Chapter 25
Lance
The Patek Philippe on my wrist read 12:47 PM.
I'd been staring at the same financial projection for the past twenty minutes. The numbers blurred together, meaningless. My mind refused to focus.
Pathetic.
I forced my attention back to the spreadsheet. Revenue forecasts for Q3. Acquisition targets in Southeast Asia. Portfolio rebalancing strategies. All critical. All requiring my immediate attention.
All completely fucking irrelevant compared to the question burning through my skull:
Was she alright?
I'd sent Vincent to settle Serena into her new position three hours ago. Three hours and fourteen minutes, to be precise. A simple task that should have taken forty-five minutes maximum.
Where the hell was he?
My jaw clenched. I adjusted my cufflinks once. Twice. The precise movement usually centered me.
Today, it did nothing.
She's fine. Vincent is handling it. You have a company to run.
But all I could see was her face this morning. Those trembling hands accepting the assignment. Those brown eyes searching mine for something I couldn't—wouldn't—give.
Christ.
I stood abruptly, moving to the windows. Manhattan sprawled below, orderly and controlled.
Twelve years of discipline. All failing me now.
A knock cut through my thoughts.
"Sir." Vincent's voice came through the mahogany. "Everything's been arranged."
My pulse kicked up.
Three. Two. One.
I cleared my throat. Kept my tone neutral.
"Hmm. What is it?" I turned slowly from the window, hands sliding into my pockets. "Come in."
The door opened. Vincent stepped inside, his expression perfectly professional. But there was something in his eyes—a knowing glint that made my shoulders tense.
He knew. The bastard knew.
"Her new office is on the twenty-fifth floor," Vincent began, closing the door behind him. "Cultural Investment Division. I ensured she has a private workspace. A dedicated assistant to help organize materials for the Grey portfolio. Complete access to our art authentication databases." He paused. "She'll be able to work without interruption."
I nodded once. "Good. That's—"
"I also ensured," Vincent continued, his tone carefully casual, "that there are no male colleagues in her immediate vicinity who might... distract her from the assignment."
My brain short-circuited.
What.
"That's—" I caught myself. Forced my expression back to neutral. "That wasn't necessary to report. Or implement."
"No?" Vincent's eyebrow rose fractionally. "My apologies, sir. I assumed, given your... thorough instructions this morning, that comprehensive environmental management was implied."
Comprehensive environmental management.
The diplomatic way of saying: I know you're obsessing over her, and I'm calling you on it.
I returned to my desk. Sat down with deliberate calm. "Your assumptions are noted. Is there anything else?"
Vincent settled into the chair across from me. "Sir, if I may—your response to your nephew this morning. Wasn't it a bit... excessive?"
My fingers stilled on the armrest.
"Wesley has been indulged far too long," I said quietly. Each word measured. Controlled. "I raised him from fourteen. It's my responsibility to ensure he doesn't become a complete liability to this family. His father would have expected me to—"
"To steer him toward a productive path?" Vincent finished. "Rather than allowing him to waste his trust fund on models and sports cars and whatever new scheme catches his attention?"
"Exactly."
"And away from certain... unfortunate influences."
I met Vincent's gaze. Held it.
"Speak plainly."
Vincent leaned forward slightly. "Wesley's been spending increasing amounts of time with your cousin Felix. Late-night meetings. Private dinners. I believe the phrase you used in our last briefing was 'conspiring like schoolchildren.'"
My jaw tightened.
Felix Lawson. The golden boy. My father's brother's son. The man who smiled at board meetings while quietly poisoning every well I tried to dig.
"Felix has ambition," I said carefully. "That's not a crime."
"No." Vincent's tone remained neutral. "But embezzlement is."
Silence stretched between us.
I rotated my ring. Once. Twice.
"Felix's creative accounting practices have been... noted." My voice dropped lower. Colder. "Approximately twenty to thirty million annually, if my forensic accountants are accurate. Funneled through dummy suppliers. Inflated procurement invoices. Very sophisticated."
"And you've done nothing?"
"I've done exactly what was required." I leaned back in my chair. "Grandfather tolerates Felix because he's useful. Well-connected. Charismatic. He brings in deals through social networks I don't have access to. And more importantly—" My eyes hardened. "—he's family."
Vincent studied me. "So you turn a blind eye."
"I maintain equilibrium." Each word like ice. "Felix gets to play king of the hill. Grandfather gets to believe harmony exists between his grandchildren. And I—" I smiled without humor. "—I keep the company profitable enough that twenty million a year is statistical noise."
"But if Felix were to escalate—"
"Then equilibrium ends." My voice went lethal. "And Felix learns that there are consequences for greed."
Vincent nodded slowly. "Is that why you shut down Miss Vance's investigation? To protect her from becoming collateral damage?"
My chest constricted.
Fuck.
Ten years. Vincent had been with me for ten years. He could read me like a goddamn book.
"I shut down Miss Vance's investigation because it's family business," I said quietly. "Not her concern." My fingers drummed once against the armrest. "And her talents are better used elsewhere. The Grey Estate acquisition needs someone with her expertise."
"Of course, sir." Vincent paused. "Though Miss Vance doesn't seem particularly... intimidated by Lawson family politics."
A faint smile tugged at my lips despite myself.
"Careful, Vincent."
"My apologies, sir."
I straightened. "Grandfather's eightieth birthday is in two weeks. Keep eyes on Felix."
"Understood."