Chapter 73
Serena
"Yes. No." I set down my glass. "The situation has changed. Those positions—they're excellent. But I'm not interested." I met his gaze. "There's only one position I want now."
His brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
I leaned in like I was about to share the world's most scandalous secret, dropping my voice to a theatrical whisper. "I want to be a CEO."
The wine glass stopped halfway to his lips. Lance went completely still. Then his eyes widened, and he nearly choked on his wine.
"You want—" He set the glass down hard, crystal ringing. "Are you saying you want my position? Stage a coup like Felix?"
I laughed. "God, no. Your company is thriving—I'd be insane to compete with that." I leaned forward. "But a company on the verge of bankruptcy? That's different."
His expression shifted—understanding dawning, followed by something darker. "Your father's company." His voice dropped. "Vance Heritage. That financial black hole owing two million in debt?"
I nodded, pulse quickening. "It was magnificent when my grandfather ran it. Then he died, and my father..." I trailed off, bitterness coating my tongue. "You know what happens when someone incompetent inherits something valuable."
"So you want to take it back."
"Why shouldn't I?" The words came out fierce. "It was my grandfather's legacy. I'm going to reclaim it and turn it into something that would make him proud."
The silence that followed felt heavy, charged. I braced myself for the skepticism, the gentle condescension, the well-meaning but ultimately dismissive advice that this was too ambitious, too risky, too impossible.
Instead, Lance reached for the wine bottle. Slowly, deliberately, he refilled both our glasses. Then he lifted his in a salute, and when he spoke, there wasn't a trace of doubt in his voice.
"Then I suppose I should offer my congratulations early." The corner of his mouth curved into something that might have been a smile. "To the future CEO of Vance Heritage. I'll be watching to see how you pull it off."
I stared at him, heat flooding my face—whether from the wine or something else entirely, I couldn't tell. "You... you're not going to tell me I'm crazy?"
"Are you?"
The question hung between us, simple and direct. I laughed, but it came out shakier than I intended. "Probably. My parents hate me. The company owes millions. And even if I somehow get my hands on it—"
"You will."
Two words. Said with such certainty that my breath caught.
"Lance—"
"You understand the risks." His gaze held mine, unwavering. "You know what you're up against. Which means this isn't some drunken fantasy." He paused, and something in his expression shifted—softened in a way I'd never seen before.
"Maybe I'm drunk too. Maybe the wine is clouding my judgment." He lifted his glass. "But I believe you can do it."
The words hit me like a physical blow. My throat tightened with emotion I hadn't expected and couldn't quite name.
Three years. Three years of pitching ideas to Wesley, to my parents, to anyone who would listen. Three years of being told I was naive, impractical, that I didn't understand how the real world worked.
And now Lance Lawson—one of the most successful CEOs in New York—was looking at me like he had absolute faith I could pull off the impossible.
"God, Lance." The words spilled out soft and unguarded, almost like a confession. "You're the best."
He went very still. Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or something deeper that I was too buzzed to identify. His mouth opened slightly, then a slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.
"Am I?" His voice dropped lower, almost teasing. "That good?"
"The best," I insisted, the wine loosening my tongue in ways I'd definitely regret tomorrow. "The best man I've ever met. You're smart, and you actually listen, and you're—" I gestured at him helplessly. "Look at you. You're ridiculously handsome, and tall, and you have that whole brooding CEO thing going on but you're not actually an asshole, and—"
"Alright." He stood abruptly, cutting me off before I could continue my mortifying catalog of his virtues. "You're definitely drunk."
"I'm not that drunk," I protested, even as I accepted his hand and let him pull me to my feet. The room tilted slightly—okay, maybe I was more affected than I'd realized. "I can handle my alcohol perfectly well."
"Clearly." His tone was dry, but when I stumbled slightly, his hand immediately steadied me at the elbow. "That's why you just listed my physical attributes like you're writing a personal ad."
Heat flooded my face. "I didn't mean—that's not what I—"
"Let's go before you say something else you'll regret tomorrow."