The room didn’t react.
People like this never did.
But Elias saw it.
His eyebrows rose. Then he smiled—broad, genuine, a politician’s delight at a development he could sell.
“Well,” his father said pleasantly, “it seems congratulations are in order.”
Titus didn’t speak.
He didn’t have to.
Lorraine’s gaze stayed fixed on the joined hands. On the ring. On the way Viper didn’t look away from her—not once.
This wasn’t defiance.
It was a declaration.
She straightened, smoothing the front of her dress. Her smile returned—thinner now. Careful.
“Of course,” she said. “Dinner would be lovely.”
Viper inclined his head a fraction. Respectful. Dismissive.
Power recognizing greater power.
And stepping back.
Elias eased into conversation the way he always did, as if nothing had happened. “Your family’s doing well, I hope?” he asked Viper pleasantly. “I met your father a few times in Washington, years back now. Always admired his way of thinking. Analytical. Thorough. A man who listened before he spoke.”
Lorraine smiled and nodded at the appropriate moments, but she wasn’t listening to the words so much as the shape of them.
The ease. The familiarity.
This wasn’t a man Elias was humoring—it was someone her husband recognized as adjacent to real decision-making, the kind that didn’t require applause or visibility.
Reid Kensington answered politely, briefly, never overplaying it, never correcting, never boasting.
And in that measured restraint, Lorraine saw the line close.
Titus was no longer the hinge point.
No longer the pressure valve she could lean on, redirect, or use.
Whatever influence she’d once exerted over her son had just been quietly superseded by something older, steadier, and far more immovable.
This wasn’t defiance she could counter.
It was a replacement.
And there would be no reclaiming him without cost she wasn’t willing to pay.
Titus listened, glass paused halfway to his lips, a strange, hollow disbelief settling in his chest.
That was it. No confrontation. No tension.
Just… containment.
