Chapter 10
Lance
The silence stretched like a wire pulled too tight. Wesley's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. His fingers drummed against the tablecloth—once, twice—before he caught himself and stopped.
"I just—" He cleared his throat. "No reason. Just thought I saw your car in the area. Must've been someone else's."
He wasn't even a competent liar. The slight tremor in his left eye, the way his gaze skittered away from mine—every tell screaming that he knew something. Or thought he did.
"The Sovereign?" I kept my voice utterly flat. "I wasn't there. I was at the office until two in the morning dealing with the Swedish acquisition. If you're so interested in my schedule, Wesley, I can have Vincent send you a copy of my calendar. Would you like that? A daily breakdown of my movements?"
His face went pale, then flushed. "No, I—that's not necessary."
"Good." I picked up my fork, examined the smoked salmon on my plate with the same attention I'd give a quarterly report. "Because frankly, instead of concerning yourself with my whereabouts, you should be more worried about your appearance. I don't care if you spent last night in a gutter or a penthouse—a Lawson shouldn't look like he was dragged through a hedge backwards."
I let my gaze travel over him with clinical detachment. The collar of his shirt was indeed askew, wrinkled. His tie hung loose, the knot sloppy. There were still traces of what looked like mascara on his collar—Vanessa's signature shade, if I wasn't mistaken. Not that I paid attention to such things. But when you're trained to notice every detail in a negotiation, you notice everything.
"I didn't have time to—" Wesley started.
"Clearly." I cut a precise piece of salmon. "Standards, Wesley. The Lawson name means something in this city. Try to remember that."
Arthur made a sound that might have been approval or amusement. Hard to tell with him these days.
Eleanor, however, was studying Wesley with the expression of a scientist examining a particularly disappointing specimen. She set down her coffee cup with a soft clink that somehow commanded attention.
"Speaking of standards," she said, her voice carrying that particular quality of sweetness that meant someone was about to be eviscerated, "Wesley, darling. The engagement party is scheduled for next month, isn't it? Arthur had the family sapphire reset—the one his grandmother wore. Such a beautiful piece. When exactly were you planning to bring Serena by to discuss the details?"
Wesley's fork clattered against his plate.
I felt something tighten in my chest. Serena. Her name on Eleanor's lips made last night feel suddenly, viscerally real. The way she'd looked at me in that bathtub. The fearless tilt of her chin. The sound of her laughter before everything went to hell.
I forced myself to take another bite of salmon. Chew. Swallow. Feel nothing.
"We—" Wesley's voice came out strangled. He coughed, tried again. "We had a small disagreement last night. Nothing serious. She's just being... emotional."
"Emotional," Eleanor repeated, her tone suggesting she found the word fascinating. "How unfortunate."
"It's nothing I can't fix." Wesley was gaining confidence now, his usual arrogance creeping back in. The little shit actually straightened in his chair. "You know how women are. She'll calm down once she realizes what's at stake."
"And what exactly is at stake?" I asked quietly.
Wesley looked at me like I'd asked him to explain basic arithmetic. "Her family, Uncle Lance. The Vances are about to lose their brownstone. Property taxes they can't pay. Debts piling up. Without me—without this marriage—they're finished." He actually had the audacity to smile. "She'll come crawling back. They always do."
Something cold slid through my veins. They always do. As if Serena was just another in a line of desperate women he'd manipulated. As if last night—her fury, her pain, the raw honesty of her breakdown—meant nothing.
I set down my fork with deliberate care.
"Wesley." My voice came out soft. Deadly soft. "For the past ten years, I've maintained a very simple policy regarding your personal life. You want to keep a string of models in that apartment I pay for? Fine. You want to spend fifty thousand dollars in a single night at clubs? Your choice. You want to fuck Vanessa Holland in every hotel room from here to the Hamptons while pretending to be devoted to your fiancée? I don't care."
His face went from pale to crimson.
"But," I continued, my tone never rising, "if you think you can marry anyone—Serena, Vanessa, or some random woman you pick up off the street—slap a ring on her finger, and use that as leverage to access your trust fund, you are profoundly mistaken."
"The trust fund is mine—" Wesley started.
"No." I stood, buttoning my suit jacket with precise movements. "The trust fund was your father's. My brother's. He left it in my care until you turn thirty, with very specific conditions attached."
I walked around the table slowly, letting each step echo in the cavernous dining room. Wesley's eyes tracked me like a rabbit watching a wolf circle.
"The trust stipulates," I said, stopping beside his chair, "that to access the funds before thirty, you must establish a 'stable marriage beneficial to the family reputation.' Those were your father's exact words. Marriage unlocks fifty percent. Full control comes at thirty."
He didn't answer.
Eleanor shifted slightly, as if considering whether to intervene. Arthur raised one hand—a small, dismissive gesture.
"Let the boy learn, Eleanor." The old man's voice carried a note of grim satisfaction. "His uncle knows what he's doing. Wesley should listen more and talk less."
I didn't acknowledge either of them. My attention remained fixed on Wesley.
"It means I—as trustee—have sole discretion to determine what constitutes 'stable' and 'beneficial.' And if you think I'm going to sign off on releasing fifty million dollars to fund a marriage built on lies, manipulation, and public scandal, you're delusional."
I leaned down slightly, my voice dropping. "That money will sit in that account untouched. Not fifty percent. Not a single dollar. And when you turn thirty? I'll make sure the board reviews whether you've proven yourself worthy of the other half."
Wesley's hands were shaking. Actually shaking. "You can't—"
"I can. I have. I will." I straightened. "The law puts me in charge of those funds. Marriage gets you halfway there—if I approve it. Until then, Wesley, I am your law."