Then the aunt who’d already poked into his love life leaned forward with a glint in her eye. "Alright, Rex. You say morality is a compass, not a contract. But what about loyalty? If you had to choose between your ambition and your family—not blood, but the people who trust you...which cos first?"
Rex didn’t answer imdiately. His past life flashed again: allies who abandoned him, colleagues who sold him out for a promotion. He rembered standing alone, the only one left to pick up the wreckage.
He spoke slowly, but firmly. "If you’re talking about loyalty that runs both ways, then family. Always. But if you an blind loyalty, the kind that demands obedience without giving support? That’s just another leash. And I don’t wear leashes."
Henry Sterling chuckled softly at that, a sound that carried weight even when quiet. "Not bad. Most n your age would’ve said ’ambition,’ trying to impress us with fire. You say family, but on your terms. That’s... interesting."
The younger cousins kept circling him, probing like curious sharks. One of the girls, sharp-tongued and probably studying law, leaned in. "So, Rex, tell this: do you think people are naturally good? Or naturally selfish?"
Rex didn’t hesitate. "Selfish. Survival first. That doesn’t an people can’t do good, but goodness cos after hunger’s answered. Even charity often has selfish roots: guilt, pride, reputation. Doesn’t make it aningless. Just ans it’s human."
A hush followed. They were watching him differently now, less like an outsider and more like soone they were trying to asure, to weigh.
Henry finally dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, eyes still fixed on Rex. "You remind of n I’ve seen claw their way up from nothing. Hard n. Honest, in their way, but never naïve. Dangerous if underestimated."
He raised his glass slightly, a small but deliberate gesture. "Dangerous n... are often useful."
The air felt heavier, though not hostile, more like the pause before a chess move. The Sterlings weren’t interrogating Rex like a suspect, but every new question felt deliberate, layered, as if each one was another card played onto the table.
This ti it was Uncle Robert again, the banker, who leaned forward with his wine glass. "Let ask you sothing, Rex. The world right now is a ss. Rival powers circling each other, governnts talking about sanctions one minute and partnerships the next. Do you think order is possible in a world like this? Or is it all just chaos we dress up in conferences and treaties?"
Rex thought back to his past life: the endless headlines, the summits that promised peace but delivered nothing, the CEOs who treated global crises as stock market opportunities. He gave a small shrug.
"Order is possible," he said slowly, "but only at a cost. Soone always has to pay for stability. The question is who. Right now, the rich make the rules, and the poor pay the price. Nations pretend to cooperate, but half the ti it’s just about who gets the bigger slice of the pie. Chaos isn’t an accident, it’s a business model."
That silenced even Noah, who usually had a quip ready.
"Business model?" one cousin repeated, brows raised.
Rex nodded. "War is profitable. Division is profitable. Fear is profitable. Stability... isn’t. At least not in the short term. And since everyone is chasing quarterly wins, whether governnts or corporations, chaos is baked into the system."
Uncle Robert’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. "You sound like a cynic."
"I’m a realist," Rex countered evenly. "Cynics complain. Realists adapt."
That earned him a chuckle from Henry, low and approving.
The next volley ca from an older cousin. "Adaptation is one thing. But do you think power corrupts? Or does it simply reveal what soone already was?"
Rex didn’t even blink. "It reveals. If you’re greedy without power, you’ll be ruthless with it. If you’re generous without power, you’ll be cautious with it. Power doesn’t create character, it amplifies it."
Vivienne’s sharp cousin, the one studying law, folded her arms. "So if soone like you got power, Rex, what would it amplify?"
The table waited. A test, direct and pointed.
Rex could’ve dodged. He didn’t. "Responsibility. I don’t run from it. Never have." He let the weight of the words sit before adding, quieter, "In my experience, people who run from responsibility cause more damage than those who seek power. At least the ambitious are honest about what they want."
The room shifted again, the tiniest ripple of surprise. He wasn’t flattering them, wasn’t grandstanding, wasn’t even humble. He was just steady.
It was Margaret who pounced next, arching a brow. "Alright, Mr. Responsibility. What about temptation? Everyone breaks sowhere: money, won, pride. What’s yours?"
That drew a laugh from half the table. Arabella tilted her head curiously, eyes wide like she didn’t quite understand why her aunt would bring up won.
Rex chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I’m not arrogant enough to say I don’t have one. Everyone does. But if you’re asking where I’d fall? Pride, probably. I can handle money. I can handle flattery. But pride... wanting to prove I was right, even when it doesn’t matter... that’s dangerous."
That answer earned a slow nod from Henry, and an amused "Honest, at least," from Margaret.
Then Jonathan, competitive as always, leaned in with a smirk. "So what about legacy? You talk about stability, workers, morality. But let’s be real, Rex. When you’re gone, what do you want carved on your headstone? That you played it safe? Or that you won?"
Rex t his gaze evenly. "Neither. I don’t want a headstone."
That made Jonathan blink.
"I want to build sothing that doesn’t need one," Rex continued. "If people rember , fine. If not, but they live better because of what I built, that’s enough."
The laughter, the quips, even the rivalry died down after that. For a brief mont, there was just silence and the faint sound of Arabella kicking her feet under the table.
Then Noah piped up, grinning as always. "Alright, philosopher, answer this: justice or rcy? Which do you think matters more?"
Rex tilted his head. "Depends who’s holding the knife."
Arabella gasped. "Brother Rex!"
The table laughed, but Rex’s expression stayed even.
"Justice without rcy becos cruelty," he continued. "rcy without justice becos weakness. You need both. One keeps society fair. The other keeps it human."
That earned him a quiet nod from Henry, and, surprisingly, from Eleanor, who rarely gave approval so openly.
But then Leonard, the sharp uncle, leaned forward. "You speak like soone who’s thought about this too much. Tell , Rex, do you believe most people are good?"
Rex hesitated. His past life flashed: betrayals, greed, people stepping on each other for scraps of power. He thought of bosses who smiled during speeches about ’company culture’ while laying off thousands to boost quarterly numbers. He thought of ordinary workers sharing sandwiches with coworkers because that’s all they had.
"Yes," Rex said finally. "Most people are good. But goodness doesn’t an harmless. A starving man will steal. A desperate woman will lie. Circumstances twist people. Doesn’t make them evil. Just... human."
That silenced the table again.
"Interesting answer," Henry said softly, more to himself than anyone else.
It was Margaret, ever sharp, who finally smirked. "And what about you, Rex? Are you good?"
Every eye turned.
Rex didn’t flinch. He smiled faintly. "I try to be. But I’d rather be useful than good. Goodness is aningless if it doesn’t change anything."
The room breathed out, a mix of chuckles, scoffs, and quiet admiration.
Henry lifted his glass once more, this ti with finality. "You’ve given us a lot to think about tonight, Rex. You don’t flatter, you don’t dodge, and you don’t fear speaking plain. Rare qualities, especially in a world that rewards the opposite."
The family followed suit, glasses rising in the warm glow of the chandelier.
(End of Chapter)
Author’s Note:
Huge thanks for Olerolin, for sending a Dragon. Thank you so much dude.
Reviews
All reviews (0)