Chapter 24
Serena
The hallway went deadly silent. Every single person who'd been watching—the employees who'd whispered about me, the analysts who'd smirked at my alleged scandal-mongering—froze.
Patricia's face drained of color. "What?"
The word came out strangled. Disbelieving.
Lance's eyes shifted to her. Gray-blue. Arctic.
"Did I stutter, Patricia?"
His voice could have flash-frozen nitrogen.
Patricia's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again like a fish gasping on a dock. "No, sir. I—I just—"
"You've made consecutive errors in judgment over the past forty-eight hours." Lance's tone remained flat, clinical. Each syllable a scalpel. "First, the coffee incident. Now this. Either your judgment is fundamentally compromised, or you're deliberately wasting company resources. Which is it?"
"Sir, I—" Patricia's hands twisted together. "This was a test. I was testing her capabilities—"
"A test?"
The word cracked through the air like a whip.
Lance took one step forward. Patricia actually flinched.
"You assigned clerical work—tasks that could be automated by entry-level AI—to someone whose internship report at Christie's evaluated a thirty-million-dollar Rubens?" His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. "Miss Vance spent six months authenticating Renaissance masterpieces for one of the world's most prestigious auction houses. And you had her proofreading photocopier lease invoices?"
My heart stuttered.
Fuck.
He knew. He'd looked up my resume. My internship. He'd actually—
"That's not testing capabilities, Patricia." Lance's gaze remained fixed on her, unblinking. "That's incompetence masquerading as management."
Patricia's face went from white to crimson. "Mr. Lawson, I assure you—"
"You're dismissed."
Two words. Absolute finality.
Patricia's eyes went wide. "Sir—"
"This conversation is over." Lance didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. "Return to your desk. We'll discuss your continued employment later."
The threat hung in the air like smoke.
Patricia backed away, her face a mask of humiliation and barely suppressed rage. As she retreated, her eyes found mine for one brief, venomous second.
This isn't over, that look said. You're going to pay for this.
I didn't care.
Because my entire world had just tilted sideways.
Hell. Heaven. Hell. Heaven.
Lance Lawson was fucking with my head, and he knew it. First, he'd let me believe he was siding with his family—let me stand there drowning in whispers and judgment—and now this?
What the fuck does he want from me?
I stared at his profile—that perfectly composed mask of authority—and tried to read something, anything beneath the surface.
Nothing. Just ice.
Please, I thought desperately. Please don't let the next words out of your mouth destroy me again. I can't handle another emotional whiplash. Not today.
The crowd remained frozen, waiting.
Lance pulled a slim folder from his jacket's inner pocket. Slid it onto Patricia's abandoned desk with a soft thwap.
Then he turned to me.
"Miss Vance." His voice remained clinical. Detached. "Effective immediately, your new position is Art Valuation & Strategic Acquisitions."
My brain short-circuited.
"Your first assignment—" He gestured at the folder. "—is the Grey Estate acquisition. Twenty billion in assets, including one of the most significant private art collections in North America. The deal has been stalled for three months because we can't close the valuation loop on the art portfolio."
He paused. Let me process.
"You have two weeks to provide comprehensive appraisals for every piece in the collection. Renaissance paintings. Asian antiquities. Contemporary sculpture. I want provenance verification, market comparisons, and risk assessments." His eyes met mine for the first time since this entire spectacle began. "You will present your findings to the board. Every. Single. Report."
My pulse hammered.
Art valuation.
Provenance research.
Board presentation.
This wasn't just a job. This was—
Heaven.
Pure, unadulterated heaven.
For the first time in twenty-two years, someone was asking me to do the thing I actually loved. The thing I was good at. Not charity galas. Not silent suffering as Wesley's acceptable-in-public girlfriend. Not pretending to care about my parents' financial black holes.
Art.
Standing in front of a Caravaggio and feeling time stop. Running my fingers over the brushwork of a Ming dynasty vase and understanding the artist's intention across five centuries. Lost in archives, tracing a painting's journey from a Venetian palazzo to a Nazi vault to a Texas oil baron's living room.
That was where I came alive.
That was the only place I'd ever felt like I mattered.
And Lance Lawson—cold, calculating, impossible Lance Lawson—had just handed me the keys to that kingdom.
Fuck. Fuck. I'm going to kiss him. Or kill him. Or both.
My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the folder. Forced my voice steady.
"Yes, sir."
Two words. All I could manage without my voice cracking.
Lance's expression didn't change. Didn't soften. He simply nodded once, as though my acceptance had been a foregone conclusion.
Then Wesley's voice shattered the moment.
"Wait—wait."
He'd finally wrenched free from Vincent's iron grip. Now he rushed forward, positioning himself between Lance and me like a human barrier.
"Uncle, the Grey acquisition? That's—I've been asking to work on that deal for months." His voice carried that entitled petulance I'd heard a thousand times. "You know my girl—my friend—Vanessa Holland? She's incredibly knowledgeable about art. She'd be perfect for—"
"Girlfriend?" Lance's voice cut through Wesley's babbling like a blade through butter. "I distinctly recall you claiming Miss Vance was your girlfriend approximately ninety seconds ago."
Wesley's face flushed. "Well, yes, but—technically—Serena's just—her parents arranged it, you see. It wasn't my choice—"
"You said WHAT?"
The words ripped out of me before I could stop them.
Rage. Pure, white-hot rage flooded every cell in my body.
Her parents arranged it.
Wasn't his choice.
As though I were some mail-order bride. Some burden thrust upon him by my desperate, debt-ridden family.
Wesley had the audacity to look annoyed at my outburst. Turned to me with that same condescending expression he'd perfected over three years.
"Serena, be reasonable—"
"Reasonable?" My voice came out strangled. "You just told your uncle—told the entire fucking office—that I was forced on you?"
"That's not what I—" Wesley's eyes darted to Lance, then back to me. "You're twisting my words—"
But Lance's voice overrode everything else.
"Wesley."
One word. Glacial.
Wesley went rigid.
"I don't particularly care about your romantic entanglements." Lance's tone suggested he found the entire subject beneath his notice. "However, Miss Vance has made her position abundantly clear. You are no longer together. Is that assessment accurate, Miss Vance?"
His eyes flicked to me. Cold. Assessing.
"Yes." My voice came out stronger than I felt. "Completely accurate."
"Then it's settled." Lance's attention returned to Wesley. "If I hear—if I receive even a whisper—that you've harassed Miss Vance in any capacity—physical, verbal, digital, any capacity—you will no longer be employed by this company."
Wesley's face went white. "Uncle, you can't—"
"Our company does not tolerate workplace harassment." Lance's voice remained perfectly level. Perfectly controlled. "It's a liability. It affects stock prices. Board confidence. Investor relations." He paused. "Are you really so foolish as to test me on this?"
The threat hung in the air.
Wesley's jaw clenched. "But her parents already agreed to—"
"Did I ask about her parents?" Lance's voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "Did you hear me inquire about family arrangements or financial agreements?"
Wesley's mouth snapped shut.
"I asked if you understood my directive." Lance's eyes were glacier chips. "So I'll ask again. Slowly. Do. You. Understand?"
"Yes." The word came out choked. "Yes, sir."
"Good." Lance gestured dismissively. "Everyone back to work. This spectacle is over."
The crowd scattered like startled birds.
Wesley remained frozen for one more second—his face a mask of impotent rage—before he turned and stalked away, shoulders rigid.
Then it was just Vincent, Lance, and me in the suddenly empty corridor.
Lance didn't look at me. He turned to Vincent instead.
"Show Miss Vance to her new office. Familiarize her with the systems she'll need for the Grey portfolio." His tone was brisk. Professional. "And Vincent?"
"Yes, sir."
"Make sure she has access to our full art authentication database. I want zero obstacles."
"Understood."