Chapter 101
Serena
One of Dr. Harrison's colleagues stepped forward, his voice carrying across the silent room.
"Dr. Edmund Harrison," he announced, his tone formal, "is not merely an art collector, Miss Holland. He's a Harvard University Professor Emeritus of Art History. Former Pulitzer Prize committee member. Cultural advisor to three United States presidents—Reagan, Clinton, and Obama. Chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts from 1985 to 1990."
He paused for effect.
"And in 1979, while teaching at Harvard Business School as a visiting lecturer on cultural economics, Dr. Harrison had the privilege of mentoring one particularly brilliant student. A young man named Marcus Holland, who was struggling with whether to continue his education or abandon his dreams."
Vanessa was shaking her head, backing up slightly. "No. No, that's not—my father never—"
"Your father is a private man," Dr. Harrison said. "He doesn't advertise his past struggles. Doesn't like people knowing he needed help. But I assure you, he remembers very well."
He pulled out his phone with deliberate slowness.
"In fact, I think it's time I reached out to my old student. See how he's been. Ask him about his family. His daughter's behavior."
His fingers moved across the screen.
"I'm sure he'll be delighted to hear from me," Dr. Harrison said mildly. "It's been too long since we've caught up."
Vanessa's face had gone from pale to gray. "Wait—you can't—you don't need to—"
"Oh, but I do." Dr. Harrison looked up from his phone, his expression disappointingly gentle. "You see, Vanessa, your father was like a son to me. I watched him build everything he has from nothing. Invested in him when no one else would. And as his mentor—as someone who cared about his future—I feel I have a certain... responsibility."
He tapped send on his message.
"A responsibility to ensure he knows when his family's education has been lacking. When his children are conducting themselves in ways that would embarrass him. When intervention might be necessary."
The phone in his hand lit up with a response almost immediately.
"Ah," Dr. Harrison said, reading the screen. "Marcus replies quickly, as always. He seems quite surprised to hear from me. And very interested in why I'm contacting him about his daughter's behavior."
Vanessa's phone started ringing.
The ringtone was obscenely loud in the silent office. She stared at the screen like it might explode.
"I suggest you answer that," Dr. Harrison said pleasantly. "Your father doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Vanessa's hand was shaking as she lifted the phone to her ear.
"Daddy, I can explain—"
Even from where I was standing—easily ten feet away—I could hear Marcus Holland's voice.
"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?"
Vanessa flinched like she'd been slapped.
"It's not what he said—it's not—I was just—"
"EDMUND HARRISON JUST TOLD ME YOU INSULTED HIM! CALLED HIM A NOBODY! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO THAT MAN IS TO ME?!"
"Daddy, please—"
"HE'S LIKE A FATHER! MORE THAN YOUR GRANDFATHER EVER WAS! HE SAVED ME WHEN I HAD NOTHING! AND YOU—YOU ENTITLED LITTLE BRAT—"
Vanessa was crying now, tears streaming down her face. "I didn't know—I swear I didn't—"
"YOU'RE CONFINED TO THE ESTATE! EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY! ONE YEAR! NO OUTINGS, NO PARTIES, NO TRAVEL! AND YOU'RE GOING TO CALL DR. HARRISON AND APOLOGIZE—"
She was backing toward the stairs now, the phone still pressed to her ear, her father's rage still audible to everyone in the room.
Wesley grabbed her other arm, trying to steer her toward the exit.
"I'm so sorry, Dr. Harrison," he said, his voice desperate. "She didn't know—we'll leave immediately—please don't—"
But Dr. Harrison had already turned away, his attention back on me.
"My apologies for the disturbance, Miss Vance. Some young people need to be taught respect. Now—shall we view your collection? I'm very eager to see what you've assembled."
I watched Wesley and Vanessa stumble down the stairs, her father's voice still echoing from her phone, the black-suited thugs following uncertainly behind them. The whole intimidating group reduced to a retreating, humiliated mess.
A smile tugged at my lips despite myself.
Dr. Harrison noticed and smiled back, a twinkle in his eye. "Satisfying, isn't it? Watching bullies realize they've miscalculated?"
"Very," I admitted.
---
Twenty minutes later, we were in the basement. Dr. Harrison was moving from piece to piece with the careful attention of someone who genuinely loved what he was looking at.
"Remarkable," he murmured, examining a seventeenth-century Dutch landscape. "The brushwork here is exquisite. And you said six point two million for the entire collection?"
"That's my assessment, yes."
He straightened, looking at me with something like wonder. "Miss Vance, this is highway robbery. These pieces are worth significantly more. I insist on paying at least seven million—"
"No."
He blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"The fair market value is six point two million," I said firmly. "That's what I assessed, and that's what I'm charging. I don't inflate prices, Dr. Harrison. Not even when someone offers to pay more. Fairness and accuracy are the foundation of any good business relationship."
He studied me for a long moment, then smiled—genuine warmth in his expression.
"Your grandfather would be very proud," he said quietly. "Peter Vance always valued integrity over profit. I see he passed that on."
Before I could respond, footsteps thundered down the stairs.
Vincent burst into the basement, his usually composed face flushed and sweating. His tie was askew. His jacket was buttoned wrong. He looked like he'd been running.
"Miss Vance!" He was breathing hard. "I—I'm sorry to interrupt, but—"
"Vincent?" I stepped toward him, alarmed. "What's wrong? What happened?"