Chapter 127
Serena
I sank back into my seat, forcing myself to stay calm even as my pulse spiked. This was it. The moment I either closed the deal or lost everything. "No," I said simply. "I'm here to act as a middleman. I'll manage the sale, authenticate the piece, and find a private buyer. But I won't be purchasing it myself."
Beatrice stared at me like I'd just suggested she set her own house on fire. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening, and when she spoke again, her voice was low and venomous. "You're joking. You spent the last ten minutes spinning a fairy tale about a fifty-million-dollar transaction, and now you're telling me you don't even have a buyer lined up?"
I didn't flinch. Didn't apologize. I let her rage simmer, watching as her hands clenched around the armrests of her chair, her knuckles white. When she finally paused to draw breath, I spoke, my tone deliberate and unhurried.
"I don't have a buyer yet," I corrected. "But I will."
"Oh, will you?" She leaned forward, her eyes blazing. "Do you have any idea how insulting this is? Your grandfather—Peter Vance—when he wanted one of my pieces, he bought it outright. He didn't come crawling in here with some half-baked consignment scheme!"
I held her gaze, refusing to look away even as the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Her knuckles went whiter against the armrests, her voice rising with fresh indignation. "I may be old, Miss Vance, but I'm not senile. Why the hell should I trust you instead of Christie's? Or Sotheby's? Give me one damn good reason I shouldn't throw you out right now."
Finally. The opening I'd been waiting for.
"Because your painting is legally entangled," I said, my voice calm and precise. "It can't be auctioned publicly. It can't even be properly registered without triggering a court review. Christie's and Sotheby's won't touch it—not while it's tied up in litigation. The only way you can sell it is through a private firm."
I paused, watching her expression shift from fury to calculation.
"And most private firms don't have the expertise to authenticate a piece like this, let alone understand its true value. I'm guessing the best offer you've gotten so far is what? Ten million? Maybe twelve?"
Her expression flickered—just for a second—but it was enough. I'd hit the mark.
I rose from the settee, pacing slowly toward the window, my hands clasped behind my back. "But with a Vance Heritage authentication report and my personal guarantee, we can bypass the court's oversight entirely. And I can get you fifty million. Not ten. Not twenty. Fifty."
Beatrice's anger hadn't disappeared, but it was losing its edge, rationality creeping in like frost over glass. She didn't interrupt, so I pressed on.
"Your husband left his estate to your sons," I said, turning to face her. "You've been living off a fraction of what you're entitled to, and your lifestyle hasn't changed. A week of your spending habits costs—what? Thirty thousand? Forty?" I paused, letting the numbers sink in. "You're running out of money, Lady Beatrice. And you know it."
Her face paled. "How do you—"
"I make it my business to know my clients," I said, cutting her off. "Because that's the only way I can give them what they need."
I crossed the room, closing the distance between us until I was standing directly in front of her chair. My voice dropped, low and firm, every word a nail driven into place. "Forty-eight hours. I'll liquidate this painting for fifty million dollars, and I'll take an eight percent commission for emergency handling and authentication fees."
Beatrice's mouth opened, then closed. She looked like she wanted to argue, but the logic was airtight, and she knew it. Still, she wasn't ready to surrender entirely.
"Your grandfather's company," she said slowly, her voice tight. "It's not what it used to be. Vance Heritage's reputation has been slipping for years. Why should I trust you—a girl barely out of college—with a fifty-million-dollar asset when your firm could collapse at any moment?"
I didn't blink. Didn't hesitate. "Because you don't have a choice."
Her eyes widened, but I didn't let up.
"You need money," I said, my tone sharp as a scalpel. "And I'm the only person who can get you the price you deserve. If you don't act now, if you don't capitalize on this painting while you still can, your little empire is going to crumble. And when it does, all those women who hang on your every word? They'll turn on you in a heartbeat. Evelyn's already circling, Lady Beatrice. How long do you think it'll take her to swoop in and claim your spotlight?"
Beatrice's jaw tightened. For a long moment, she didn't speak, her gaze fixed on some point beyond my shoulder. And then, slowly, she exhaled.
"Fine," she said, her voice quiet but resolute. "Come to my estate. Tonight. We'll retrieve the painting." She paused, her eyes locking onto mine with the weight of a warning. "But you have forty-eight hours, Miss Vance. Not a second more."
I allowed myself the smallest of smiles. "That's all I need."