Mid-morning, just outside the city. Early spring lingered in the breeze—cool but no longer biting. The private golf course sat quiet, touched by new green and the faint scent of thawing pine, far removed from Chronos towers and boardrooms. No assistants. No staff. Just Max and Lucien.
Lucien stepped forward, swung once, and sent the ball clean across the fairway with a mechanical elegance. No hesitation. No wasted movement.
Max gave a short whistle. "Still deadly off the tee."
Lucien didn't respond. He was already watching the ball settle.
Max teed up next, took his time. His stance was looser, more relaxed. He adjusted his grip, exhaled slowly, then swung. The ball curved slightly right, landing just shy of Lucien's.
"Been a while since it was just the two of us, away from work," Max said as they walked toward the carts. "Feels like a decade, doesn't it?"
Lucien picked up his scorecard. "Eighteen years, eleven months."
Max chuckled. "Of course you know the exact number."
Lucien marked his score without looking up.
They drove in silence for a few moments, the cart buzzing over narrow paths. Lucien's eyes stayed on the trees ahead, but his fingers moved, almost absentmindedly, reaching for the small embedded tablet on his side of the dash.
"We'll have to recalibrate the eastern grid soon," he said, eyes locked on the screen in-front of him. "The offsets are already drifting—"
Max raised a hand, cutting it gently, not unkind. "Lucien. Not here."
Lucien glanced over.
Max smiled. "No work talk. Let's just enjoy the sun."
Lucien let the tablet fall back into its slot without a word.
They rode in silence for a while. The buzz of the cart blended with birdsong and the soft scrape of pine needles in the breeze.
Then Max exhaled a quiet laugh. "You remember that storm we got caught in? We had to spend the night in the car with nothing but half a water bottle and two chocolate bars."
Lucien didn't respond.
"You were so mad," Max went on, grinning. "Said you'd rather be struck by lightning than stay another second in that cramped space… wasting time."
"I miss that version of you sometimes," Max said more quietly. "The one who argued about everything… the one that still had it in him to get angry."
Still nothing from Lucien.
The cart pulled to a stop. "Those days mattered too… not just the victories."
Max glanced over. "Sorry. I'm not trying to pull anything out of you. Just… reminiscing about the past."
Lucien stepped out of the cart, grabbed his iron, and walked forward to line up the next shot.
Max followed after a beat. "Kieran and I are heading to dinner later. Nothing formal. Just us. You should come."
Lucien didn't answer.
Max didn't press.
They played on.
***
The afternoon filtered through the tall windows of Lucien's office, casting slow, angular shadows across the steel-trimmed walls and blackwood floors. The skyline shimmered under a pale spring sun—cool and clear, still weeks from full warmth.
Lucien sat alone behind his desk. A stack of reports glowed faintly on the glass console in front of him. He moved through them without expression—global expansion updates, diplomatic deals, press metrics. All impressive. All signed by Max and Kieran.
Negotiations resolved. Conflicts preempted. Chronos praised on three continents. Every achievement efficient, clean, admired.
None of it surprised him.
He tapped to the next page.
A quiet knock.
The door opened without waiting.
His secretary stepped in, carrying a sealed folder. She wore a sharp gray skirt suit., her presence crisp and professional. She placed the envelope on his desk and straightened.
"Final minutes from the Osaka summit," she said. "They just need your approval."
Lucien nodded once.
She hesitated a beat. "They mentioned Mr. Crowe again. Said the resolution was brilliant—he credited you entirely, of course."
Lucien didn't look up.
"Mr. Kieran too," she added. "During the council debrief. Said it wouldn't have stabilized without your long-term models."
Still nothing.
She gave a faint smile. "Julian's interview aired last night. I'll have a copy of it by your desk tomorrow. It was fabulous. When asked how he comes up with his ideas. He answered with, 'I don't. I just ask myself what my father would've done.'"
Lucien turned a page.
She took the silence as dismissal and left without another word.
He sat there a long time.
The window stretched wide behind him—framing the city like a machine of glass and steel, all of it running on systems he built.
If they saw the truth behind my ambition, he wondered, would they still remain so… perfect?
***
The restaurant was quiet, tucked behind an art gallery in the heart of the city. A glass door led into warm light and polished wood. Lucien stepped through it without announcing himself.
Max looked up first.
His expression flickered with genuine surprise, then softened into something close to joy. "Look who decided to show up!"
Kieran turned in his seat, slower, heavier. He was broader than Max, older, more deliberate in his presence. His hair was silver, but clean-cut, his suit tailored in the timeless way that made him seem permanent. He stood slowly from the table.
"Lucien," he said simply. No theatrics. Just welcome.
Lucien offered a small nod. A server pulled out a chair without being asked.
The table was set for three.
Max waved a hand toward the empty place. "Was starting to lose hope." A slight chuckle.
"I was in the area," Lucien replied.
Max smirked. "Its fate then."
The lighting was low—amber and soft, casting quiet shadows across the linen tablecloth. A jazz trio played in the next room, barely audible over the hum of conversation. No screens. No Press. Just warmth.
They ordered without ceremony. Kieran had already begun with a small plate of olives and thin bread. Max was sipping something neat—brown and quiet. Lucien ordered nothing.
Kieran leaned back in his seat, relaxed but never casual. "I picked up a new hobby," he said, cutting into a block of butter. "Bonsai."
Max raised a brow. "You, really?"
"Precision. Rhythm. It helps me think."
Lucien said nothing.
Max launched into a short story—a weekend trip gone wrong with his partner. Missed train, last-minute hotel, a bottle of wine that fixed it all. He told it well. He always did.
Lucien watched them both, saying little. Max gestured often. Kieran drank slowly. They looked at him often, checking for response, opinion, anything.
"How've you been Lucien?" Max asked after a pause.
Lucien folded his napkin once. "Fine."
Kieran glanced across the table. "How are Julian and Isabelle?"
Lucien took a measured sip of water. "As they always are."
Kieran gave a slow nod. "Julian always looks up to you. More than anyone in the world probably."
Lucien said nothing.
Max leaned back in his chair. "Ang Magnus? Still as sharp as ever?"
Lucien gave a slight nod.
Kieran folded his hands. "I still meet with him weekly. Just to talk. He always knows what's coming before I do."
He paused. A faint smile on his face. "I've run Chronos for a decade now, I don't know if I'll ever fill his place—no one could."
Lucien didn't respond.
Max looked over and gave a short nod. "Don't try to fill Magnus's shoes, you're doing good. The whole world sees it."
The dinner lasted hours. Courses came and went. Max and Kieran talked about nothing in particular.
They laughed. Lucien didn't.
Still, neither of them pulled away.
They carried the conversation like a fire that never needed feeding. Always warm. Always close.
Lucien watched them from across the table. He didn't interrupt. He didn't lean in. He just listened.