Chapter 128
Serena
The city lights blurred past the tinted windows as Vincent navigated through late-night Manhattan traffic, the wrapped painting secured in the back seat like a sleeping giant.
I leaned my head against the cool glass, watching the reflections of neon signs dance across my face, feeling the adrenaline slowly drain from my system and leave behind a bone-deep exhaustion that felt oddly satisfying.
"I can't believe it," Vincent said, his voice cutting through the comfortable silence. He shook his head, eyes fixed on the road ahead, but I could see the corner of his mouth twitching with barely suppressed amusement. "Lady Beatrice just let you walk out of there with a painting worth millions. Based on nothing but your word."
I couldn't help the laugh that escaped, though it came out more breathless than I'd intended. "Well," I said, shifting in my seat to face him, "it wasn't just my word." The weight of what I'd done settled over me again, but instead of fear, I felt something closer to exhilaration.
"If I fail—if I can't deliver on this promise—I'll be finished in their circles. You know how small New York really is, Vincent. These women, they're the center of everything that matters in this city. One word from Beatrice, and Vance Heritage won't just be struggling—it'll be dead and buried."
Vincent's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, and when he glanced at me through the rearview mirror, his expression was unreadable. "You don't sound worried," he said slowly, as if testing the waters. "You sound—" He paused, searching for the right word.
"What?" I prompted, genuinely curious about how he perceived this reckless gamble I'd just made.
"Like you don't care about the outcome," he said finally, his voice thoughtful. "Like what matters to you is proving you can build something real with your own two hands. Like the risk doesn't scare you—it makes you feel alive."
I blinked at him, momentarily speechless. Then I laughed, this time with genuine delight. "Vincent, you've got a bodyguard's build and a mind that actually reads people," I said, shaking my head. "If things don't work out with Lance, come work for me instead."
He grinned at that, but shook his head. "Lance would kill me. Slowly." The humor faded from his voice, replaced by something more serious. "Speaking of which—where to now? Should we head to his place? You know he'll be thrilled when he hears about tonight."
The mention of Lance sent a warm flutter through my chest that I immediately tried to suppress. I could picture his reaction when he learned what I'd accomplished—that particular intensity in his eyes when I surprised him, the slight quirk of his lips that passed for approval in his carefully controlled world.
He'd be proud of me, in that restrained way of his, the kind of pride he rarely allowed himself to show.
But making him wait, making him wonder whether I'd pulled it off—that was too tempting to resist.
"Not yet," I said, settling back into my seat with deliberate casualness. "Let him stew in that anticipation. Let him wonder whether I pulled it off." I paused, then added with a small smile, "Delayed gratification builds character."
Vincent's laugh was low and knowing. "You're cruel."
"I'm practical," I corrected. "Take me to Dr. Harrison's place."
The shift in Vincent's posture was immediate—surprise, followed by understanding, then something that looked almost like respect. He didn't question the decision, just adjusted our route without another word. That was one of the things I appreciated about him: he knew when to push and when to simply execute.
Harrison's townhouse was tucked into a quiet street in the West Village, the kind of address that whispered old money and academic prestige rather than shouting it. Warm light spilled from the windows, and I could see the silhouette of bookshelves lining the walls even from the street.
Vincent helped me carefully extract the wrapped painting from the car, and we made our way up the stone steps to the front door.
Harrison answered on the second knock, his face lighting up the moment he saw me. "Serena!" He stepped back to let us in, practically vibrating with curiosity. "I wasn't expecting you tonight—what a delightful surprise." His eyes tracked to the wrapped package in Vincent's arms, and his expression shifted to something more intense, more focused. "Is that—?"
"Yes," I said simply, following him into a study that smelled of leather and old paper and expensive coffee.
The room was everything I'd imagined it would be—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, comfortable armchairs arranged around a fireplace, and a large worktable in the center that was currently covered with what looked like auction catalogs and academic journals.