Chapter 14
Serena
I turned back to Vanessa, letting my gaze travel deliberately from her overwrought Balmain blazer to her stack of Cartier bangles to her four-inch Louboutins that screamed trying too hard.
"You know," I said pleasantly, "there's a reason true collectors prefer Vermeer's old masters over whatever rolled off a fashion house assembly line last month." I gestured to the painting behind me. "Classics have soul. Substance. They appreciate in value. But new money—" I let my eyes linger on her outfit. "New money just sees the price tag and assumes it equals taste."
Vanessa's face flushed scarlet. "You fucking—"
"As for you." I turned to Wesley, and God, the satisfaction of watching him flinch was almost worth three years of hell. "Reconciliation? With a twenty-four-year-old man who still needs his uncle to sign his allowance checks? Please. I have standards now."
"Watch your mouth," Wesley snarled, stepping forward.
"Or what?" I laughed. "You'll run to Lance and cry about how mean I'm being? Tell me, Wesley, what exactly is your title at Lawson Capital? 'Junior Associate to the Assistant Director of Special Projects'?" I made air quotes. "That's code for 'make-work position so the family doesn't have to admit you're useless,' right?"
His hands clenched into fists. "My father left me—"
"Your father left you a trust fund with conditions because he knew exactly what you were." The words came out sharp, surgical. "A waste. A disappointment. Someone who'd blow through millions in a year if given the chance. That's why everything's locked until you're thirty, Wesley. Not because he loved you. Because he didn't trust you not to destroy his legacy."
The color drained from his face.
"You know what's really funny?" I continued, riding the wave of furious liberation. "I used to think there was something wrong with me. That I wasn't good enough to be seen with you in public. That I needed to be grateful you tolerated me." I stepped closer, and he actually backed up. "But you're not a catch. You're just a name. And without Lawson Capital bankrolling your lifestyle, you're nothing."
Silence crashed through the gallery.
Then Vanessa exploded.
"YOU FUCKING BROKE BITCH!" Her voice echoed off the vaulted ceilings, high and shrill. Security guards' heads snapped in our direction. "Do you have ANY idea how much my family makes in a year? My father closed a deal last month that's worth more than your entire pathetic bloodline! You're wearing CONSIGNMENT and you think you can lecture ME about taste?"
She was unraveling. Perfect.
"Don't let that bitch get to you!" Wesley grabbed her arm, his voice dropping to a vicious hiss. "You can't deal with trash like her by talking."
"No! I'm not letting some bankrupt nobody insult me in PUBLIC!" Spittle flew from her perfectly glossed lips. "Your family's so desperate they're selling YOU like livestock! At least I'm worth something! At least I—"
"Enough." Wesley's voice went flat. He turned to me with the slow, deliberate movement of someone who'd already made up his mind. The look in his eyes was pure hatred. His right hand curled into a fist.
I didn't move. Didn't step back. Didn't even blink.
Let him. Let him show everyone exactly who he was.
His arm drew back—
"Wesley."
Eleanor's voice cut through the chaos like a blade wrapped in silk.
She was smiling. Actually smiling, as if she'd just witnessed something mildly amusing rather than her nephew about to commit assault in a museum.
"What on earth are you doing?" She stepped between us with the kind of authority that made Wesley's fist freeze mid-swing. "This young lady and I have business to discuss. Surely you weren't about to interrupt that with something as pedestrian as violence?"
Wesley's mouth opened and closed. "Eleanor, she—"
"And you." Eleanor turned to Vanessa with the same pleasant smile that somehow managed to be utterly withering. "Miss Holland. I'm certain your father didn't raise you to shriek like a fishwife in one of New York's finest cultural institutions. This is the Frick Collection, not some Meatpacking District nightclub. Perhaps you'd be more comfortable elsewhere?"
Vanessa's face went from red to white. "Mrs. Lloyd-Lawson, I—"
"I believe you were just leaving." Eleanor's tone allowed no argument.
Wesley grabbed Vanessa's arm. "We're going."
"But she—" Vanessa sputtered.
"This is my uncle's stepmother," Wesley muttered, low and tight. "Even Lance doesn't cross her. We're leaving." He shot me one last venomous look. "I'll deal with you later, you manipulative little—"
"I look forward to it," I said sweetly.
They left. Vanessa's heels clicking furiously against marble, Wesley's shoulders rigid with barely contained rage. A security guard trailed them to the exit, just to be sure.
Eleanor watched them go, still wearing that small, satisfied smile.
Then she turned to me.
"Come."