Chapter 13
Serena
The dress wasn't mine.
Chloe had insisted I borrow it—sapphire blue silk that skimmed my body like water, the kind of piece that whispered old money instead of screaming it. She'd paired it with her Louboutins, the classic nude pumps with that signature red sole, and spent twenty minutes pinning my hair into something that looked effortless but probably cost five hundred dollars at a salon.
"You're going to war," she'd said, fastening a delicate gold necklace at my throat. "Dress accordingly."
Now, standing in the entrance hall of the Frick Collection at two-thirty on a Sunday afternoon, I understood what she meant.
The museum was nearly empty. Just a handful of tourists wandering the galleries, their hushed voices swallowed by high ceilings and Renaissance oil paintings. Perfect. Eleanor Lloyd-Lawson valued privacy above almost everything—I'd learned that from three hours of research last night, cross-referencing social pages with legal journals and archived interviews.
She came here to escape. To sit with the Vermeers and remember a version of herself that existed before the Lawson family swallowed her whole.
I could work with that.
My heels clicked against marble as I made my way toward the West Gallery. The Vermeer room. Two paintings hung there—Mistress and Maid and Girl Interrupted at Her Music. Small, quiet, devastating in their intimacy. Every Sunday at three o'clock, Eleanor Lloyd-Lawson sat in the adjacent private study room for exactly two hours, contemplating women trapped in gilded cages.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
I positioned myself near Mistress and Maid, pretending to study the way Vermeer captured light falling across fabric. In reality, I was running through my opening lines, testing each one for weakness. Too desperate? Too familiar? Too—
"The letter always fascinates people."
I spun around.
Eleanor Lloyd-Lawson stood five feet away, elegant in a dove-gray suit that probably cost more than my semester tuition at Parsons. Mid-fifties, dark hair swept into a chignon, eyes that missed nothing. She gestured to the painting with one manicured hand.
"The letter in the maid's hand. Everyone speculates about what it says. Who it's from." Her smile was polite, professional. "But I think the real question is whether the mistress will have the courage to read it."
My heart was hammering. This wasn't how I'd planned it—I was supposed to approach her, not the other way around. But I forced myself to breathe, to smile, to slip into the role I'd rehearsed.
"Mrs. Lloyd-Lawson." I let recognition bloom across my face. "Oh my God, I didn't expect to see you here. Your lecture on fiduciary duty in family trusts at Columbia last spring—it was brilliant. Completely changed how I think about generational wealth transfer."
Her expression shifted. Surprise, then pleasure, then something more guarded. "You attended that lecture?"
"Twice, actually. I watched the recording again because your analysis of the Vanderbilt trust dissolution was..." I paused, letting genuine enthusiasm bleed through. "Well, it should be required reading for anyone dealing with old money families."
"That's very kind." She studied me more carefully now, her gaze sharpening. "I'm afraid I don't—"
"Serena Vance." I extended my hand. "I'm so sorry, I should have introduced myself. Running into you here is—it's such an honor."
The name registered. I watched her eyes widen fractionally, watched her posture shift into something more careful.
"Serena Vance," she repeated slowly. Then, with the kind of calculated courtesy that came from decades in high society: "You're Wesley's girlfriend."
"Ex-girlfriend." I kept my smile bright, unbothered. "As of Friday night, actually. Which is partly why I was hoping to speak with you. Though—" I laughed lightly, as if embarrassed. "This is probably the worst possible place to bring up business. You came here to enjoy the art, not deal with family drama."
"What kind of business?" The question came too quickly. She was interested, despite herself.
I lowered my voice, stepping closer. "The kind that might cure your most pressing headache. Give me five minutes of your time—somewhere private—and I can offer you a solution to a problem that's been keeping you up at night." I let my gaze drop to the faint shadows beneath her eyes. "You look exhausted, Mrs. Lloyd-Lawson. When was the last time you slept through the night without worrying about your father-in-law's latest scheme?"
Her face went very still.
I'd hit the nerve. Exactly as planned.
"How did you—"
"Serena."
The voice cut through the gallery like a knife.
Wesley.
Of course. Because the universe had a truly sick sense of humor.
I turned slowly, arranging my features into cool indifference. Wesley stood ten feet away, Vanessa clinging to his arm like a barnacle on a yacht. He looked hungover and furious, his jaw tight enough to crack teeth.
"What the hell are you doing here?" He stalked closer, radiating that particular brand of entitled rage only trust fund babies could master. "Did you seriously track down my family to—what? Beg Eleanor to convince me to take you back?"
Vanessa's laugh was like glass shattering. "Oh my God, this is pathetic. Look at her, Wesley. That dress is from three seasons ago. I literally saw it in a consignment shop in Tribeca last week." She wrinkled her nose. "And those shoes? Sweetie, you can't afford to be here. Maybe security should escort you out before you embarrass yourself further."
I didn't react. Didn't flinch. Instead, I glanced at Eleanor.
Her expression had shifted into something I recognized—that careful, neutral smile powerful people wore when they were being watched. She'd stepped back slightly, putting professional distance between us. Not hostile. Just... waiting.
Testing me.
If I couldn't handle Wesley and his blow-up doll, how could I possibly handle Arthur Lawson?
Fair enough.