Building The Strongest Family-Chapter 195: The Weight Of A Crown

Aunt Margaret stepped into the room first, her cardigan sleeves pulled tightly over her hands, a familiar gesture that betrayed her nerves.

Behind her, Uncles Julian, Nathaniel, and Richard followed in with the somber resolve of men walking into an intervention.

Silence enveloped them.

The grandfather clock ticked steadily, each second echoing like a countdown.

Arthur remained seated, leaning back in his leather chair, swirling his drink as he watched the ice cubes slowly melt away.

It was Margaret who broke the tension first.

"Oh, Arthur," she sighed, sinking into the armchair across from him.

Her tone was reminiscent of a parent scolding a child for tracking mud through the house rather than confronting a man who had just exiled his own brother. It made his jaw tighten involuntarily.

Julian cleared his throat. "We need to talk about what happened at breakfast."

Arthur took a deliberate sip from his glass. "There’s nothing to talk about."

"You disowned your brother," Nathaniel said softly.

"And you threw him out with nothing but the clothes on his back!" Richard chimed in, pacing behind the chairs like a caged animal. "Christ, Arthur! He’s just a kid!"

Arthur set down his glass with a sharp click that echoed through the room. "He’s twenty years old, old enough to make choices and face consequences."

Margaret reached across the desk, her hand hovering over his before retreating slightly. "But was it really necessary to..."

"Yes." The word slipped out harsher than he intended.

He inhaled deeply before continuing, "You were there, Margaret. You saw him! After everything this family has endured,after all we’ve lost, he stood there and told us he’d rather chase some childish dream than stand by his own blood."

The fire crackled softly in response.

Nathaniel adjusted his glasses nervously. "Do you really think cutting him off completely was the answer?"

"What was I supposed to do?" Arthur’s voice dropped to something raw and vulnerable. "Beg him to stay? Let him walk all over the sacrifices this family has made?"

Julian leaned forward, elbows resting on knees as if trying to bridge an unbridgeable gap between them. "No one’s saying that, but there’s a fine line between discipline and cruelty."

The word "son" struck harder than it should have.

Arthur abruptly stood up and turned toward the window; below lay sprawling grounds where he and Billy had played as kids, the same place their father had taught them how to shoot hoops and where their mother had planted roses that still bloomed every spring even though she wasn’t around anymore.

"You think I wanted this?" he asked quietly.

Margaret’s chair creaked as she rose too; when she touched his arm this time, he didn’t pull away.

"We know you didn’t," she murmured gently. "But Arthur... your father would’ve found another way."

He closed his eyes.

That was the knife. Not the exile, not the cold words exchanged over breakfast, what cut deeper was the realization that his father would’ve handled this situation with grace.

He would’ve known exactly what to say to help Billy understand without tearing their family apart.

But his father wasn’t here.

And Arthur was so damn tired of trying to fill shoes that would never fit him.

Richard let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Look, no one’s saying Billy was right.

But cutting him off completely? Freezing his accounts? That’s more than just punishment, that’s making sure he can’t come back."

Arthur turned away, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "He doesn’t want to come back."

"Are you sure about that?" Julian chimed in, raising an eyebrow. "Or did you just not give him a chance to change his mind?"

The question lingered in the air like an unwelcome guest.

Outside, an owl hooted softly in the dark, adding to the weight of silence.

Margaret gently squeezed Arthur’s arm. "At least consider unfreezing his trust fund. Let him have something to fall back on while he figures things out."

Arthur walked back to his desk and stared at the family portrait gathering dust in the corner, him and Billy as gap-toothed kids, their parents’ hands resting reassuringly on their shoulders.

"...I’ll think about it," he finally replied, uncertainty hanging between them like a fragile thread.

---------

The door clicked shut behind the last of them, leaving only Arthur and Julian alone in the study.

The fire hissed softly, exhaling a sigh of relief from the pressure that had just departed.

Outside, the wind picked up, brushing against the windows like ghostly fingers begging to be let in.

Arthur poured himself another glass of wine but didn’t drink.

Instead, he stared at the swirling crimson liquid, catching flickers of firelight dancing within it.

Julian stood silently by the bookshelves, hands clasped behind his back not out of deference but because he knew his nephew too well. Arthur would speak when he was ready.

Minutes ticked by like hours.

Finally, breaking the stillness, Arthur’s voice cut through the quiet.

"Uncle," he said slowly without looking up,

"Am I a good family head?"

Julian paused for a moment; the question landed with a heavy thud like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of implications throughout the room.

He walked over to an opposite chair and sank into it slowly before crossing one leg over the other. "That’s quite a question to ask after exile and execution, socially speaking."

Arthur let out a bitter chuckle. "You always did love dramatic phrasing."

"And you’ve always loved dramatic action."

This earned Julian a brief smirk from Arthur, but soon his expression clouded again as he leaned back in his chair, glass resting against his thigh while he stared into the fire’s depths.

"I didn’t enjoy any of that," Arthur said quietly. "I didn’t want to cut Billy off. But he left me no choice."

Julian took his time responding; tapping his fingers thoughtfully against the armrest. "Do you want truth or comfort?"

"Whichever doesn’t make me hate myself."

"Then let’s go with truth."

Arthur nodded solemnly. "Go on."

Julian leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees and eyes locked onto Arthur’s gaze. "You are indeed a good family head arguably the best we’ve had since Grandfather Osborn: ruthless, visionary, efficient.

You’re why this family didn’t crumble after that accident; you turned things around during the debt crisis and protected our younger ones from those overseas vultures. Everyone owes you for that that’s undeniable."

Arthur remained silent.

"But here’s what you might be missing and I say this with love you’re confusing fear with loyalty and control with unity."

Arthur’s head snapped up in surprise. "What does that mean?"

"It means you’ve kept us afloat," Julian continued gently but firmly, "but you’ve also built walls around us a fortress rather than a home."

He paused for effect before adding softly, "You lead like a general during wartime... But what about now? What happens when there are no guns firing and people start remembering who they really are?"

Arthur clenched his jaw tightly.

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