Chapter 16
Serena
The Lawson Capital building rose from Wall Street like a gleaming blade of steel and glass—sixty-seven floors of pure architectural intimidation. Standing on the sidewalk at 7:42 AM, I tilted my head back to take it all in. Sunlight bounced off the mirrored panels, sharp enough to make my eyes water.
This was where empires were built. Where billion-dollar deals happened over coffee. Where Lance Lawson sat in his corner office on the thirtieth floor and moved chess pieces across the global economy.
And starting today, I worked here.
I pulled out my compact—a sleek silver case Chloe had insisted I borrow—and flipped it open. The woman staring back at me barely resembled the Serena Vance who'd existed a week ago. Tailored black Armani blazer, crisp white silk blouse, pencil skirt that hit just above the knee. Hair pulled into a low chignon. Minimal makeup—just enough to look polished, professional, untouchable.
But it was my eyes that caught me off guard.
They looked different. Sharper. Like someone had switched on a light I didn't know existed.
This is me, I thought, snapping the compact shut. This is my life now.
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and walked through the revolving doors.
---
The twenty-ninth floor was exactly what I'd expected—an open floor plan of glass-walled offices and sleek workstations. Everything was chrome and charcoal, clinical and expensive. The Strategic Acquisitions Division occupied the entire west wing, and the air smelled faintly of freshly brewed coffee and new money.
My supervisor, a woman named Patricia Lewis, met me at reception. Mid-forties, designer glasses, severe bob that screamed I don't have time for incompetence. She gave me a once-over that lasted exactly three seconds.
"Miss Vance." She didn't smile. "Follow me."
The onboarding process took fifteen minutes. NDAs signed. Security badge activated. Employee handbook received and immediately ignored. Patricia's voice was flat and efficient as she walked me through the basics—office hours, dress code, expense reports. All standard corporate theater.
Then she led me to my workstation.
The very last cubicle. Tucked into the far corner, next to the emergency exit and a humming copy machine. Barely big enough for a desk, a chair, and a dying pothos plant someone had abandoned.
"You'll be handling data organization," Patricia said, dumping a stack of folders onto my desk. "Filing, cross-referencing acquisition reports, updating spreadsheets. Basic archival work."
Translation: busy work. The kind of tasks they give people they want to forget about.
"Understood," I said evenly.
But I wasn't looking at Patricia anymore. My eyes had drifted across the open floor to the far end—where a massive glass-walled office dominated the corner like a throne room. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Minimalist furniture. A polished nameplate on the door that I could just barely make out from here:
Lance Lawson
Chief Executive Officer
My heart did something stupid in my chest.
He was right there. Same floor, opposite end of the division. Probably already at his desk, running the world before most people finished their first cup of coffee.
Heat crept up my neck. I forced myself to look away before anyone noticed.
"Questions?" Patricia's voice snapped me back.
"No." I pulled out my chair and sat down. "I'm good."
She left without another word.
I was still organizing the chaos on my desk when the whispers started.
"—heard she's a legacy hire—"
"—no experience, just showed up out of nowhere—"
"Probably sleeping with someone upstairs."
My jaw tightened. The voices came from the cluster of desks fifteen feet away—three analysts, early thirties, identical expressions of smug superiority. Two men, one woman. All of them watching me with the kind of casual cruelty that comes from feeling untouchable.
I could've ignored them. Should've ignored them.
But I was so goddamn tired of being quiet.
I stood up, turned to face them directly, and spoke loud enough that half the floor could hear.
"You should probably hope I'm incompetent." My voice was calm, almost pleasant. "Because if I'm not—if I turn out to be better than you—you might want to start updating your LinkedIn profiles."
Dead silence.
The woman's mouth fell open. One of the men actually flushed red.
I smiled sweetly, turned back to my desk, and got to work.
---
Forty minutes later, Patricia reappeared at my cubicle holding a coffee cup in one hand and a thick manila folder in the other.
"New girl," she said, not bothering with my name. "I need to run these up to the executive conference room. Thirtieth floor."
I stood immediately. "I'll carry the folder for you—that looks heavy."
"No." She thrust the coffee into my hands instead. "I'll handle the documents. You just bring this to Mr. Lawson. Don't spill it."
My pulse spiked.
The cup was warm against my palms. I stared at it for half a second, then back at Patricia.
She was already turning away. "He's particular about his coffee. Don't screw it up."