Chapter 282
Serena
The Grand Ballroom of the Lawson estate should have been packed tonight. Arthur's eightieth birthday—the kind of milestone that usually drew half of Manhattan's elite like moths to a flame. But as I sat at one of the dozens of empty tables, the silence felt heavier than any crowd.
The chandeliers still blazed overhead, throwing their golden light across pristine white tablecloths and untouched centerpieces. The orchestra played softly in the corner, their music echoing in the cavernous space. But where there should have been two hundred guests, there were maybe forty. And most of them looked like they'd rather be anywhere else.
I couldn't blame them. The headlines from the past seventy-two hours had been brutal: LAWSON HEIR GUNNED DOWN IN HOSPITAL. THOMAS LAWSON'S FATAL PLUNGE FROM PENTHOUSE. FAMILY EMPIRE IN CHAOS.
The kind of scandal that made even the boldest social climbers think twice about showing up.
I stared at my untouched champagne, watching the bubbles rise and pop, rise and pop, in an endless cycle that felt almost meditative. Felix was dead. Thomas was dead. The two men who'd orchestrated kidnappings, murders, decades of manipulation—gone. Just like that.
I should have felt relieved. Victorious, even. Instead, I felt numb.
"You're thinking too loud."
Lance's voice pulled me back. His hand found mine under the table, his thumb tracing slow circles across my knuckles—a gesture that had become familiar over these past months, grounding me when my thoughts spiraled.
I turned to look at him. He was still in the same perfectly tailored black suit he'd worn to the police station, though he'd ditched the tie somewhere along the way. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, and there were shadows under his eyes that no amount of expensive grooming could hide. But his gaze was steady, anchored on me with that intensity that used to make me nervous and now just made me feel seen.
"I'm thinking about Felix," I admitted quietly, my voice barely audible over the string quartet's rendition of something classical and mournful. "About how he died in that hospital room. Was it—" I hesitated, the question catching in my throat. "Was it Wesley who killed him?"
Lance's expression didn't change, but his grip on my hand tightened fractionally. "Does it matter?"
"I don't know. Maybe." I looked away, focusing on the empty dance floor where couples should have been waltzing. "He was terrible. He tried to have me killed. He murdered Vanessa, probably others. But still—the way he died, alone in that hospital bed—"
"Serena." Lance's tone was gentle but firm, the kind of voice he used when he needed me to listen. "It doesn't matter who pulled the trigger. What matters is that he's dead, and he can't hurt you anymore. That psychopath would never have stopped hunting you. Never. And now—" He lifted our joined hands, pressing a kiss to my knuckles that sent warmth flooding through my chest despite the grimness of the conversation. "—now you can go back to living your life. Building your company. Being brilliant and terrifying and everything you were meant to be."
I managed a small smile at that, but my mind was already moving to the next impossible thing. "And Thomas?" The question came out sharper than I intended. "He just—threw himself off a balcony? Just like that? I thought he'd go completely insane after Felix died. I thought he'd come after you with everything he had left."
Lance took a slow sip of his scotch, his eyes distant in a way that told me he was choosing his words carefully. "He was an old man, Serena. Felix wasn't just his son—he was his purpose. His legacy. The only thing he had left after years of playing puppet master and watching his empire crumble." He set the glass down with deliberate precision. "When Felix died, there was nothing left to fight for. No energy for revenge. Just—" He paused, and for a moment I saw something raw flicker across his face. "—just the weight of everything he'd done. Sometimes death is the only way out of that."
The words hung between us, heavy with implications I wasn't sure I wanted to unpack. Lance’s father, Evander, had chosen the same exit after Grace's murder. And now Thomas had followed the same path after losing Felix.
One killed. One suicide.
The same pattern, decades apart.
A sick kind of symmetry that made my stomach turn.
"It's like karma," I murmured, more to myself than to Lance. "Your mother was murdered. Your father killed himself. And now Felix—murdered. Thomas—suicide. Like the universe demanded the same payment."
Lance's jaw tightened, but he didn't deny it. He never lied to me, not even about the ugly truths.
I looked around the ballroom again, at the clusters of guests who were clearly only here out of obligation or morbid curiosity, at the excessive floral arrangements that Arthur had probably ordered months ago when he still thought this would be the social event of the season.
"Fuck," I said with a bitter laugh. "You know what's crazy? When I first heard about this party, I was planning to make an entrance. I was going to show up in some ridiculously expensive dress and steal the spotlight, prove to everyone that I wasn't just some broke girl from a fallen family anymore." I shook my head, the absurdity of it hitting me all over again. "That was only a few months ago. And now look at us. Felix is dead. Thomas is dead. Vanessa's dead. And all I want—"
I turned to face Lance fully, my free hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my palm.
"—all I want is to appreciate what I have. To stop fighting for five goddamn minutes and just—" I swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in my throat. "—just be grateful that you're here. That we're both still breathing."
Something shifted in Lance's expression—the careful control he always wore like armor cracking just enough to let me see the man underneath. The one who'd spent three sleepless nights coordinating with federal agents and private security. The one who'd killed a man to protect his family. The one who looked at me like I was the only solid thing in a world that kept trying to collapse.
He cupped my face in both hands, his thumbs brushing along my cheekbones with a tenderness that still surprised me after everything we'd been through.
"I love you," he said simply. No qualifiers. No conditions. Just those three words that somehow meant more coming from him than they would from anyone else.
Before I could respond, he leaned in and kissed me—slow and thorough and completely inappropriate for a family birthday party, but I didn't care. I kissed him back with everything I had, pouring all the fear and relief and desperate gratitude into the press of my lips against his.
When we finally broke apart, I was breathless and blushing, hyperaware of the few guests who were definitely staring.
"Get a room!"