Chapter 63
Serena
Before I could formulate a response, Chloe's head appeared in the doorway, her expression caught between concern and barely suppressed rage. "You want me to call security?" she asked, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Because I will absolutely call security."
I forced a smile, waving her off with more confidence than I felt. "It's fine, Chloe. This is his uncle's company, remember? What's he going to do, assault me in the middle of the office?" The words came out light, almost mocking, but I could feel the tension coiling in my shoulders. "Go home. I'll be fine."
Chloe hesitated, her gaze flickering between Wesley and me, clearly unconvinced by my bravado. After a long moment, she nodded reluctantly and disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps echoing with each deliberate step, as if making sure Wesley knew she wasn't going far.
The door clicked shut, and silence descended like a heavy curtain. I leaned back in my chair, crossing one leg over the other in a deliberate show of indifference, my eyes fixed on the spreadsheet still glowing on my monitor rather than on the man sitting across from me. "If you have something to say, say it," I said flatly, my fingers drumming against the armrest. "I don't have time to waste on whatever this is."
Wesley remained seated, but I could feel his gaze boring into me, heavy with something I couldn't quite name. When he finally spoke, his voice carried an edge of something that almost sounded like hurt. "Is this really how you treat your ex-boyfriend? After three years together, Serena, you could at least—"
The folder I'd been holding hit the desk with a sharp crack that made him flinch. "If you came here to make me feel sick to my stomach," I said, each word clipped and precise, "then please, leave. I have no interest in reminiscing about three years of humiliation and wasted potential."
His face darkened, the practiced charm slipping to reveal something rawer underneath. But there was something else there too, something I'd never seen before in all our time together—a flicker of guilt, maybe, or uncertainty.
It was so foreign on his features that for a moment I almost didn't recognize him.
But I didn't have time to psychoanalyze Wesley Lawson's sudden bout of conscience. "Let me guess," I said, leaning forward slightly, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're here to discuss the auction? About how I drove the price up and made you and your perfect girlfriend waste an extra million dollars?" I smiled, cold and sharp. "Yes, Wesley, I did that. And you know what? I'd do it again. So if you're planning to threaten me with lawyers or whatever power play you think you have, go ahead. Try it."
"No." The word came out quiet, almost weary, and he shook his head slowly. "That's not why I'm here. What's done is done." He paused, his jaw working as if he were chewing on words he didn't want to say.
"I just... I need to know. That sugar daddy you mentioned in your text. The one who's apparently bankrolling this new version of you." His eyes locked onto mine, and there was something almost desperate in them. "Who is he?"
For a split second, panic flared in my chest, hot and immediate. Did he know? Could he possibly know? But I forced it down, channeling it into anger instead.
"I'm sorry, what?" I demanded, my voice rising. "How is that any of your goddamn business?"
Wesley stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with an ugly screech. He moved around the desk slowly, deliberately, like a predator circling prey, and I fought the urge to push my chair back, to create distance. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me retreat.
"Because," he said, his voice low and dangerous as he came to stand in front of me, "I saw that photo. That silhouette. And it looked an awful lot like someone I know." He leaned down, bracing his hands on the armrests of my chair, effectively trapping me. "Someone who should know better than to get involved with you."
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze head-on. "If you're so sure you recognize him, say his name." I let the challenge hang between us for a beat. "Oh wait—you can't. Because he's so far above you, you wouldn't fucking dare."
I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to something cold and cutting. "He's better than you, Wesley. In every single way. So make your accusation. I'm waiting."
"Better?" Wesley's laugh was harsh, almost manic. His fingers tightened on the armrests, knuckles going white. "Better? Look at what he's turned you into, Serena! You think I don't see it? You've become someone I don't even recognize. First you cut off your family, then you humiliate Vanessa in public, and now—" He gestured wildly at the office, at me, at everything. "Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? How many enemies you're making?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, my voice dripping with false sweetness. "Are you worried about me, Wesley? How touching." I leaned forward slightly, forcing him to either back up or stay uncomfortably close. He didn't move. "Or are you just worried that eventually, I'm going to make sure everyone knows exactly what you and Vanessa really are? That I'm going to nail both of you to a wall and let the whole city see?"
His face flushed with anger, the muscle in his jaw jumping. "You don't know what you're dealing with," he hissed. "Felix is—" He stopped abruptly, his eyes going wide as if he'd just caught himself saying something he shouldn't have.
My blood went cold. Felix. Of course Felix was involved somehow. But before I could process that revelation, Wesley's gaze dropped to the trash can beside my desk, and his expression shifted from anger to something closer to horror.
"Fuck," he breathed, reaching down to pull out the empty Caviar Russe container, holding it up like evidence in a trial.
"This is—this is easily three hundred dollars for a single meal. And your clothes—" His eyes raked over my outfit, the tailored wine-red suit that Lance had sent me, and I watched his face go from pale to flushed with rage. "Your salary hasn't even come through yet. How the hell are you affording any of this?" He grabbed my wrist, yanking me forward so hard I gasped. "Tell me who your sugar daddy is, Serena. Tell me right now!"
His grip was painful, his fingers digging into my skin hard enough to leave marks, and for a moment I was transported back to every time he'd dismissed me, ignored me, made me feel small and worthless. But this time, I wasn't that girl anymore.
"Let go of me," I said, my voice low and dangerous.
"Not until you—"
"Wesley!" The voice that cut through the air was cold as winter steel, sharp enough to freeze the blood in my veins. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"