Chapter 124
Serena
I took a breath, forcing my shoulders to relax even as my pulse hammered against my ribs. This was it. The moment I'd rehearsed a hundred times in my head, except nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared me for the reality of standing in a room full of women who wanted me gone, facing the one person whose approval could save my entire company.
I moved forward. Not rushing, not retreating. Just a steady, measured walk that ate up the space between us, my heels clicking against the polished marble floor with a rhythm that sounded far more confident than I felt.
When I stopped, close enough that I could see the fine lines around Beatrice's eyes, the subtle tightening of her jaw, I let my voice drop to something almost conversational.
"Lady Beatrice," I said quietly, holding her gaze. "Now that I have your attention... would you be willing to discuss this privately?"
For a heartbeat, I thought she might actually say yes. Her lips parted slightly, her eyes still fixed on mine with that unnerving intensity, and I could almost feel the shift in the air, the possibility of victory hovering just within reach.
Then Evelyn's voice cut through the silence like a knife.
"Lady Beatrice, don't let this little girl fool you." She was smiling, but there was something sharp and venomous beneath it, her words honeyed with false concern. "Everyone knows about your painting. God knows what scheme she's running. And besides, that piece could never be worth—"
I didn't let her finish. The second I heard the word "worth," something in me snapped into place, and I turned on my heel, striding toward Evelyn with a purpose that made several women step back instinctively. My public speaking professor at Yale had once told me that the key to winning an argument wasn't volume—it was precision. And right now, I had all the precision I needed.
"Mrs. Holland," I said, my voice carrying across the room without needing to rise. "Did I hear you correctly? You, one of Lady Beatrice's closest friends, are standing here... devaluing her painting?"
Evelyn's smile faltered. Just slightly, but enough that I knew I'd landed the first hit.
"I—no, that's not what I—"
"Because it certainly sounded like you were suggesting it's not worth fifty million." I tilted my head, letting a faint note of confusion creep into my tone, as if I genuinely couldn't understand why she'd say such a thing. "Or were you implying something else?"
"I just meant—" Evelyn's face was flushing now, a deep, uncomfortable red creeping up from her collar. "Fifty million is... it's an extraordinary sum. Paintings of that value are rare, and—"
"Rare, yes," I agreed smoothly. "Which is exactly why this one qualifies."
Beatrice let out a soft laugh, the sound low and rich, and reached over to pat Evelyn's shoulder with a familiarity that somehow made the gesture feel condescending. Then she turned that sharp, assessing gaze back to me, her expression cooling into something far more skeptical.
"Evelyn does have a point, Miss Vance," she said, her accent clipping the words with aristocratic precision. "Fifty million is... let's call it optimistic. Wouldn't you agree?"
The women around her laughed, a ripple of amusement that felt like a wave closing in. A few of them were already turning toward the exit, clearly ready to dismiss me entirely and move on with their evening. I could feel it slipping away again—the attention, the opportunity, everything I'd risked by walking into this room in the first place.
So I raised my voice. Not shouting, but loud enough to cut through the noise, sharp enough to make them all stop.
"Looking at you all, anyone would think you'd rather Lady Beatrice's painting be worthless than valuable."
The laughter died. Instantly. Every single woman froze, their expressions shifting from smug amusement to something far more uncertain, and I felt a vicious little thrill of satisfaction curl in my chest. Got you.
I turned back to Beatrice, letting my tone soften into something almost conspiratorial. "Lady Beatrice, I think you know better than anyone in this room just how much potential that painting has. And I'm the person who can help you unlock it."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, and for a moment, I saw something flicker there—recognition, maybe, or the faint sting of being caught. She didn't confirm it, didn't deny it, but the fact that she didn't immediately shut me down told me everything I needed to know.
I started to move again, pacing slowly along the edge of the room, my fingers trailing lightly over the back of a velvet chair as I spoke. Let them watch. Let them wonder. I'd learned a long time ago that people paid more attention when you made them work for it.
"Legend has it," I began, pitching my voice just loud enough to carry, "that Monet painted The Crimson Water Lilies at Midnight during the final days before his blindness became complete. His retina was hemorrhaging. He was losing his vision, his world collapsing into darkness, and in those last moments of clarity, he tried to capture what he saw."