Chapter 48
Serena
I left the executive dining room with Eleanor's promise ringing in my ears—ten million dollars, and with it, the weight of expectations I wasn't entirely sure I could meet.
But as I walked back toward my office, the hushed whispers hit me before I'd even turned the corner.
"—I'm telling you, she's definitely got a backer—"
"Did you see Vincent drop her off this morning? Lance Lawson's personal driver?"
"And Felix went to her office! I saw him myself. He was in there for like twenty minutes—"
"Don't forget Eleanor Lloyd having lunch with her. When does Eleanor ever have lunch with junior analysts?"
"We can't afford to mess with her. Whoever she's sleeping with, they've got serious power—"
I stopped walking.
The voices cut off abruptly as my heels clicked against the marble floor—one sharp sound that silenced every whisper.
I turned toward the cluster of analysts hunched over their desks, their eyes suddenly very interested in their computer screens. But I'd seen their faces before they'd looked away. The resentment. The calculation. The ugly assumption that I'd fucked my way into this position.
You know what? I thought, anger crystallizing into something cold and precise. If you're going to talk shit, at least have the decency to do it when I can't hear you.
"If anyone has concerns about my employment," I said clearly, my voice carrying across the open floor plan, "you're welcome to discuss them with me privately. My office door is open." I paused, letting my gaze sweep over each guilty face. "Alternatively, if your concerns are serious enough, I encourage you to report them directly to the CEO via email."
One woman—Patricia's former assistant, I remembered—had the audacity to meet my eyes with barely concealed hostility.
"Though I'd suggest," I continued, my tone sharpening, "that before you spend company time gossiping about me, you make absolutely certain your own performance is impeccable. Because at Lawson Capital?" I smiled, and it wasn't a nice expression. "Results matter more than speculation. And I'd hate for anyone to lose their position because they were too busy discussing my personal life to focus on their actual job responsibilities."
I turned on my heel and walked into my office, deliberately leaving the door ajar.
Behind me, silence. Complete, absolute silence.
I settled into my chair, pulling up the Grey Estate database with satisfaction humming through my veins.
That's what I should have been doing all along, I thought, a smile tugging at my lips. Standing up for myself. Saying what I actually think instead of swallowing every insult and smiling through it.
Turned out it wasn't that hard after all.
---
The next several hours disappeared into a blur of authentication records and market analysis.
Tang Dynasty ceramics with provenance stretching back centuries—I cross-referenced kiln signatures, compared glaze compositions, verified imperial seals against historical records. A Monet from his water lilies series—I traced its exhibition history, confirmed the catalogue raisonné entry, assessed condition reports from three different conservators.
Each piece was a puzzle. A story. A challenge that made my brain light up in ways that board meetings and networking events never could.
I was so absorbed in evaluating a disputed Caravaggio attribution that I almost didn't notice the time. When I finally glanced at the clock, it was past eight PM. The office had emptied hours ago, the overhead lights automatically dimming to energy-saving mode.
My phone buzzed. Chloe.
Coming home for dinner? I made your favorite.
I smiled, typing back: Working late. Don't wait up.
Her response was immediate: Working late or has some man feeding you? You didn't come home last night either, you little minx.
Heat crept up my neck. I started to type No, nothing like that, then paused.
Then, feeling reckless and slightly giddy from exhaustion and the memory of Lance's perfectly sculpted chest, I deleted the message and wrote something else entirely.
Well... I may have spent the night at a certain someone's place. And by "certain someone," I mean a six-foot-two man with a body like a Greek sculpture and a face that could stop traffic. The kind of handsome that makes you forget how to form coherent sentences.
I hit send before I could second-guess myself, then kept typing, emboldened by Chloe's inevitable squealing response.
His muscles are INSANE, Chloe. Like, I'm talking chiseled abs and shoulders that could carry the world. And his skin—God, his skin is so perfect I couldn't stop staring. Plus that whole brooding, controlled thing he has going on? It's like ice on the surface but you KNOW there's fire underneath just waiting to—
I was grinning like an idiot now, my fingers flying across the screen.
And the best part? His bedroom performance is absolutely—
"My bedroom performance is what, exactly?"
The voice—deep, male—cut through my fantasy like a bucket of ice water.
I spun around so fast my phone nearly flew out of my hands, my heart launching into my throat.
Lance stood in my doorway, one shoulder leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He wore the same charcoal suit from this morning, though his tie was loosened and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that definitely matched the "Greek sculpture" description I'd just been typing.
His expression was carefully neutral, but something glittered in those gray-blue eyes—amusement, maybe, or something more dangerous.
"Lance!" My voice came out several octaves too high. "What—how long have you been standing there?"