Chapter 126
Serena
Evelyn froze. For a heartbeat, maybe two, she stood there like a statue, her mouth half-open as if words might still save her. They didn't. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until she finally turned on her heel and fled, heels clicking frantically against the marble floor. The sound echoed through the ballroom like gunshots, each step a testament to her humiliation.
The other women didn't need to be told twice. Within moments, the room emptied in a flurry of whispered excuses and hurried goodbyes, designer handbags clutched like shields as they scattered.
I stood there in the sudden quiet, my heart still hammering, my palms damp against the leather of my briefcase. I'd done it. I'd actually done it. But the battle wasn't over—not by a long shot.
Beatrice turned to me, and the fury I'd expected to see in her eyes was gone, replaced by something sharper, more calculating. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, not warm exactly, but appreciative. She gestured toward a side door with the casual authority of someone who'd spent a lifetime commanding rooms. "Come."
I followed her into a smaller, more intimate space—a sitting room decorated in shades of cream and gold, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. Beatrice moved with the unhurried grace of a woman who knew time bent to her will, not the other way around. She gestured for me to sit on a velvet settee, then crossed to a sleek espresso machine tucked into a mahogany cabinet.
"You have guts, I'll give you that," she said, her back to me as she worked the machine with the precision of someone who'd done this a thousand times. "Most people would've tucked tail and run after that little stunt Evelyn pulled."
I lowered myself onto the settee, setting my briefcase beside me with deliberate care. "Running wasn't an option."
"Clearly." She turned, holding two delicate porcelain cups, steam curling lazily from each. She set one in front of me on the low table, then settled into the chair across from me, crossing her legs with practiced elegance.
Up close, I could see the faint lines around her eyes, the slight looseness of the skin on her hands, but her posture was ramrod straight, her gaze as sharp as broken glass. She was seventy-something going on ageless, and she knew it.
"You're still stunning," I said, my voice soft but genuine. "You were a beauty in my grandfather's era, and now... you're still the center of gravity in every room you enter. Those women orbit you like planets around the sun."
Her lips twitched, and for a moment, I thought she might laugh. Instead, she took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes never leaving mine. When she set the cup down, the smile was still there, but muted, controlled. "Vance," she said, my surname rolling off her tongue like a verdict. "I didn't take you for a flatterer."
"I'm not flattering you," I said, meeting her gaze head-on. "I'm stating facts."
"Hmm." She leaned back in her chair, studying me the way a jeweler might study a diamond—looking for flaws, for cracks, for anything that might diminish the value. "Well then, Miss Vance, let's cut through the pleasantries and talk about what you're really here for. You mentioned a fifty-million-dollar painting. I assume you're ready to make an offer?"
She took another sip, and this time, I saw it—the faint gleam of greed in her eyes, barely masked by her aristocratic composure. She wanted this. Badly.
I uncrossed my legs, leaning forward just enough to shift the dynamic. My voice was calm, measured, but there was an edge to it now, a sharpness I'd learned from Lance. "Actually," I said, "I'm not here to buy your painting."
Beatrice choked. Coffee sputtered halfway to her lips, and she swallowed hard, her face contorting as she fought not to spray espresso across the table. I half-rose, instinctively reaching toward her, but she waved me off with a sharp gesture, her hand trembling slightly as she set the cup down with a clatter.
"Excuse me?" Her voice was cold now, the warmth evaporated like morning dew. "You're not here to buy it?"