low. She stalked him, then feinted a punch and caught his tricep with a hammer fist.

Mat winced, but grabbed her wrist, twisting into an arm throw that sent Cary to the canvas with a thud.

But she rolled through, springing up in one fluid motion. Mat’s punch flew wide as he advanced, and Cary locked her forearms around his wrist and elbow—an armbar in micro-seconds.

Mat winced as his arm straightened under her pressure.

He tapped out, the ring echoing with the soft pop of leather against canvas. Cary released him instantly, stepping back.

Mat raised an eyebrow, breathing hard. “You went easy on me.”

Cary crossed her arms, genuine amusement in her gaze. “Whatever lets you sleep at night.”

Mat straightened, stretching out his arm gingerly, the sting of the armbar still sharp. He nodded in respect. “Thanks. I needed that.”

Cary offered him a water bottle. “You okay?”

He accepted it, drinking deeply. “More than okay. Reminded me what’s worth fighting for.”

Cary raised an eyebrow. “And that is?”

Mat looked away, eyes shadowed. “Her.” He paused. “Elena.”

Cary’s expression softened. “Then fight smarter, not just harder.”

Mat pocketed the water bottle, settling his gloves aside. “I will. I won’t stop until she’s mine again.” His words held absolute certainty.

They climbed from the ring. Cary removed her gloves and threw them onto a bench.

The gym lights glinted off the mirrors as they stretched—Mat rolling his shoulders, Cary loosening her neck.

Outside, the storm had quieted, but the night remained deep and cool. The penthouse lights glowed on the horizon—The place where Mat had lost his chance and where he vowed to win it back.

Cary slung a towel around her neck. “Alright, General Lancaster, your victory tour awaits, but it can wait till tomorrow.”

Mat nodded. “Thanks, Cary. For everything.”

She smirked. “Just don’t make a habit of wall punching. It doesn’t fight back.”

Mat laughed, the sound echoing like triumph. “I’ll stick to sparring people who can.”

They left the ring together, footsteps echoing down the gleaming gym corridor—two warriors bound by loyalty.

And as Mat descended the grand staircase back into the heart of his mansion, he carried with him a renewed purpose: to outmatch any opponent, and to reclaim the soft smile and gentle gaze of the woman who haunted his every strike.