Chapter 115
Serena
The warmth drained from the room so fast I could have sworn the temperature dropped ten degrees. Robert's face went slack, his hand frozen halfway to the contract he'd been explaining moments before. The shift was instant, brutal—from mentor offering salvation to man caught in a trap he hadn't seen coming.
"Henry," he said slowly, carefully, like someone trying to reason with a man holding a loaded gun. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Henry didn't answer him. His eyes were locked on me, cold and final, the kind of look that said the decision had already been made somewhere above both our heads. "Ms. Vance, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
The words hit like a slap. My fingers tightened on the edge of the document I'd been reviewing—the perfect, reasonable, legitimate loan that had felt like a lifeline thirty seconds ago. Now it was just paper. Worthless.
"Wait." My voice came out sharper than I intended. "What just happened? Henry, right? Why would your boss suddenly terminate my loan?"
Robert stood, his chair scraping back. "Henry, you'd better have a damn good explanation for this. The boss doesn't give a shit about the Vance family. He cares about profit. This deal is solid—"
"The boss doesn't care," Henry interrupted, and there was something almost amused in his tone now, a cruel little twist at the corner of his mouth. "But he has a friend who cares very much."
The implication landed like a stone in my gut. A friend. Someone with enough pull to override a ten-million-dollar loan on a whim. Someone who wanted to see me fail badly enough to make calls, pull strings, ensure every door slammed in my face.
I didn't need to ask who. The list of people with that kind of power and motivation was exactly one name long.
Felix.
My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. I refused to let the shock show on my face, refused to give Henry the satisfaction of seeing me crumble. "Well," I said, forcing my voice steady, "this is your loss, not mine. I'll find another bank. No one's going to stop my company from rising."
Henry laughed. Actually laughed, a low, condescending sound that made my skin crawl. "Oh, I forgot to mention. As of right now, no bank is going to take your calls. From what I understand, your company has about a week before the cash flow problem becomes a bankruptcy problem. Good luck with that."
Fuck.
The word exploded in my head, sharp and vicious, but I bit it back. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Instead, I turned to Robert, whose face had gone pale with something that looked like genuine distress. "Thank you for trying," I said quietly. "I appreciate what you were willing to do."
"Serena—" He reached into his jacket, pulled out a checkbook. "Let me give you something. Ten thousand. Personal loan, no strings. Consider it repayment for what your grandfather did for me—"
"No." I cut him off gently, but firmly. "I appreciate the offer, Robert. Really. But I don't need charity. I'll figure this out." I managed a smile, small but real. "When I do—when my company's thriving and we throw a celebration—I'll make sure you're the first person I invite."
Henry snorted. "A celebration? For a company that's about to go under?"
Robert didn't laugh. Didn't even glance at Henry. Instead, he stood, walked around the desk, and bowed—actually bowed, a deep, formal gesture that felt like something out of another era. "I'll be there," he said quietly. "I promise."
The sincerity in his voice cracked something inside me, but I held it together. Nodded. Turned and walked out of that gleaming conference room with my head high, even as the walls seemed to close in around me.
---
The street outside was loud, chaotic, the usual Manhattan symphony of honking cabs and shouted conversations. I stood on the curb, phone in hand, pulling up the list of contacts Grayson had given me. Other banks. Private investors. Anyone who might take a chance on a twenty-two-year-old CEO with a company that was bleeding cash.
The first three calls went straight to voicemail. The fourth rang twice before someone picked up and immediately hung up. The fifth didn't even ring—just a dead line, like I'd been blocked before I could finish dialing.
By the eighth attempt, my face was hot, my jaw tight, frustration building like steam in a pressure cooker. I wanted to scream, to hurl my phone into the street and watch it shatter. Instead, I shoved it into my bag and exhaled hard, trying to calm the rage simmering under my skin.
I needed coffee. Or wine. Or maybe just Chloe, who would let me vent without judgment and then tell me to get my shit together in the bluntest possible terms.
I was pulling out my phone to text her when a sleek black car pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down, and Vincent's familiar voice drifted out, warm and faintly amused. "Ms. Vance! Where are you headed? Need a ride?"