Chapter 100
Serena
A silver-haired man stepped into the office, and the entire atmosphere shifted. He looked to be in his mid-sixties, with distinguished wrinkles that spoke of experience rather than age, sharp eyes that missed nothing, and the kind of presence that made people instinctively straighten their postures.
Behind him were several men in impeccably tailored suits. Not thugs. Not hired muscle. These were professionals—lawyers, executives, the kind of people who commanded rooms with a glance.
The black-suited thugs took one look at them and stopped advancing. Actually stepped back. Like predators who'd just encountered something higher on the food chain.
Wesley's face went white. Then red. Then white again.
"Dr. Harrison?" His voice cracked slightly. "What are you—I didn't know you were—this isn't—"
But Dr. Harrison wasn't looking at him. Wasn't even acknowledging his existence.
He walked straight toward me, his expression warming considerably, and extended his hand.
"Miss Vance!" His handshake was firm, warm. "I apologize for being early. I was so eager to see your collection that I couldn't wait until our scheduled appointment. But it seems—" he glanced around at the chaos, the thugs with bats, my employees standing protectively in front of me, "—I've arrived at precisely the right moment."
His eyes hardened slightly as he looked at the armed men.
"If you're experiencing any difficulties, Miss Vance, I would be more than happy to assist. This old body still has some fight in it."
I felt relief wash over me. "Dr. Harrison, your timing is—"
"Oh for God's sake!" Vanessa's voice cut through, sharp and dismissive. "Wesley, are you seriously intimidated by some old man with a few flunkies? He's just another corporate dinosaur trying to look important!"
Wesley grabbed her arm, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "Vanessa, shut up. You don't understand—"
"Understand what?" She shook him off, her voice getting louder, more confident, laced with contempt. "You think I don't recognize him? An old relic from the art world—a museum director, for God's sake! That's all he is, Wesley. A glorified curator playing dress-up with his little entourage."
She turned to Dr. Harrison, her smile vicious.
"Besides, now it all makes sense. This explains where our little Serena got her two million dollars—and why he showed up at such a convenient time." She laughed—a cruel, triumphant sound. "The sugar daddy is old enough to be her grandfather! How desperate do you have to be?"
The black-suited thugs, who'd been retreating moments ago, perked up. Started exchanging glances. A few of them actually laughed under their breath.
"Oh shit," someone muttered. "The old guy's her—"
Dr. Harrison's colleagues stiffened, their expressions darkening. One of them stepped forward, his voice tight with barely controlled anger.
"Dr. Harrison, let us handle this. Please."
But Dr. Harrison held up a hand, stopping them. "No. This is Miss Vance's establishment. Her territory. I won't bring trouble to her door unless she asks for it."
Then he turned toward Vanessa, and his expression shifted. The warmth was gone, replaced by something colder. More calculating.
"Vanessa," he said pleasantly. "Vanessa Holland. Daughter of Marcus Holland. Granddaughter of George Holland."
Vanessa's smile faltered slightly. "How do you know—"
"You don't remember me, do you?" Dr. Harrison took a step closer. "But then, why would you? You were probably five or six the last time we met. At your grandfather's estate. Summer party, I believe. 1995 or '96."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Vanessa said, but her voice had lost some of its confidence. "I've never met you in my life, old man. You're just trying to—"
Dr. Harrison smiled. Not warmly. "Your father, Marcus Holland. Does he ever talk about his college days? About his mentors? About the people who helped him build the Holland empire from nothing?"
Vanessa's face went pale.
"Does he ever mention," Dr. Harrison continued, his voice taking on a reminiscent quality, "who convinced him to pursue business instead of dropping out? Who pooled together money from colleagues to pay for his final semester when your grandfather cut him off for 'wasting his potential'? Who provided the initial capital—fifty thousand dollars, a significant sum in 1978—for his first venture?"
Vanessa's mouth opened. Closed. "That's not—you couldn't be—"
"I couldn't be what?" Dr. Harrison's eyebrow rose. "Couldn't be the professor who saw potential in a struggling student and invested in his future? Couldn't be the mentor who guided him through his first business dealings? Couldn't be one of the people your father credits with his success?"