Dinner the previous night had been many things but eventful. Lancelot had retired to his room with his half empty bottle of vodka spirit. And he had drank all of it that night, right before falling asleep on the floor, right by his king-sized bed.
The pressure was too much for him. How did everyone expect him to fit into the huge shoes they had prepared for him. While half of the Dankworth family looked up to him, it was clear from yesterday's dinner that a greater half resented him and expected nothing but failure from him.
How was he to disappoint them all? He had been working, training and schooling towards this period for fourteen years of his life. Yet, it still felt as though he wasn't ready.
It was one thing to be born for power, it was another thing to be forced into acc
