Chapter 151
Wesley
The radio droned on as I navigated the late-night streets, each word a knife twisting deeper.
"—stunning acquisition by the Lawson family tonight. Arthur Lawson himself attended the private exhibition, purchasing the previously overlooked Monet piece for a reported fifty million dollars—"
I reached for the dial. Stopped.
"—Vance Heritage, the company founded by the late Peter Vance, has been resurrected by his granddaughter Serena Vance, a Yale graduate who—"
My knuckles went white on the steering wheel.
"—sources say the young art dealer has received the personal endorsement of Arthur Lawson himself, a seal of approval that opens doors to Manhattan's most exclusive circles—"
Click.
Silence flooded the car, but it didn't help. The words kept echoing in my head.
Serena Vance. Yale genius. Five million dollar sale. Arthur Lawson's endorsement.
The same Serena who'd spent three years with me. Three years of being my dirty little secret, my "not quite ready to introduce to the family" girlfriend, my convenient plus-one when I needed someone who'd make me look good without demanding too much.
Back then, she'd been... what? Background noise. A nice enough accessory. Someone to fuck when I was bored.
And now?
Now she was selling million-dollar paintings. Earning the respect of New York's elite. Building an empire from ashes.
All with my uncle.
My fucking uncle.
The thought made bile rise in my throat. Because the worst part—the part that made me want to put my fist through the windshield—was that she hadn't changed. She'd always been brilliant. Always been capable. Always been more than I deserved.
I just hadn't bothered to notice.
Too busy drinking with Vanessa's crowd. Too busy playing the part of the disappointing Lawson heir. Too busy being exactly what everyone expected—a privileged failure coasting on his family name.
And Lance? Lance had seen what I'd missed. Seen the potential. Seen the value.
Seen her.
My phone buzzed. Vanessa's name flashed on the screen.
I almost didn't answer. Almost let it go to voicemail like I had for the past week. But something—spite, maybe, or the desire to burn every bridge I'd been clinging to—made me pick up.
"Where are you?" Her voice was bright, slightly slurred. "We're at the club. Everyone's asking about you!"
Background noise filtered through—laughter, music, the clink of expensive glasses. I recognized the sounds. Had lived for them, once. The Friday night ritual where I'd show up, buy rounds, entertain Vanessa's friends with self-deprecating stories about how my uncle controlled my trust fund.
The performing monkey routine.
"You guys have fun," I said, keeping my voice flat. "I'm busy."
Silence. Then—
"What the fuck did you just say?"
In the old days—last week, even—I would have backtracked. Would have laughed it off, apologized, promised I'd be there in twenty minutes with my credit card ready.
"I said I'm busy. You heard me."
"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" Her voice went shrill. "Wesley, my friends are here. Cameron and Britt and the whole group. They're expecting—"
"Expecting what?" The words came out sharper than I'd intended. "Expecting me to show up and pay for everyone's drinks? Expecting me to tell funny stories about being the family disappointment while you all laugh?"
"Don't you dare—"
"Or maybe they're expecting me to do that thing you love so much." The memory made my stomach turn. "Where I pretend to slip and spill drinks on myself. Where I play the clumsy idiot so your friends can feel better about their own pathetic lives."
Her sharp intake of breath told me I'd hit the mark.
"You know what you are, Vanessa?" I continued, surprised by how calm I sounded. How done I felt. "You're exactly like everyone else who's ever looked at me. You see a wallet. A name. A punching bag who's too stupid or too desperate to walk away."
"Fuck you!" Her voice cracked with genuine anger now. "You think you're so much better than us? You're nothing, Wesley! Without your family money, without your uncle's charity, you're absolutely nothing—"
"You're right." The admission should have hurt. Instead, it felt like lancing a wound. "I am nothing. I've been nothing for years. Playing your games, taking your shit, letting everyone treat me like a joke." I pulled up to a red light, watched my reflection in the rearview mirror. "But I'm done being nothing."
"What the fuck are you even talking about? Did you take something? Are you high—"
"I'm talking about the fact that I'm never going to grovel for your attention again. Never going to beg you to include me in your plans. Never going to play the pathetic boyfriend who's so grateful for scraps that he'll humiliate himself for your entertainment."
"My father—" she started, the threat implicit.
"I don't give a fuck about your father." The words felt like freedom. "In fact, if I'm being honest? I don't give a fuck about you either. Not anymore."
"You can't—"
"And just so we're clear?" I smiled at my reflection—cold, unfamiliar. "When I do find someone worth my time? I won't be groveling. Won't be hiding. Won't be treating her like an embarrassment." My voice dropped. "I'll be putting her first. The way she deserves."
"Wesley, if you hang up this phone—"
I hung up.
For a moment, I just sat there, phone in hand, waiting for the panic to hit. The regret. The desperate need to call back and apologize.
It didn't come.
Instead, I felt... lighter. Cleaner. Like I'd been carrying around someone else's expectations for so long that I'd forgotten what it felt like to breathe without that weight.
The GPS announced my destination was ahead. I pulled into the industrial district, the buildings dark and abandoned-looking. Found the address Felix had texted me.