Chapter 9
Lance
Eleanor set down her croissant with a soft laugh. "Arthur, you're terrible. The boy is thirty-four years old, not fourteen." She turned to me with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Though your grandfather does have a point. He's been hoping for years to hear about some romantic entanglement. You could at least give him something to gossip about over his morning coffee."
"My personal life," I said, spreading my napkin with deliberate care, "is not up for discussion."
"Personal life!" Arthur slapped the arm of his wheelchair. "The boy doesn't have a personal life! That's the whole goddamn problem! Lance, I know what happened with your father affected you—"
"Arthur." Eleanor's voice went cold enough to frost the windows. "Not now."
My grandfather actually paused. Eleanor had that effect—the only woman in three generations who'd ever been able to make Arthur Lawson shut his mouth mid-sentence. Probably because she was the only one who genuinely didn't give a damn about his approval or his money.
"Fine, fine." He waved a dismissive hand. "But speaking of personal lives, Eleanor—didn't you mention your brother has a daughter? The Lloyd girl. Just graduated from Columbia, wasn't it? Summa cum laude, if I recall. Very accomplished young woman from one of the finest families in the city. Smart as a whip, and I hear she's quite lovely..."
Arranged marriage. Again. The same poison that had killed my father and left Eleanor a widow at thirty-two. And here was Arthur, utterly oblivious, serving it up like Sunday breakfast conversation.
My jaw locked. The coffee cup in my hand—
Eleanor's knuckles went white around her own cup, her voice cutting through the room like a blade before I could speak. "With all due respect, Arthur, I have absolutely no intention of pimping out my niece to continue your family's charming tradition of arranged misery."
The words hung in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled.
Wesley's eyes went wide. I felt something almost like satisfaction curl in my chest.
"Eleanor—" Arthur started.
"My brother's daughter," Eleanor continued, her voice perfectly even and absolutely lethal, "is twenty years old. She has a promising career ahead of her at the Met. She has her whole life in front of her. And I will be damned if I let you do to her what you did to me."
The silence that followed could have suffocated someone.
I set down my fork with precise care. "Grandfather, if you mention my marriage prospects one more time, I will move out of this house and you will see me exclusively in board meetings. Are we clear?"
Arthur's face went red, then purple. Then—surprisingly—he laughed.
"Touché. Both of you." He picked up his coffee cup in a slightly shaking hand. "Can't blame an old man for trying to see his grandchildren settled before he dies."
"You're not dying," I said flatly. "Your doctor says you're healthy enough to outlive us all out of pure spite."
"One can hope." He took a sip, then fixed me with those pale blue eyes that had once terrified boardrooms full of men twice his size. "But you can't blame me for worrying, Lance. You work yourself to death. You never take a vacation. You haven't been seen with a woman in public since—when was it, Eleanor? That charity gala two years ago?"
"Three years," Eleanor corrected quietly. "The New York Public Library fundraiser. The attorney general's daughter. You left halfway through dinner."
I didn't remember her name. Didn't remember her face. Didn't remember anything except the suffocating realization that I'd rather be reviewing acquisition reports than making small talk about her Pilates instructor.
But I remembered Serena's laugh. The way she'd looked at me in that bathtub with wine-glazed eyes and no fear whatsoever. The precise moment her smile had shifted from playful to predatory.
"I've been busy," I said.
"Busy." Arthur snorted. "You've been hiding. There's a difference."
Wesley had been silent through this entire exchange, pushing his eggs around his plate like a child who'd been told to finish his vegetables. But now he cleared his throat—a small, nervous sound that made me want to break something.
"Uncle Lance?" His voice cracked slightly. "I was wondering... were you at The Sovereign last night?"
Every head at the table turned to stare at him.
Then, slowly, very slowly, they all turned to look at me.
I picked up my coffee cup. Took a sip. Set it down with mathematical precision.
"Why do you ask, Wesley?"