Chapter 8: The Name That Wasn't His

The car ride back from the townhouse was thick with a silence more suffocating than any that had come before. Caius sat rigidly in the seat opposite Lynn, his face a mask of cold fury. The evening had clearly taken a toll on him; the tension with Marcus was a live wire, and Lynn’s presence had been a pawn in their silent battle. Lynn kept his gaze fixed on the passing city lights, but he didn’t see them. His mind was a whirlwind of Marcus’s smiling face and the ominous words about his father. The hatred in his heart was a solid, cold weight.

They arrived at the penthouse. Caius stalked inside, throwing his coat over a chair with a violence that was unusual for his controlled movements. He went straight to the bar and poured a large glass of amber liquid, downing half of it in one go. Lynn hovered near the doorway, unsure what to do. He wanted to retreat to his room, to process the chaos in his mind alone, but something in Caius’s posture—the tightness in his shoulders, the way he gripped the glass—held him there. It wasn’t concern; it was the instinct of an observer studying his subject.

Caius didn’t speak. He just stood by the window, his back to Lynn, drinking in the dark. The silence stretched, broken only by the occasional clink of ice against glass. The powerful, untouchable Caius Evans seemed… diminished. Haunted. For a brief, treacherous moment, Lynn felt a flicker of something that wasn’t hatred—a sliver of understanding for the man trapped in his own gilded cage of family and power.

It was a mistake.

Suddenly, Caius turned. His eyes, usually so cold and clear, were clouded with drink and a deep, profound anguish that made Lynn’s breath catch. He crossed the room in a few swift strides, and before Lynn could react, Caius’s arms were around him, pulling him into a crushing embrace.

Lynn went rigid. It wasn’t the possessive grip from the gala. This was different. This was desperate. Caius buried his face in the curve of Lynn’s neck, his body trembling slightly. The scent of expensive whiskey and his cologne was overwhelming. Lynn’s hands hung limply at his sides, his mind screaming in protest. But his body, traitorously, registered the warmth of the embrace, the solid strength of the man holding him. A shameful, instinctual sense of comfort seeped through his shock. For one heartbeat, two, he didn’t push away.

Then, Caius spoke. His voice was a raw, broken whisper, muffled against Lynn’s skin, filled with a pain so deep it was tangible.

“Lucas…” he breathed. “I’m sorry… Lucas…”

The name hung in the air between them, a ghost given voice.

Lucas.

Time stopped. The fleeting sense of warmth, the flicker of understanding, the brief moment of human connection—it all shattered into a million icy shards. The blood in Lynn’s veins turned to ice. A cold so profound it felt like death washed over him.

He wasn’t Lynn. He wasn’t even a person. He was a stand-in. A warm body to hold when the grief for the real object of affection became too much to bear. The embrace that had felt, for a nanosecond, like it might be for him, was revealed in its ultimate, humiliating truth. It was for a ghost. For Lucas. The missing brother. The one he was meant to replace.

The self-disgust that followed was more violent than any hatred he’d felt for Caius. How could he have felt even a second of comfort? How could his body have responded to the touch of the man who saw him as nothing but a shadow? He felt dirty. Used. The ultimate fool.

He stood frozen in the circle of Caius’s arms, no longer rigid with surprise, but with a cold, dead stillness. He didn’t push him away. He didn’t have the strength. The fight had gone out of him, replaced by a hollow, aching emptiness.

Caius seemed to sense the change. He loosened his hold slightly, pulling back just enough to look at Lynn’s face. His own eyes were glazed, confused, as if waking from a dream. He saw the utter lack of expression, the deadness in Lynn’s eyes. A flicker of confusion and something like regret crossed his features, but it was quickly swallowed by the alcohol and his own pain. He dropped his arms and stepped back, turning away without another word, retreating back into the darkness of the room and his own private torment.

Lynn didn’t move. He stood rooted to the spot, the phantom sensation of the embrace and the sound of that name burning into his soul.

Lucas.

The warmth was a lie. The heartbeat he’d felt against his own was a lie. Everything was a lie. He was just a mirror, reflecting a face that wasn’t his own. And in that moment, any fragile connection that might have been forming between them was irrevocably broken. The path of vengeance, hinted at by Marcus, was now paved with the cold, hard certainty of his own worthlessness in Caius’s eyes. The game had become infinitely more personal, and infinitely more cruel.