Chapter 102
Serena
He glanced at Dr. Harrison, then back at me, his expression caught between urgency and uncertainty.
I turned to Dr. Harrison immediately. "I'm so sorry—I need to step away for a moment. Something urgent has come up. Grayson can help you with the rest of the viewing and handle the paperwork—"
"Of course, of course." Dr. Harrison waved me off graciously. "Business waits for no one. Go handle your emergency. We'll finalize everything when you return."
I grabbed Vincent's arm and practically dragged him up the stairs, through the office—where my employees were still buzzing with post-drama energy—and into the small reception room on the first floor. It was barely more than a closet with a desk and two chairs, but at least it was private.
"Sit," I commanded, pushing him toward one of the chairs.
Vincent sat heavily, and for a moment, his earlier urgency seemed to evaporate. He looked at me, opened his mouth, closed it, then looked away.
"Well?" I prompted. "You nearly gave yourself a heart attack running here. What's the emergency?"
"It's—" He started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. "The thing is—um—"
He glanced toward the door like he was considering making a run for it.
"I heard about this afternoon," he said suddenly. "With Wesley. The two hundred thousand." A weak smile flickered across his face. "That was—"
"Vincent." I cut him off, my voice flat. "Don't."
His smile died.
I stared at him. Vincent, who was usually the picture of composed efficiency, was fumbling over his words like a teenager trying to ask someone to prom.
"Oh—oh right, yes, the emergency," he stammered. "The—the emergency is—it's about—um—about tonight. The—the—"
"Oh for God's sake," I said, dropping into the chair across from him. "You're not here to tell me that Lance has a date tonight, are you? Because Vincent, I already know. I've known since yesterday. It's not exactly a secret."
Vincent's head snapped up, his eyes widening. "You know? You already—" He slapped his palm against his thigh. "I've been trying to figure out how to tell you all day! I found out this morning and I've been agonizing over whether to mention it or just let you find out on your own and—wait, if you already know, why aren't you more upset?"
I leaned back in my chair, trying for casual even though my stomach was in knots. "Why would I be upset? Isabella is an excellent match for him. She's twenty. Young, brilliant, from a prestigious family, already accomplished in her field." I waved a hand dismissively. "It makes perfect sense that he'd agree to meet her. I should probably be happy for him."
Vincent's expression changed so fast I almost laughed. The concern vanished, replaced by something that looked almost like horror.
"Happy for him?" He leaned forward, his voice rising slightly. "Miss Vance, you're not seriously—you can't be thinking of giving up! Of just stepping aside because Isabella Lloyd is—is—"
He gestured helplessly, clearly searching for words.
"Is what?" I prompted, curious despite myself.
"Is very accomplished and from a good family and young and—" Vincent was floundering now, "—and has all those things! But you—you—"
He stopped. Blinked. Looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time and trying desperately to compile a list of comparable qualities.
I stared at him, waiting.
"You have..." He gestured vaguely. "You're also... very..."
The silence stretched.
I raised an eyebrow. "Very what, Vincent?"
His mouth opened and closed like a fish pulled from water. I watched him struggle, watched him search desperately for something—anything—to say about my supposed advantages over Isabella Lloyd. The daughter of a prestigious law family. A Harvard Law graduate. Someone whose resume probably read like a checklist of everything a man like Lance Lawson should want in a partner.
"Come on," I said flatly. "Are you serious right now?"
"No! I mean—yes! I mean—" Vincent's face flushed. "You're equally impressive! Absolutely! And more importantly—" His voice gained strength, certainty flooding back. "I'm certain Lance feels differently about you. That alone makes you one in a million, Miss Vance."
"Oh, great," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "The mystical, indefinable feelings again." I leaned forward, pinning him with a look. "Vincent, if you're so confident about these special feelings, why did you race over here like the building was on fire? Why interrupt my meeting with a major client just to tell me something I already know?"
Vincent's head dropped.
I went very still.
I was on my feet in an instant, crossing the small space between us. I crouched beside his chair, one hand gripping the armrest, the other reaching for his shoulder.
"Tell me," I said quietly. "What happened that shook your faith?"
He looked up, and the guilt in his expression made my stomach drop.
"I observed Mr. Lawson this morning," he said quietly. "Getting ready for the day. And Miss Vance, I've never—in all my years working for him—I've never seen him prepare like this."
"Prepare how?" My voice came out steadier than I felt.
"His hair." Vincent swallowed. "He spent twenty minutes styling his hair. He never does that. Usually he just runs his fingers through it and calls it done. But today he actually used product. Checked it from multiple angles."
My chest tightened.
"And his shoes," Vincent continued. "He polished them himself. Twice. Then changed them because the first pair didn't match his belt exactly right."
"What else?" The words felt like glass in my throat.
"His suit." Vincent's voice dropped even lower. "The white one. The Brioni that he only wears for major events. Weddings. Galas. Things that matter to him. He hasn't worn it in over a year, but today—"
"He's wearing it tonight," I finished.
"Yes." Vincent looked miserable. "And this afternoon, before I left to come here, I saw him take a bottle from his personal collection. A 1990 Château Margaux. He's been saving it for—I don't even know what. Something special. Something important."
I stood up, my legs feeling shaky.
Lance was preparing. Actually preparing. For Isabella.
The man who never made an effort for women. Who turned down dates without a second thought. Who maintained such strict professional distance that people literally called him the Ice King.
He was styling his hair. Polishing his shoes. Wearing his favorite suit. Bringing his best wine.
For her.
"Fuck," I whispered.
"I'm sorry," Vincent said miserably. "I wanted to tell you because I thought—I thought you should know that it might be more serious than we thought. That maybe he's actually—"
"Don't." The word came out sharp, cutting. "I don't need your theories, Vincent. Or your pity." I met his eyes. "I'll go see for myself."
Vincent blinked, stunned into silence for a beat.
"What time?" I demanded.
"Seven-thirty," he said slowly. "Eleven Madison Park."
I looked at the clock on the wall. Six-fifteen.
Enough time.
I grabbed Vincent's collar, pulling him to his feet.
"Miss Vance, what are you—"
"Take me there," I said, my voice hard. Determined. "Eleven Madison Park. Now."
"Wait—Miss Vance, maybe we should think about this—"
But I was already dragging him toward the door.