Chapter 87
Lance
The dining room at the Lawson estate was designed to impress. Vaulted ceilings. Crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than most people's houses. And tonight, a table laden with enough food to feed a small army.
Wagyu beef, perfectly seared and sliced thin enough to see through. Lobster tail swimming in drawn butter. Truffle risotto that filled the room with its earthy, expensive scent. A whole roasted duck, its skin crackling and golden. Oysters on ice. Caviar on toast points. Wine that had been aging in our cellar since before I was born.
Arthur believed in making a statement with his dinners. Power, wealth, legacy—all served on fine china with a side of family drama.
Tonight's drama was particularly palpable.
Wesley sat across from me, head bowed over his plate, pushing food around without eating. His jaw was tight. His shoulders rigid. And despite his best efforts to look neutral, anger radiated off him in waves that even the oblivious could probably feel.
I'd been staring at him for the better part of twenty minutes.
Vincent's message had arrived an hour ago, clinical and precise as always: Miss Vance encountered difficulties at Lloyd & Partners today. Your nephew and Miss Holland confronted her with photographs. Physical altercation was prevented by Miss Isabella Lloyd. Thought you should be informed.
Photographs. Of Serena and me.
I didn't know what they'd captured—didn't care what moment some pathetic stalker had managed to freeze on film. What made my blood boil was the violation itself. Someone had been watching us. Tracking our movements. Collecting evidence like we were criminals instead of two people having dinner.
And Wesley had used that—weaponized it—to humiliate her in public.
I wanted to flip this table. Wanted to drag my nephew out of his chair and explain exactly what happened to people who hurt women under my protection. Wanted to make it very clear that whatever game he thought he was playing, he'd already lost.
But Arthur was here. Eleanor was here. And the Lawson estate had rules about maintaining civility, even when you wanted to commit murder.
So I just kept staring at Wesley, letting him feel the weight of my gaze, letting him know that this conversation wasn't over—it was just postponed.
Eleanor noticed, of course. She always noticed. She sat at the other end of the table, cutting her duck with precise, delicate motions, her expression perfectly neutral. But I caught the slight curve at the corner of her mouth. Amusement. She was enjoying this standoff like it was dinner theater.
Arthur, on the other hand, seemed completely oblivious to the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. He ate heartily, making appreciative noises about the risotto, refilling his wine glass with the enthusiasm of a man who hadn't noticed his grandson looked ready to explode and his heir apparent looked ready to commit justifiable homicide.
"Wonderful meal," Arthur said, raising his glass. "Eleanor, you've outdone yourself with the menu."
"I had help from the chef," Eleanor demurred. "But I'm glad you're enjoying it."
A knock at the door interrupted Arthur's response.
He looked up, surprised, his fork pausing midway to his mouth. "Who on earth—"
The door opened, and Felix walked in.
Felix. Fucking. Lawson.
Of course.
He carried an armful of elegantly wrapped packages, his smile wide and warm and completely calculated. "Arthur! I hope I'm not interrupting."
Arthur's face lit up like Christmas morning. "Felix! What a pleasant surprise!" He set down his silverware, already half-rising from his seat. "Come in, come in!"
"I was just passing by the estate," Felix said, his tone so sincere it made my teeth hurt. "And I realized I've been meaning to bring you all these little gifts. Couldn't resist stopping by." He moved through the room with practiced ease, distributing his offerings like a politician working a room.
A bouquet of rare orchids for Eleanor—expensive, exotic, the kind that required their own climate-controlled environment. She accepted them with a gracious smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
For Arthur, a carved wooden box that Felix presented with particular ceremony. "Ginseng root," Felix announced. "Aged twenty years. From a supplier in Korea I know. Supposed to be excellent for vitality and longevity."
Arthur opened the box, examining the gnarled root inside with genuine delight. "Felix, you shouldn't have. This must have cost—"
"Nothing is too much for family," Felix said smoothly. "Besides, I want you around for many more years yet."
He turned toward me and Wesley, two more wrapped packages in his hands, but Arthur interrupted before he could distribute them.
"Have you eaten?" Arthur asked, gesturing at the laden table. "Please, join us. There's more than enough."
"Oh, I couldn't possibly impose—"
"Nonsense!" Arthur waved away his protest. "We insist. Right, Lance?"
I met Felix's eyes across the table. Saw the calculation there. The satisfaction. He'd timed this perfectly—arriving just as tensions were highest, positioning himself as the concerned family member who just happened to stop by.
"Of course," I said, my voice flat. "How could we refuse family."