Chapter 136
Serena
The East Gallery at the Frick felt like a cathedral built for mourning.
I stood at the entrance with Chloe, surveying the transformation I'd pulled off in a single night. The East Gallery—normally a sunlit shrine to Renaissance masters—had been gutted and rebuilt as something far more unsettling. Black velvet swallowed footsteps. Overhead lights dimmed to near-extinction. A single spotlight pierced the darkness, trained on the silk-draped canvas at the room's center.
The painting that would either resurrect my family's name or bury it for good.
Every three minutes, a deep, resonant bell tolled from hidden speakers. The sound didn't echo—it pressed into the silence, heavy and deliberate, like a heartbeat slowing toward its final stop.
No music. No ambient warmth. Just that relentless, funereal pulse.
"Jesus Christ, Serena." Chloe's voice was hushed, almost reverent. She turned in a slow circle, taking in the scattered chairs arranged in a semicircle facing the veiled canvas, the security guards positioned like pallbearers along the perimeter. "This isn't an art show. This is a performance."
I tried to smile, but my hands were trembling. "You think it's too much?"
"Too much?" She laughed, sharp and incredulous. "Babe, people are going to walk in here and feel like they're attending their own funeral. It's perfect." She grabbed my shoulders, forcing me to meet her eyes. "The people who show up today are not going to forget this. I promise you that."
I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to believe her. But the weight of what I'd set in motion—the invitations sent to every name that mattered in this city, the carefully worded provocations leaked to social media, the gamble that anyone would care about a bankrupt family's last-ditch attempt at relevance—it all sat like a stone in my chest.
"I don't know if this is going to work," I admitted, my voice barely audible over the next toll of the bell. "What if no one comes? What if they come and leave? What if—"
"Are you kidding me right now?" Chloe cut me off, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Serena, your targeted anonymous messaging campaign has turned this into the hottest ticket in New York. Do you have any idea how many DMs I've gotten asking if I can get them in? The question isn't whether people will show up." She paused, grinning wickedly. "The question is whether this room can hold them all without collapsing."
As if on cue, the gallery doors burst open.
Dr. Harrison stormed in, flanked by a small army of museum security personnel. His usually composed demeanor had frayed at the edges—his tie was slightly askew, his breathing labored as though he'd sprinted across the building. But when he spotted me, his face broke into a wide, exhilarated grin.
"Serena!" He waved, then immediately pivoted to the guards. "Situation's changed. We've got a flood incoming. Double the security on the perimeter. Station two at each entrance. No one gets within three feet of that painting without clearance. And for God's sake, make sure the fire exits are accessible—if this goes sideways, I don't want a stampede on my hands."
The guards scattered, moving with military precision. My stomach dropped.
"Harrison, what are you—"
"Brace yourself," he said, still grinning like a man who'd just won the lottery. "Half of New York's elite is about to walk through that door."
I barely had time to process his words before the doors opened again—and this time, they didn't close.
They came in waves.
First, the Hollands. Marcus Holland himself, his wife Evelyn on his arm, both dressed in funeral blacks that screamed we belong here. Behind them, a cluster of society figures I recognized from tabloid spreads—gallery owners, philanthropists, the kind of people who treated art openings like competitive sport.
Then the Lloyds. Thomas Lloyd—patrician features, steel-gray suit—led a contingent of sharp-suited lawyers and their meticulously groomed spouses, moving through the room with the quiet authority of a man who'd built a career on discretion and leverage.
Politicians. Financiers. Collectors whose names I'd only ever seen in auction catalogs.
And then—
My breath caught.
Lance.
He stood framed in the doorway, and for a moment, the rest of the room ceased to exist. He was dressed in a black three-piece suit so perfectly tailored it might as well have been armor, the fabric catching the dim light as he moved. His expression was calm, controlled, but his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—found mine immediately, and something in them softened just enough to make my pulse stutter.
He wasn't alone.
Arthur Lawson leaned heavily on Lance's arm, moving with the deliberate slowness of a man who knew every eye in the room was on him. The crowd parted instinctively, creating a path as though royalty had arrived. Behind them, Felix trailed like a shadow, flanked by two unfamiliar men—one tanned and confident, the other blond and eager, both clearly desperate to impress.
The room settled into a tense, expectant silence as they made their way toward the front row. But instead of sitting, Lance steered Arthur directly toward me.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Lance stopped a few feet away, his expression shifting into something that might have been approval. He extended his hand, his voice low and smooth.
"Miss Vance. Well done." His gaze flicked briefly to the draped painting, then back to me. "You've managed to drag my grandfather out of his fortress. That's no small feat."