Chapter 103
Serena
I was already in the back seat of Vincent's car, watching the city lights blur past the window, when I noticed his face in the rearview mirror.
He was frowning. Deeply. The kind of frown that suggested he was having serious second thoughts about everything.
"Oh God," he muttered under his breath. "What have I done? This is a terrible idea. I shouldn't have told her. I should have kept my mouth shut. Now she's going to—oh God—"
"Vincent."
"—create a scene and Mr. Lawson will know I told her and I'll lose my job and—"
"Vincent!"
"—possibly my life because he'll be so angry that I—"
"VINCENT!"
He jumped, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "Yes, Miss Vance?"
"Stop spiraling," I said firmly. "You're acting like I'm planning to crash their date with a baseball bat and a murder confession."
"Aren't you?" He looked genuinely uncertain.
I stared at him. "Do I look like someone who makes scenes?"
"You just paid Wesley two million dollars specifically to humiliate him in front of his hired thugs," Vincent pointed out. "So... yes?"
Fair point.
"Okay, but that was different," I said. "That was strategic humiliation. This is—" I paused, searching for the right word, "—reconnaissance."
Vincent's frown deepened. "Miss Vance, what exactly are you planning to do when we get there?"
A slow smile spread across my face. "I'm not going to interrupt them, Vincent. I'm not going to make a scene or cause drama or do anything that would embarrass Lance."
He looked slightly relieved.
"But," I continued, leaning forward, "I am going to make absolutely certain I can see every single glance they exchange. Every gesture. Every shift in body language. Every micro-expression that might reveal what they're actually feeling."
Vincent's relief evaporated. "You're going to spy on them."
"I prefer 'observe from a strategic position,'" I said. "And yes. Because if there's even the slightest spark between them—even the tiniest hint of genuine connection—"
Vincent's mouth fell open. "Miss Vance, you can't be thinking of—"
"I'll make sure it gets short-circuited," I finished, my smile widening. "Completely. Permanently. Spectacularly."
There was a long silence.
Vincent slowly turned back to face the road, his shoulders slumping.
"This is going to be a very long night," he muttered. "I can feel it. This is going to be one of those nights I look back on and think 'that's when everything went wrong.'"
"Drama queen," I said cheerfully.
But despite his protests, Vincent still pulled up to an upscale boutique twenty minutes later. And despite his continued muttering about "terrible decisions" and "career-ending mistakes," he still followed me inside.
Fifteen minutes and several thousand dollars later, I emerged from the dressing room in an outfit that would have made my college self scream with joy.
Oversized black leather jacket—the kind with strategic zippers and just enough edge to look expensive instead of cheap. Ripped black skinny jeans that fit like a second skin. A crop top that showed just enough midriff to be interesting without being inappropriate. Combat boots with enough platform to add three inches to my height.
And the accessories: oversized Chanel sunglasses that covered half my face, a black baseball cap worn backwards, and enough silver jewelry to make a statement.
I looked like I'd walked off a Blackpink music video set. Like a K-pop idol trying to go incognito but still looking impossibly cool.
Vincent's jaw literally dropped.
"What?" I adjusted the cap, checking my reflection in the boutique mirror. "Does it work?"
"Miss Vance..." Vincent was staring at me like he'd never seen me before. "I had no idea you had this in you."
"I've always wanted to dress like this," I admitted, turning to check the outfit from another angle. "In college, I was too busy trying to look 'appropriate' for Wesley's country club friends. Too conservative. Too boring. But this?" I gestured at my reflection. "This is what I actually like."
Vincent was still staring.
"So?" I prompted. "Does it work? Do I look different enough that Lance won't recognize me immediately?"
"If you wore this on a date with Mr. Lawson," Vincent said slowly, "he would be absolutely mesmerized. Like, forget-his-own-name level of distracted."
Irritation flared in my chest. "Well," I said, the words coming out sharper than I intended, "too bad he chose the wrong person for tonight—"
I stopped abruptly, a thought occurring to me.
"Wait. If I'm going to observe them up close, I can't just sit alone at a restaurant table. That's way too obvious. Who goes to a high-end restaurant by themselves on a Saturday night?"
Vincent's expression shifted from admiration to alarm. "Miss Vance, you don't need to be close. You can observe from across the room, or even from the bar—"
"No." I was already shaking my head. "Too far. If they're subtle about it—if they're doing that thing where they seem perfectly professional on the surface but are actually eye-fucking each other under the table—I'll miss it completely."
"I really don't think Mr. Lawson does 'eye-fucking,'" Vincent said weakly.
"You also didn't think he'd spend twenty minutes on his hair," I countered. "But here we are."
I grabbed his arm, an idea forming.
"You have to come with me."
Vincent went pale. "What?"
"You have to pretend to be my date. Or my friend. Or whatever. Someone I'm having dinner with. So it looks natural that I'm there."
"Miss Vance, I can't—I work for Mr. Lawson—if he sees me—"
"He won't recognize you either," I said, already pulling him toward the men's section of the boutique. "Not if we disguise you properly."
"This is insane," Vincent protested, but he was already letting me drag him along. "This is absolutely insane and I'm going to regret this for the rest of my—"
Ten minutes later, Vincent emerged from his own dressing room looking deeply uncomfortable.
I'd put him in distressed black jeans, a graphic t-shirt with Korean text on it, a bomber jacket, and his own pair of designer sunglasses. The overall effect was "young professional trying very hard to look hip and failing just slightly."
It was perfect.
"I look ridiculous," Vincent said flatly, staring at his reflection.
"You look like someone who definitely isn't Lance Lawson's driver," I countered. "Which is the point."
"I'm twenty-nine years old," Vincent said. "I'm too old for this."
"I'm paying for everything," I reminded him. "Clothes, dinner, hazard pay for emotional trauma—whatever you want."
Vincent looked at me through the mirror. "You're serious about this."
"Completely."
He sighed, adjusting his sunglasses. "This is either going to be the best decision I've ever made or the worst. And honestly, I have no idea which."
"That's the spirit," I said cheerfully, heading for the register.