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Lynch had spent a considerable amount of time talking with the mayor, and it was clear that the mayor seemed to have reached some sort of decision.

In truth, the mayor was at a point where he couldn't afford not to make a decision. The shifting alliances within the Progressive Party, combined with the sweeping changes in the political environment, meant that in this tumultuous era, even the slightest misstep could leave him reeling from the slap of fate, cast aside by the very times he sought to lead.

In just two years, Sabin City would face another election. Though the mayor hadn't commissioned any polling firms to gauge public opinion, he knew his approval ratings wouldn't be high.

During the Great Strike, his performance wasn't terrible—better than many other local leaders, in fact—but it certainly wasn't stellar either. In reality, his actions hadn't lived up to the expectations he or his supporters had placed on him.

The strike had been quelled quickly enough, but in doing so, he'd made enemies—people who'd lost their jobs during the upheaval.

Of course, they hated their immediate supervisors and factory owners too, but there wasn't much they could do about it. They couldn't storm into someone's house or even their yard, armed with anything a judge might consider an "offensive weapon," cursing at them.

That kind of behavior would only get them shot—or worse. No, retaliation against those higher-ups was out of the question.

But they could retaliate against the mayor, and the method was simple: in the upcoming election, eighteen months away, they could simply refuse to vote for him.

It was a quiet, invisible form of revenge. No one would trace their names or information from the anonymous ballots. They needn't fear reprisals; they could simply sit back and watch as the mayor was unceremoniously booted out of office by his successor.

The mayor was painfully aware of how low his approval ratings were. His options were dwindling. He could either broker a deal before stepping down—a discreet transfer of power through backroom negotiations—and trade his mayoral position for a seat in the state legislature, where he could spend his days bickering with others until retirement.

Or he could try to win back public favor, guiding Sabin City out of its current struggles and positioning himself as the standout leader in a time of crisis. If successful, he could leverage that momentum to achieve something few ever did: leapfrogging from the mayor of a third-tier city straight into the House of Representatives.

And who knows? From there, he might climb even higher, perhaps joining an influential committee or securing a key position. He could still serve his country, contributing what little light and warmth he had left to offer.

Faced with the choice between a bleak future and a glittering one, taking a gamble now seemed like the only sensible move.

---

After leaving Mark's villa, Lynch didn't return home. Instead, he went straight to his parents' house.

His mother, Sella, was both surprised and delighted by his visit. There was something different about her—something that made her seem almost unrecognizable.

In the past, Sella had been the quintessential homemaker: timid, worn down by life, and perpetually shuttling between the kitchen and living room. Her afternoons, when she wasn't washing clothes, were her only moments of respite. She was meek, numb, and simple—adjectives that once defined her perfectly. But not anymore.

Now, she wore expensive designer clothes, had styled her hair, and applied makeup that made her look years younger.

"You didn't say you were coming," she said, taking the bag from Lynch's hand and handing it off to a servant to hang in the coat closet.

She linked arms with him and led him into the living room, where they sat on an elegant sofa.

"Tell the cook we'll need dinner for one more," she instructed the maid smoothly. "Use the best ingredients and make something delicious…"

Watching her, Lynch felt a mix of emotions—nostalgia, admiration, and perhaps a touch of disbelief.

If he were being brutally honest (though it might sound disrespectful), this woman had spent over three decades learning to fear life itself. Yet in just a few short months, she'd transformed into someone who savored it. Such was the value, the power, and the allure of money.

"Should I call Nail and tell him to come back?" Sella asked warmly. "He should be at the construction site right now."

Many of Lynch's company's construction projects were contracted to Nail's firm. They handled what they could themselves and subcontracted the rest to qualified companies.

Of course, the construction company was technically owned by Lynch through a network of third-party holding companies. This arrangement saved costs and allowed him to funnel company profits into his own pocket.

Was it legal? Well, technically, no—but "illegal" wasn't quite the right word either. It existed in a gray area that the law hadn't fully addressed.

Lynch's majority-owned company paid slightly above market rate to hire another of Lynch's companies for various services. Everything was done by the book, and shareholders had no complaints. Sure, if exposed, it might raise eyebrows, but until then, no one would say a word.

As for Nail being Lynch's father and serving as the company's manager, under federal family culture, they were independent individuals beyond their legal parent-child relationship.

It sounded ridiculous, but it was true.

The growing number of projects kept Nail busy, shuttling between networking events and construction sites, seemingly enjoying every moment of his new life.

Lynch glanced at his watch and shook his head. "No need. He should be back in an hour."

His words carried weight. Even though he was Sella's son, she respected his judgment—not just because of their familial bond, but because Lynch was rich. That was the cold, hard reality.

They watched TV and chatted, expecting Nail to return early. But as the clock ticked from six o'clock to nearly nine, he still hadn't shown up.

Sella tried calling several times, but couldn't reach him. In this era of limited mobile communication, if someone didn't actively seek contact, they were effectively unreachable.

When Nail finally walked through the door, he reeked of alcohol. Spotting Lynch on the sofa, his expression stiffened. A jolt of clarity snapped him out of his drunken haze, followed immediately by a wave of nervousness.

"Come to the study. We need to talk," Lynch said, rising from the sofa and heading upstairs.

Nail had set up a study in his new home—a space meant to exude sophistication. As he turned to follow Lynch, he shot a glance back at Sella, his lips trembling slightly before he reluctantly ascended the stairs.

Upstairs, Lynch stood by the study door, waiting. Once Nail entered, Lynch closed the door behind them and took a seat at the desk—the spot where Nail usually sat.

"I don't care to pry into your personal life," Lynch began, "but the distinct scent of perfume clinging to you makes it clear that the hours I waited weren't spent furthering the company's interests. You were cavorting with a woman. I'm disappointed."

Just as the door clicked shut, a faint whiff of perfume had caught Lynch's attention. As someone well-versed in such matters, he could easily distinguish between fragrances marketed to men and those designed for women.

There was no mistaking it—Nail carried the subtle aroma of a feminine scent. In a society dominated by traditional masculinity, where tolerance for anything outside the norm was virtually nonexistent, no man would willingly wear women's perfume unless he wanted to ostracize himself entirely.

Faced with Lynch's accusation, Nail's first instinct was to apologize. "I didn't know you were coming today…"

He neither denied nor defended himself, confirming Lynch's suspicions.

Lynch studied him. Memories of this man's flaws lingered in his mind—his patriarchal attitudes, his arrogance. Now, despite appearing contrite, Nail's life remained tethered to Lynch's control. Without Lynch—or if the construction company truly belonged to him outright—he might have turned out differently.

After a pause, Lynch shook his head. "Your private life is your business. If you choose to fool around with other women, so be it. But you'll bear the consequences of your actions."

"However," he continued, his tone firm, "let me make one thing clear: you can fool around, but you are not to marry any of them. I don't want my money—while it's still worth something—divided among outsiders."

"No marriages. No illegitimate children."

Under federal law, in the absence of a will, illegitimate children had the same rights to inheritance as legitimate ones. This was why countless lawsuits over paternity and estates played out in courts every year.

Nail's house, his savings, even his shares in the company—if an illegitimate child entered the picture, it would complicate everything.

After delivering this stern warning, Lynch paused briefly before continuing. "I've decided to send you to Nagalier."

The statement jolted Nail awake. "You're exiling me to Nagalier just because I got drunk and cheated once? I didn't even sleep with her!"

"It has nothing to do with your infidelity," Lynch replied calmly. "I'm building roads there, and you'll oversee the project."

Nail still struggled to believe him. "It sounds like a tyrant banishing someone he dislikes: ‘You're exiled.'"

"If that's how you want to interpret it, fine. Think of it however you like."

"I don't care what you think," Lynch pressed on. "By July at the latest, you and your team must be on the move. Time is not on our side."

Nail knew resistance was futile. With a resigned sigh, he asked, "How long will I be gone? When can I come back?"

Lynch shook his head. "I don't know. It depends on progress. We're aiming to secure highway networks in one or two provinces—think of them as states. Maybe more. Realistically, you won't be back for three to five years."

Nail's focus wasn't on the timeline. Instead, he frowned and asked, "Are people in Nagalier really that wealthy? I've seen reports—they're poor. Where will they get the money to build roads?"

Lynch pulled out a cigarette, placing it between his lips, and flicked open his lighter.

With a soft click, the flame ignited. He glanced at Nail across the desk. "I'm lending it to them."

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