Chapter 143
Serena
Arthur stared at me for a long moment. His lips parted. His eyes were suspiciously bright.
Then he pulled me into a hug—sudden and fierce and completely unexpected.
"Serena," he said, his voice thick. "You—this is—"
He pulled back, gripping my shoulders, and I could see actual tears in his eyes.
"Your grandfather would be so proud," he said. "So impossibly proud. To see you standing here, honoring our friendship like this—"
He shook his head, then turned to address the room, his voice carrying that unmistakable authority of old money.
"I know Peter is watching from somewhere, celebrating that our families are together again." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "From this day forward, Serena Vance is a treasured guest of the Lawson family."
The applause started slowly. One person. Then two. Then the entire room erupted in approval.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, beneath the shock and gratitude, a cold calculation clicked into place.
Well.
Three million lost—but the entrance ticket to their world?
Priceless.
I glanced over at Lance.
He had his hand pressed to his forehead in an exaggerated gesture of relief, like he'd just watched me defuse a bomb. But his mouth—his mouth was curved in a smile he couldn't quite suppress.
Show-off, his expression said. You magnificent, terrifying show-off.
I bit back a grin.
Felix, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to murder me. His jaw was clenched so hard I was worried he'd crack a tooth. Under his breath, barely audible, I heard him mutter:
"What the fuck. Absolute performance. Unbelievable."
I chose to take that as a compliment.
The crowd was beginning to disperse now, people moving toward the exit, already pulling out phones to spread the news of what they'd just witnessed. Arthur was shaking hands, accepting congratulations, looking more energized than I'd seen him all evening.
I was just starting to breathe normally again—starting to believe I'd actually pulled this off—when the gallery doors slammed open.
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
A man stood in the doorway. Leather jacket. Disheveled hair. The kind of stubble that suggested chronic poor decisions rather than intentional style. His eyes were wild, darting around the room until they landed on the painting.
Then on me.
"WHO THE FUCK," he shouted, his voice carrying across the now-silent gallery, "IS SELLING MY MOTHER'S PAINTING?"
Oh no.
Oh no no no—
"That painting was STOLEN!" He jabbed a finger toward the canvas. "Conned away from her! This entire sale is illegal!"
The room, which had been moving toward the exits, froze. Every head turned. First to him. Then to me.
I felt my stomach drop through the floor.
I didn't recognize him. Had never seen him before. But I knew—with horrible, sinking certainty—exactly who he was.
Beatrice had two sons. One had settled in London years ago and never came back—had cut ties with the family entirely. The other was a wastrel who'd never held a real job in his life and survived on the family name.
Raymond.
The gambling addict. The perpetual disappointment. One of the reasons Beatrice needed money so desperately in the first place.
And from the look on his face, he was here to make my life a living hell.
"Well, well," Felix's voice cut through the tension, smooth as silk. "If it isn't Raymond Ashford. Lady Beatrice's son."
He moved toward the man with an expression of concern so perfectly crafted it made me want to scream.
"The painting does belong to your mother," Felix continued. "No one's disputing that. But you mentioned—" he paused delicately, "—you said something about it being conned away? Stolen?"
His eyes found mine, and the satisfaction in them was unmistakable.
"That's a very serious accusation. Very serious indeed. But—" he spread his hands, "—we're all here. We can help sort this out. Get to the truth."
Fuck.
He'd planned this. Somehow, impossibly, Felix had orchestrated this entire disaster. Had known about Raymond. Had probably contacted him. Had set him loose like a grenade with the pin already pulled.
I felt Arthur's hand on my shoulder, confused and concerned. "Serena? What's he talking about?"
I patted his hand, keeping my voice steady through sheer force of will. "Don't worry. This is just a misunderstanding. I'll clear it up."
I stepped away from Arthur, my heels clicking against the marble floor as I walked toward Raymond. Every eye in the gallery followed my movement.
"You're making baseless accusations," I said, my voice carrying clearly. "I entered into a completely legitimate transaction with Lady Beatrice yesterday. We have a contract. Signed documentation. Everything was done properly and legally."
I stopped a few feet away from him, close enough to see the desperation in his bloodshot eyes.
"Unless you think I forged her signature?" I raised an eyebrow. "Because I assure you, everything is in order."
Raymond's mouth curved into a smile that made my skin crawl.
"Oh, there's a contract," he said. "Absolutely. All signed and official-looking."
He took a step closer, and I could smell the alcohol on his breath.
"But here's the thing, sweetheart—" his voice dripped with malicious satisfaction, "—my mother is mentally incompetent. Has been for years. Diagnosed. Documented. Under psychiatric care."
The room went absolutely silent.
"Which means—" Raymond's smile widened, "—any contract she signed is legally worthless. Null and void. She doesn't have the mental capacity to enter into binding agreements."
He gestured at the painting with a theatrical flourish.
"That painting belongs to ME. I'm her legal guardian. Her conservator. And this entire sale—" he looked around the room, making sure everyone heard his next words, "—is completely, irreversibly INVALID."
The floor felt like it was tilting beneath my feet.