Chapter 39
Serena
The morning light sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows with surgical precision, dragging me from sleep and something far more troubling—a dream where Lance's hands had done considerably more than just grip my wrist in that alley.
I woke with my heart hammering, cheeks burning, and a mortifying awareness that my subconscious had taken last night's tension and run wild with it.
Get it together, Vance.
I threw off the covers and pulled on yesterday's clothes with sharp, decisive movements, channeling my embarrassment into action. Maybe if I found Lance this morning, caught him off-guard before that legendary control locked back into place, I could—
The apartment was empty.
Of course it was. Lance Lawson probably woke at five AM to run precisely calculated miles on a treadmill while reviewing market projections. Men like him didn't sleep in, didn't linger over breakfast, and certainly didn't wait around for women they'd expressly stated meant nothing to them.
But there was a note on the kitchen island, the handwriting as sharp and precise as the man himself: Made too much. Eat it or throw it out.
I picked up the card, running my thumb over the aggressive slant of his letters. Made too much.
Right. Because Lance Lawson, the man who controlled every detail of his life with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker, accidentally made too much breakfast.
The covered plate beside the note held smoked salmon benedict with perfectly poached eggs, alongside fresh fruit arranged with almost artistic care, and what looked like homemade hollandaise that probably required three specialty ingredients I couldn't pronounce.
"Fuck," I muttered, lifting the cover to inhale the rich aroma. "Who accidentally makes this?"
The first bite exploded with flavor—buttery, perfectly seasoned, the kind of breakfast that cost fifty dollars at establishments where they called it "brunch" and acted like they were doing you a favor. I was halfway through my second helping, having abandoned all pretense of dignity, when the elevator chimed.
I froze, fork halfway to my mouth, watching Vincent emerge with enough shopping bags to outfit a small department store.
"Miss Vance." His smile was professionally pleasant. "Good morning."
"Vincent." I set down my fork, eyeing the designer logos splashed across every bag. "What—"
"Mr. Lawson noticed your dress yesterday was somewhat... worn," he said diplomatically, beginning to arrange the bags across the sofa with careful precision. "He thought you might appreciate some options for today."
Worn. My cocktail dress from three seasons ago, the one I'd bought on sale and taken such care to preserve, reduced to a single dismissive word. I opened my mouth to defend it, but Vincent was already opening the first bag, revealing a sleek Theory sheath in deep charcoal that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
"I appreciate the gesture, but my dress is fine—"
"Miss Vance." Vincent's expression turned serious. "The Grey Estate presentation isn't just a business meeting. It's a battlefield. You'll be facing board members who've been circling Mr. Lawson for years, looking for any weakness to exploit. Wesley and Felix will certainly be there, and they'll be dressed to intimidate."
He gestured to the array of designer clothing. "Mr. Lawson wanted to ensure you had proper armor."
Something warm and unexpected bloomed in my chest, immediately followed by a stab of irritation at how easily this man could affect me. Armor. Lance had thought about me facing down his predatory board members and decided I needed protection—even if he'd rather die than admit it was protection.
"That's..." I swallowed against the sudden tightness in my throat. "Actually thoughtful."
"Mr. Lawson excels at strategy," Vincent said simply, but there was something knowing in his smile.
I set down my plate and moved to the sofa, running my fingers over fabrics that felt like liquid silk. Max Mara. The Row. Saint Laurent. Every piece carefully chosen, every cut designed to command attention and respect. I was reaching for a burgundy dress that screamed confidence when my phone shattered the moment with its shrill ring.
Mother's name flashed across the screen.
"Well." I picked up the dress, holding it against myself as I answered. "My battle just started early."
"YOU UNGRATEFUL BITCH!" Her voice hit like a physical slap, so loud Vincent actually winced. "GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!"
I moved the phone slightly away from my ear, my earlier warmth evaporating into something cold and sharp. "Good morning to you too, Mother. Is there a reason you're screaming before nine AM?"
"YOU DRUGGED YOUR SISTER!" The words came out in a shriek. "You set her up with that Henderson man and now—now the tabloids have photos of her being carried into a hotel! They're saying we sold our daughter, that the Vance family has no shame—"
"Drugged?" I examined the dress more closely, noting how the deep color would photograph beautifully against boardroom mahogany. "That's interesting. I don't recall doing any such thing. And what's this about a hotel? With whom?"
A crash came through the phone, followed by Elena's voice, raw with fury: "FUCK YOU! You don't come back in half an hour, I'm burning everything in your room! All your precious garbage—every goddamn thing you care about!"
My hand tightened on the dress. "Mother, don't let her touch my room—"
"Half an hour!" Mother's voice had gone shrill with something between rage and panic. "You get back here and get on your knees to apologize to your sister and your father, or so help me—"
"There are things in that room that belonged to Grandfather." The words came out flat, dangerous. Every muscle in my body had gone taut, the playful warmth from moments ago burned away by white-hot fury. "His sketchbooks. His paintings. The letters he wrote me before he died. If either of you touch a single—"
"THEN COME HOME!" Mother screamed. "COME HOME AND FIX THIS MESS YOU MADE!"
The line went dead.
I stood there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear, feeling that old familiar rage build in my chest—but this time it didn't make me want to cry. This time it felt like fuel, like the kind of fire that could burn down everything rotten and leave only truth behind.
"Miss Vance?" Vincent's voice was carefully neutral. "Is everything alright?"
I lowered the phone, meeting Vincent's eyes with a smile that was all teeth. "Well, this is perfect timing for a battle."
I grabbed the burgundy suit—Lance's armor, perfectly timed. "Five minutes to change, then we're heading to the Vance estate."
"The car will be running, Miss Vance."