Chapter 12
Serena
The fork clattered onto Chloe's plate. "Oh my God."
"I'm serious." I could feel my face heating but couldn't stop. The memory of Lance's hands on the rim of that tub. The way he'd looked at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't solve. That voice, low and dark and deadly: Are you?
"His legs," I heard myself say, "are fucking obscene. And his hands—Jesus, Chloe, his hands—"
"Stop." Chloe was laughing, actually laughing, slapping the table. "Stop it right now. You sound insane. You sound like you're in love."
"I'm not in love." The denial came too fast. "I just... appreciate quality craftsmanship."
"Quality craftsmanship." Chloe wheezed. "That's what we're calling it now? Baby, I've seen you around attractive men before. You usually look like you want to hide under a table. But Lance Lawson makes you go full femme fatale? That's not appreciation. That's chemistry."
I bit into another croissant, refusing to acknowledge the truth in her words. Because she was right. Something about Lance—his controlled violence, his absolute certainty, the way he'd looked at me like I was simultaneously the best and worst thing that had ever happened to him—made me feel powerful.
Dangerous. Like I could be more than the good girl, the peacekeeper, the perfect accessory to Wesley's manufactured image.
"It's weird," I said finally. "I've spent years apologizing for existing in spaces where I didn't belong. Feeling too loud, too much, too wrong. But with Lance..." I trailed off, searching for the right words.
"I didn't feel small. Even though he's exactly the kind of man who should make me feel small. Wall Street king, family dynasty, probably has a bathroom that costs more than my parents' mortgage."
"That's because your ex and your family spent years making you feel worthless." Chloe's voice had lost its teasing edge. "They needed you weak, Serena. Grateful. Willing to accept whatever scraps they threw you. Of course you felt inadequate—that was the whole point."
I stared at my champagne flute, watching bubbles rise and burst. She wasn't wrong. How many times had Wesley compared me to other women? Too serious, too quiet, too boring. How many times had my mother sighed and said, "If only you were more like Elena—more charming, more effortless." How many times had I stood in front of my mirror, cataloging everything wrong with me?
And yet Lance had looked at me last night like I was a fucking masterpiece.
"You know what pisses me off?" Chloe's voice cut through my thoughts. She wasn't smiling anymore. "You're sitting here doubting yourself when you're one of the most accomplished twenty-two-year-olds I know."
I looked up. "Chloe—"
"No, listen." She leaned forward, eyes fierce. "You graduated top of your class at Yale. Double major in Fine Arts and Economics. The Guggenheim acquired your senior thesis—do you know how rare that is? You had three gallery internships before you turned nineteen. You speak four languages fluently. You can authenticate a Rothko in under ten minutes."
She sat back, shaking her head. "But Wesley spent three years convincing you that you were lucky he tolerated you. And your family? They treated you like their personal retirement plan."
"God." A laugh escaped me—sharp, incredulous. "I should've talked to you about this years ago. Instead I just kept playing the part they assigned me. Like some wind-up doll in a pretty dress."
"Well, now you're free." Chloe's smile turned sharp.
"No more Wesley. No more family obligations. Just you and your incredible brain and your—let's be honest—extremely compromising relationship with your ex-boyfriend's uncle."
Right. Lance. Who was probably at this very moment sitting in his Fifth Avenue penthouse, regretting every decision that had led to me in his bathtub.
As if reading my mind, Chloe's expression turned calculating. "Speaking of Lance. Did you know his grandfather is actively trying to marry him off? There's a whole scheme involving his stepmother's family. Some Lloyd girl who works in corporate law."
The champagne turned to acid in my stomach. "What?"
"Mhmm. Arthur Lawson's been pushing for the match for months. Consolidate power, merge legal expertise with capital, very strategic." She popped a berry into her mouth. "Of course, Eleanor Lloyd-Lawson is reportedly furious about the whole thing. She hates arranged marriages. Ironic, considering she was forced into one."
"So Lance is—" I couldn't finish the sentence. Something ugly and possessive was coiling in my gut.
"Currently being hunted by Manhattan's most ambitious social climbers? Yes." Chloe leaned forward. "But here's the thing, babe. Eleanor has real power at Lawson Capital. She's Chief Legal Officer. Sits on the executive board. And she despises her father-in-law. If you could get her on your side..."
I set down my glass very carefully.
The wheels in my brain were already turning, pieces clicking into place like a particularly satisfying puzzle.
Eleanor Lloyd-Lawson.
The story was Manhattan legend—the Lloyd heiress forced into a loveless marriage, widowed young when her husband couldn't survive the Lawson family's poison. Everyone whispered about it at charity galas and private clubs. How she despised that family. How she'd never forgiven them for destroying her life.
"Not if," I said quietly. "When. When I get her on my side."
Chloe's grin was absolutely feral. "That's my girl. So what's the play?"
"You're a senior editor at Vogue. You network with half of Manhattan's elite—you track their schedules better than their own assistants do." I met her eyes. "Where is Eleanor Lloyd-Lawson going to be this afternoon?"
Chloe was already reaching for her phone, fingers flying across the screen. Three buzzes later, she looked up with a triumphant smile.
"The Frick Collection. Every Sunday at three o'clock. She sits with the Vermeers for exactly two hours. Same private room for the last eight years. Guards have standing orders not to disturb her."
My heart kicked into a higher gear. The Frick. I knew that museum like I knew my own reflection.
For twenty-two years, I'd been arranged. Positioned. Placed wherever other people decided I should be.
Not this time.
This time, I was taking control.