Chapter 104
Serena
Eleven Madison Park was everything I'd expected. Elegant. Expensive. The kind of place where the silverware probably cost more than my first car.
Vincent stopped at the entrance, his feet literally refusing to move forward.
"I can't do this," he said. "Miss Vance, I really can't. If Mr. Lawson sees me—"
"You were the one who strongly encouraged me to pursue him!" I hissed, grabbing his jacket. "You're the one who said his feelings for me were different! You literally drove me here! And now you're going to chicken out?"
"That was before I knew you wanted to stage a full surveillance operation!"
"Vincent." I stepped closer, my voice dropping to something dangerous. "If you back out now, I will tell Lance every single secret you've shared with me about him. The hair product. The shoe thing. The vintage wine. All of it."
Vincent's eyes widened behind his sunglasses. "You wouldn't."
"Try me."
We stared at each other.
"Either way, I'm dead," Vincent finally muttered. "If I go in there, Mr. Lawson might see me. If I don't, you'll tell him I betrayed his confidence. So really, what's the difference?"
He straightened his bomber jacket with an air of resignation.
"Fine," he said. "If I'm going down, I might as well go down swinging. Let's do this."
Then he pulled open the door and walked in with the kind of exaggerated swagger that suggested he was committing fully to the hip young professional aesthetic.
I had to bite back a laugh as I followed him inside.
The restaurant was beautiful. All soft lighting and elegant table settings and the kind of hushed atmosphere that screamed exclusivity.
And there, at a table in the western corner of the room, were Lance and Isabella.
My breath caught.
Lance looked... God, he looked incredible. The white Brioni suit fit him perfectly, highlighting his shoulders, the line of his body. His hair was styled—actually styled, with product and deliberate care. Even from across the room, I could see how polished he looked. How effort-full.
And Isabella—
She was beautiful. Young and fresh and animated, wearing a simple but elegant navy dress that probably cost more than my entire surveillance outfit. Her hair was down, falling in soft waves around her shoulders.
They were looking at menus, just starting their evening. Had probably arrived minutes before us.
Something hot and possessive twisted in my chest.
"Miss Vance?" Vincent touched my arm gently. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth. "I'm fine."
I marched toward the hostess stand with perhaps more aggression than necessary, Vincent trailing behind me.
"Table for two," I said.
The hostess smiled professionally. "Of course. We have several options available—"
"That one." I pointed directly at the table next to Lance and Isabella's. The closest possible position. Close enough to hear their conversation if I strained. Close enough to see every expression.
The hostess blinked, confusion flickering across her face. "That table? But—there are so many open seats elsewhere—"
"I know what I want." I held her gaze, my tone leaving no room for negotiation. "That one."
Something in my expression made the decision for her.
"Right this way, madam."
Vincent sat across from me, positioning himself so his back was partially to Lance and Isabella. I, on the other hand, had a perfect view.
The waiter appeared almost immediately. "Good evening. Can I start you with something to drink, or would you like to hear tonight's specials—"
"What did they order?" I interrupted, jerking my thumb toward the next table.
The waiter's professional smile faltered slightly. "I'm sorry?"
"The couple next to us." I leaned forward, pitching my voice higher, breathier—completely different from my normal tone. "They look like they have excellent taste. We'll have whatever they're having."
The waiter's eyes widened. "The... the entire tasting menu? Madam, that's a twelve-course meal with wine pairings. It's quite extensive and the total cost—"
"Is irrelevant," I finished. "We'll take it."
The waiter looked at Vincent, perhaps hoping for some sanity.
Vincent just sighed. "What the lady wants, the lady gets."
After the waiter left, Vincent leaned across the table, keeping his voice low.
"God help us all," he muttered. "Do you have any idea how much a twelve-course tasting menu at Eleven Madison Park costs?"
"I literally just sold six million dollars worth of art," I whispered back. "I think I can handle one dinner."
"That's not the point—"
"The point," I interrupted, "is that I can't let them think we're out of our league. We need to match their energy. Their sophistication. Otherwise we'll stand out."
"We're already standing out," Vincent pointed out. "We're dressed like we're going to a K-pop concert, not a Michelin-starred restaurant."
"Then we'll be the most interesting people here," I said. "Money can make anything work."
I settled back in my chair, adjusting my sunglasses slightly so I could see Lance and Isabella more clearly.
They were talking now. Isabella was saying something, gesturing with her hands, and Lance was listening with that focused attention he gave when he was genuinely interested in what someone was saying.
My stomach clenched.
As I watched, Isabella laughed at something—a bright, genuine sound that carried slightly across the space between tables. She leaned forward, her expression animated, completely engaged in whatever conversation they were having.
And Lance—
Lance smiled. Not his usual polite, professional smile. Something softer. More real.
He poured wine into her glass with practiced ease, the gesture smooth and attentive.
Gentleman. He was being a perfect gentleman.
And she was responding to it. Opening up. Becoming more comfortable. More herself.
The initial awkwardness I'd hoped for—the stilted conversation, the uncomfortable silences—they weren't there.
Instead, they looked like two people who were actually enjoying each other's company.
"Fuck," I breathed.
Vincent glanced over his shoulder, then back at me. "What? What's happening?"
"This isn't just chemistry," I whispered. "This is—this is like high-voltage electricity. They're connecting. Actually connecting."
"Miss Vance—"
Lance stood up, reaching for the wine bottle to refill Isabella's glass. The movement was fluid, natural, the kind of attentive gesture that spoke of genuine interest.
Something inside me snapped.
I didn't think. Didn't plan. Just reacted.
My hand came up—too fast, too hard—and slapped against my forehead in frustration.
The impact knocked my elbow sideways.
Which hit my water glass.
Which tipped.
Which fell.
CRASH.
The sound of shattering glass echoed through the quiet restaurant like a gunshot.
Every head in the room turned.
Including Lance's.
Including Isabella's.
I froze, my hand still pressed against my forehead, water spreading across the white tablecloth in front of me, shards of crystal glittering on the floor.
And across the space between tables, behind his perfectly styled hair and his immaculate white suit, Lance Lawson was staring directly at me.
Our eyes met.
Shit.