Blackstone Code-Chapter 702: The Meeting

After watching Nail leave, Serra turned to Lynch. “Thank you for coming back. This was our fault…”

She fell silent. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

Money really is a powerful thing. If it had been the old Serra, she wouldn’t have had such complex thoughts or spoken this way. Money not only gave her a better life, but also refinement.

She had learned how to express things properly—like an apology.

Lynch held her hand and shook his head. “This was your mutual choice. I respect that. No one owes anyone anything. The fact that you gave me life is already the greatest gift. I have no right to expect an apology from you for your own decisions.”

Serra smiled and didn’t pursue the topic. She changed the subject. “You’re not in a hurry to leave too, are you?”

“No. I’ll stay a couple of days.”

“Perfect. I suddenly feel like cooking. I want to make you something.”

She didn’t say the rest—there wouldn’t be many chances like this again.

She had already made breakfast for Nail that morning—their last breakfast.

Back home, Serra instructed the maid to prepare ingredients for dinner and declined a few social invitations. Right now, she just wanted some peace.

The seemingly uneventful divorce had still left her shaken.

That afternoon, mother and son watched TV and chatted casually about ordinary things.

At 5 p.m., Serra changed into an apron and entered the kitchen.

Lynch helped her out.

“I haven’t cooked dinner myself in a long time,” she said, skillfully handling the utensils. “Sometimes it all feels like a dream, like none of this is real.”

Dinner is the most important and elaborate meal of the day in the Federation. Many people eat toast for breakfast and lunch and spend the whole day waiting for dinner to really enjoy themselves.

From around 5 p.m., women who don’t work begin preparing dinner, often starting with a sauce made from tomatoes and onions.

Once cooked down, part of the sauce is used as a base for steak; the rest is mixed with water and other ingredients to make all kinds of soups.

To a Federal housewife, nothing can’t be fixed with a stew. If it can’t—just add more tomatoes and onions.

As the familiar yet distant smell filled the air, Lynch was taken back. This was what home used to smell like after school.

A scorched, blackened pot sat on a blackened stove. The color wasn’t dirt—it was permanent.

Inside, tomato soup simmered with onions, carrots, and potatoes.

If it was payday, there’d be some ground beef and mushrooms, and maybe a bit of seasoning.

Back then, he’d just wait until around 7:30 for Nail to get back from the factory, and then they could eat.

He and Serra usually had fried eggs and scraps of meat. Nail got a full sirloin steak—he was the head of the house and the breadwinner, so he deserved the best.

As for Lynch and Serra, they would wipe the tomato-onion sauce from the bottom of the pot with rock-hard dinner rolls, eating it with the scraps.

The sauce was a little sour, a little sweet—it softened the rolls. It could choke you if you weren’t careful, but a sip of that sour tomato-onion-potato-carrot soup made everything feel okay.

It felt warm. Maybe that’s how kids understand the word home.

But only adults know—it’s really just life.

Just past six, mother and son sat at the table. Dinner was ready. When the steak was brought out, Serra took off her apron, wiped her hands on it out of habit, and set it aside.

“Hope my cooking hasn’t gone downhill…” She placed the steak on Lynch’s plate and poured tomato-onion sauce over it.

The sauce wasn’t bright red as people might imagine. After stewing, it turned yellowish, with a rich aroma and a tangy scent.

Sourness meant freshness and health. That’s a common belief in the Federation. When people ask if a fruit is fresh, they usually mean: is it sweet enough—or sour enough?

Lynch said thank you, cut a piece of steak, dipped it in the sauce, and took a bite.

The tomatoes had completely melted. The onions had simmered down to a soft texture that was barely noticeable. The sauce was tangy with a hint of sweetness and some seasoning, but those two main flavors stood out.

They perfectly balanced the faint metallic taste of the rare steak. Whether it was myoglobin or blood, it still had that slight gamey flavor—which the tanginess neutralized and made more appetizing.

“Not bad. Just like the old days,” Lynch said genuinely. “Very good.”

“That’s your grandfather’s secret recipe,” Serra smiled. Every family’s sauce had its own “heritage.” She looked at Lynch meaningfully. “I wonder when I’ll get to pass this ‘secret’ on to someone else?”

“That’s a bit personal. I’m not planning to get married anytime soon.”

“Sorry…” Serra apologized for the abrupt question. “Honestly, it’s good to wait a bit. You’ll have more choices that way…”

They were eating when a visitor came—an unusual time for a visit.

The maid stood outside the dining room, a bit nervous. “It’s Mr. Corman…”

Serra looked slightly surprised. The maid looked awkward. Lynch was curious. “Mr. Corman… do I know him?”

Serra looked a little embarrassed. “He’s my fitness trainer. He’s pursuing me.” She glanced at Lynch. “Do you want to meet him?”

Lynch hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

Soon, Corman entered.

He looked decent—fit, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist.

In this era where fitness was in fashion, people had learned the beauty standards of bodybuilding—like a bear’s back and a wasp’s waist.

Corman had the kind of physique that matched the era’s ideals of physical beauty.

He had ash-blond hair and looked to be in his thirties. His expression was friendly and not unpleasant.

While Lynch was sizing him up, the fitness coach was also examining Lynch. He quickly recognized him. “My God, is that Mr. Lynch?”

He turned to Serra as he spoke. Her face showed pride and satisfaction. “This is my son.”

With Corman joining them, dinner ended quickly. The three moved to the living room, and Serra excused herself to make tea, leaving the two men alone.

Corman grew uneasy. The silence felt heavy, and he shifted in his seat. “I didn’t know about your relationship with Serra. She mentioned you, but never your name. I’m honestly a bit shocked…”

To Corman, it was like buying a random lottery ticket and hitting the jackpot. Serra being Lynch’s mother—this was the surprise of a lifetime. With this connection, he could reach a whole new level of freedom. He was about to say more, but a look from Lynch shut him up.

In that instant, it felt like ice water had been dumped over his head. He broke into a cold sweat.

“No lies, no deception. However you treated this relationship before—even if it was just acting—I want you to keep acting. And if you can keep it up for a lifetime, even better.”

Lynch’s tone was calm and cold, but the pressure in his words was immense.

He looked up at Corman. “I don’t care if you lied to her before. But from now on, you don’t. Understand—I’m a rich man.”

That one phrase made Corman swallow hard. In the Federation, you could offend the president, gangs, or politicians—but not the rich.

Inside or outside the system, the wealthy always had ways to make someone’s life hell.

Serra seemed to truly like this man, so the story needed a happy ending. This was what Lynch could do for her.

Corman sobered up quickly. He lowered his head, clearly nervous. “I think I understand, Mr. Lynch…”

“You don’t understand,” Lynch interrupted. “As long as Serra isn’t tired of you, you will keep playing this role. Say goodbye to your past.”

“I’ll find you something to do—enough to maintain a respectable life. All you’ll have to give up is a part of your freedom. Got it?”

Corman didn’t just have one ambiguous relationship. Being a personal trainer—especially to wealthy housewives—was a job full of unspoken rules.

The competition was fierce. Every trainer had their own tactics to hold onto clients.

Corman had read somewhere that love was the best way to keep a woman feeling excited about life. It worked—until now.

The room fell quiet. Lynch watched TV. Corman sat in silence, thinking hard about his future.