Chapter 68
Serena
The room erupted in whispers. I watched them lean toward each other, saw the skeptical glances darting between the blank screen and me. Morrison's expression had shifted from professional boredom to active disdain. One of the art consultants was already gathering her things, clearly considering this meeting a waste of her billable hours.
Lance remained silent at the head of the table, but I could read the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers had stilled against the armrest of his chair. What surprised me wasn't the anger I'd expected—it was the concern flickering in his eyes when they met mine. Not worry for his own reputation or the company's time. Worry for me.
He opened his mouth to speak, and I knew with absolute certainty that he was about to defend me, to take responsibility for bringing me into this room. The realization sent something sharp and hot through my chest—gratitude mixed with fury that he would sacrifice his standing for my mistake.
I couldn't let that happen.
"Well," I said, my voice cutting through the murmurs with more force than I'd intended, "I haven't even started my presentation yet, and you're already questioning your CEO's judgment?" I let my gaze sweep the room, meeting each skeptical face in turn. "Seems a bit premature, doesn't it? Or should I be asking who's actually in charge here?"
The whispers died instantly. Several board members shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Morrison's eyebrows rose, whether in offense or surprise I couldn't tell.
I caught the flash of something in Lance's expression—approval, maybe, or recognition. It was gone in an instant, replaced by that familiar mask of professional neutrality, but I'd seen it.
"The data was there," I continued, keeping my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart. "All of it. Three weeks of analysis, provenance verification, market comparisons. But this morning, my USB drive disappeared, and every file on my computer had been deleted." I paused, letting that sink in. "Quite the coincidence, wouldn't you say?"
"Convenient excuse," Wesley drawled from his seat, leaning back with theatrical ease. His earlier nervousness had vanished, replaced by the smug confidence of someone who knew exactly what cards he held. "But ultimately irrelevant, Miss Vance. I flew in from the Hamptons this morning specifically for this meeting. My time is valuable. I didn't come here to listen to explanations about lost homework."
Lance's jaw tightened visibly. "Wesley." His voice was low, dangerous. "This is your first time attending a board meeting. I suggest you spend more time observing and considerably less time speaking."
Wesley dipped his head in mock deference, but the smirk playing at the corners of his mouth suggested anything but submission.
Felix's smile widened, warm and venomous in equal measure. "Though perhaps he'll be attending many more in the future, wouldn't you say? After all, his parents' shares do represent nine percent of this company's voting power."
He turned that smile on me, and I felt it like a blade against my throat. "But Wesley does raise a valid point, Miss Vance. Regardless of the reasons—however unfortunate—you're unable to deliver what was promised. We've lost weeks of crucial time on the Grey acquisition. The invisible costs alone run into the millions." He spread his hands in a gesture of regretful finality. "I think the most professional course of action would be for you to tender your resignation and—"
"Who said I can't deliver?"
The words came out sharp and clear, cutting through his monologue with surgical precision. Every head in the room swiveled toward me. Even Lance looked momentarily stunned.
I let the silence stretch for a heartbeat, then allowed myself a small smile. "You all seem very eager to write me off."
I gestured to the screen behind me, where those familiar catalog entries glowed against the white background. "Yes, my detailed analysis is missing. But what you actually need—what you brought those experts here to evaluate—is whether I can accurately assess the value and authenticity of the Grey Collection." I met Felix's eyes directly. "And I can do that right now, without any notes."
One of the female board members—her nameplate read "CHEN"—let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "You're joking. There are hundreds of pieces in that collection."
"Two hundred and forty-seven, to be exact," I replied smoothly. "Ranging from medieval illuminated manuscripts to post-war abstract expressionism. European masters, Asian antiquities, American modernists. I've spent three weeks studying every single piece." I paused, letting my confidence fill the space. "If you think I can't recall the relevant data and provide accurate valuations off the top of my head, then by all means, test me."
Morrison leaned forward, his skepticism evident in every line of his face. "Even if you somehow remember the historical details—which I doubt—how can you possibly provide precise market valuations without your comparative analysis?"
"The market doesn't exist in a vacuum, Mr. Morrison." I kept my voice professional, but I could feel the adrenaline singing through my veins now, sharpening everything. "Every auction result, every private sale, every museum acquisition—they're all connected, all catalogued here." I tapped my temple once. "I don't need spreadsheets to tell me what a Vermeer study is worth when I've watched comparable pieces move through Sotheby's, Christie's, and private sales. The patterns are already mapped in my head."
Felix's smile had frozen on his face, no longer quite reaching his eyes. "This is highly irregular. The board was promised a comprehensive presentation, not an improvised—"
"I think we should let her try."
Lance's voice cut through the objection with quiet authority. He was watching me with that same unreadable expression, but something in his posture had shifted.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, and I saw the faintest hint of satisfaction in the set of his mouth. "After all, the most critical aspect of any acquisition is accurate valuation and a deep understanding of the collection itself, isn't it?"
The three art consultants exchanged glances. The woman in the turtleneck—Dr. Reeves, according to the materials I'd studied—spoke up.
"He's right. The documentation is important, certainly, but what we're really here to evaluate is Miss Vance's expertise." She looked at me with renewed interest, the dismissive boredom gone from her expression. "Though I have to say, this is essentially impossible. The Grey Collection spans continents and centuries. If you can accurately assess even a fraction of it from memory, with correct valuations..."
"We'd be witnessing something rather remarkable," one of her colleagues finished.
Lance's eyes never left my face. "You'll have one chance, Miss Vance. I'm willing to overlook the missing data for now—we'll investigate that separately." His voice dropped slightly, taking on an edge that sent a shiver down my spine. "But if your professional knowledge impresses the experts in this room, I'll personally ensure we recover every deleted file from your computer."
The promise in those words—not just professional support, but active intervention on my behalf—hit me with unexpected force. My confidence, which had been partly bravado and partly desperation, solidified into something real and sharp.
"Uncle Lance, I really don't think—" Wesley started, but Lance silenced him with a single look.
"Begin, Miss Vance."