Chapter 144
Serena
I'd prepared for a dozen different attacks. For Raymond to claim the painting was sold under duress. For him to demand a higher price. For him to threaten legal action over the sale terms.
But mental incompetence?
Psychiatric commitment?
I hadn't seen that coming.
"Seriously?" The word came out sharper than I intended. "Your mother is mentally ill? The same woman who's been at the center of New York society for forty years? Who hosts salons that half the people in this room have attended?"
I gestured at the crowd, my voice rising. "Lady Beatrice is one of the sharpest minds I've ever encountered. She's seventy years old and has the mental acuity of someone half her age. And you—her own son—you're standing here trying to paint her as incompetent?"
My voice cracked with genuine outrage. "What kind of person does that to their own mother?"
Raymond's smile didn't waver. "I'm not arguing with you about her past. I'm telling you about her present. My mother is currently in a psychiatric facility. Has been for the last twenty-four hours."
He pulled out his phone with a theatrical flourish, swiping to a photo and holding it up for the room to see.
The image showed a woman in a hospital gown—the institutional kind, pale blue and shapeless. The lighting was dim, the angle deliberately obscuring, but the silver hair was unmistakable.
Beatrice.
The gallery erupted.
"Oh my God, is that really—"
"A psychiatric hospital? When did this—"
"If she's actually been committed, then the contract is void. There's no question—"
"I heard she'd been acting strangely lately—"
"Do you think the Vance girl knew? Did she take advantage of—"
"This is fraud. This has to be fraud—"
The voices were overlapping now, speculation feeding on itself, growing louder and more accusatory with each passing second.
I grabbed Raymond's phone before he could pull it back, zooming in on the image with shaking hands.
It was Beatrice. No question. But something was wrong with the photo. The lighting was too harsh on one side, too shadowed on the other. Like it had been taken in a hurry. Or under duress.
And her hands—
"What the hell are these?" I turned the phone toward the crowd, pointing at Beatrice's wrists. "Look at her hands. Those are restraint marks. Fresh ones."
The red welts were visible even in the poor lighting, circling both wrists like angry bracelets.
"Beatrice is fastidious about her appearance," I said, my voice cutting through the murmurs. "She gets weekly manicures. Uses hand cream that costs more than most people's rent. She would never—never—allow marks like this unless—"
I turned on Raymond, fury overriding caution.
"Unless someone forced her into that hospital. Against her will. Very recently."
The crowd's energy shifted slightly. Uncertainty creeping in where there had been condemnation.
Raymond's jaw tightened. "Those are—that's just from—she got agitated during intake. It's normal procedure when patients resist treatment—"
"Agitated," I repeated flatly. "Or fighting back?"
"If you don't believe me—" Felix's voice cut smoothly through the tension, and I felt my stomach drop at his tone. Too helpful. Too eager. "—why don't you call her? Speak to her directly?"
He moved closer, his smile sharp. "Psychiatric symptoms are quite apparent over the phone. Speech patterns. Confusion. Disorientation. A simple conversation will make the truth abundantly clear."
I reached for my phone, but before I could pull it out, I caught Lance's gaze across the room.
He was looking at me with an intensity that stopped me cold.
His expression was serious. Controlled. And he was shaking his head—just slightly, just enough for me to see.
Don't.
The message was clear. This was a trap. Whatever was about to happen on that call, it would only make things worse.
But then I looked at Arthur.
His expression had shifted from excitement to worry to something that looked almost like disappointment. Like he was starting to believe Raymond's story. Like he was wondering if I'd known all along. If I'd deliberately conned him.
The man who'd just hugged me. Who'd invoked my grandfather's memory with tears in his eyes. Who'd been ready to pay eighty million dollars based on trust—
He was losing faith in me.
And I couldn't let that happen.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Beatrice's number.