Chapter 96
Serena
"I mean, I didn't ask if there were others—"
"Serena." Grayson's voice had gone slightly hoarse. "Edmund Harrison is one of the most respected figures in the art world. He's not just the director of the Morgan Library—he's also chair of the Art History department at Columbia. He sits on acquisition committees for half the major museums in the Northeast. When he authenticates something, it's as good as gospel."
He looked back at the phone, then at me, then back at the phone.
"And he's offering to buy our entire collection. Without inspection. Without verification. Just on your word." Grayson shook his head in wonder. "How long have you known him?"
"We met once," I admitted. "I gave a presentation at a meeting—he might have sat through twenty minutes of it."
"Twenty minutes." Grayson laughed—a slightly hysterical sound. "You delivered a twenty-minute presentation, and one of the most influential people in the art world is willing to drop six million dollars on your assessment without question."
"Well, when you put it that way—"
"Your grandfather would be so proud," Grayson said suddenly, his eyes getting wet again. "Peter always said you had a gift. That you saw art the way he did. Not just as objects or investments, but as stories. As history." He wiped his eyes roughly. "If he could see you now, taking everything he built and making it new again..."
His voice broke slightly.
I reached out, squeezing his shoulder. "Then we better make sure we honor that legacy properly. Come on—we need to get these pieces cleaned up and ready for transport before Dr. Harrison arrives. I want everything perfect."
We spent the next two hours working in comfortable silence. Grayson showed me where the proper cleaning supplies were stored—materials that should have been used months ago but hadn't been because no one thought the pieces were worth the effort.
Together, we carefully cleaned each item, documented its condition, prepared it for safe transport.
By the time we climbed back upstairs to the office, my back was aching and my hands were filthy, but I felt... good. Accomplished. Like I'd actually done something meaningful today.
The office had transformed in our absence.
Everyone was working. Actually working. Heads bent over computers, phones to ears, the sound of productivity filling the space instead of that defeated silence.
"Well," I said to Grayson. "That's an improvement."
"Your speech this morning scared them straight," he said with a small smile. "Nothing motivates quite like the threat of accountability."
I glanced at the clock. 12:30. Lunch time.
An idea struck me.
"Grayson, what's good around here? For food delivery?"
He looked confused. "There's a decent deli two blocks over. They do sandwiches—"
"No, I mean what's good good. What would you order if money wasn't an object?"
"Oh." Grayson's expression shifted to understanding. "Well, there's Marcello's. Italian place about six blocks north. They do an incredible osso buco, fresh pasta, real tiramisu. But Miss Vance, that's quite expensive for—"
"Perfect. Call them. Order lunch for everyone. The good stuff—pasta, entrees, desserts, the works. Whatever the team wants."
"Serena—"
"We're celebrating," I said firmly. "First day under new management. First major sale. And more importantly, I want everyone here to understand that things are different now. That we're not a dying company limping toward bankruptcy—we're rebuilding. And that starts with treating people like they matter."
Grayson's smile widened. "I'll call right now."
Twenty minutes later, the office smelled like garlic and fresh basil and possibilities.
The team had initially been cautious when the food arrived—eyeing the expensive containers like they might be a trap. But hunger and curiosity won out.
"Holy shit," the pizza guy from this morning said around a mouthful of linguine alle vongole. "Is this real clam? Like, actual fresh clams?"
"Better than the instant ramen you've been eating for three months straight," the woman with the phone pointed out.
"Hey, that ramen is a delicacy—okay, no, this is so much better." He looked at me with something approaching reverence. "Boss, I take back everything I said this morning. I'm staying. Like, forever. You could pay me in pasta and I'd still show up every day."
"I'm planning to pay you in actual money," I said dryly. "But I appreciate the commitment."
Another guy—I really needed to learn their names—was working his way through a generous portion of osso buco. "I told my wife last month we should start looking for new jobs. That this place was done." He looked up at me. "I'm gonna call her tonight and tell her I was an idiot. Because holy shit, we're actually going to make it, aren't we?"
"We're going to do better than make it," I said. "We're going to thrive."
"I'll drink to that," the woman said, raising her can of San Pellegrino. "To the new boss. May she continue to provide excellent Italian food and actual hope for the future."
Everyone laughed, the sound bright and genuine and so different from the defeated atmosphere I'd walked into this morning.
I excused myself to Grayson's office—my office now, I supposed—letting them enjoy their lunch while I dealt with emails and started planning our next moves.
The afternoon stretched ahead. Dr. Harrison would arrive at three. We'd complete the sale. And then—
I'd still have about five hundred thousand in outstanding debts. Manageable, now that the immediate crisis was averted. I could work out payment plans with the creditors, show them proof of the sale, demonstrate that we were solvent and recovering.
It was actually going to work. All of it.
I leaned back in the chair, stretching my arms over my head, feeling the satisfaction of a plan coming together.
And then I glanced out the window.
And froze.
Two figures were walking toward the building. Even from the second floor, I recognized them immediately.
Wesley. And Vanessa.
My stomach dropped.
But it wasn't just them. Behind them, like some kind of ridiculous entourage, were at least a dozen men in dark suits. Big men. The kind that looked like they spent their free time moving heavy objects and intimidating people.
"What the hell," I breathed.