Chapter 19
Lance
The city sprawled beneath my office window like a chessboard of light and shadow. Thirty floors down, Manhattan hummed with its usual nocturnal energy—cars honking, people rushing, deals being made in dimly lit bars. Up here, silence reigned.
I preferred it that way.
My fingers drummed against the mahogany desk—once, twice—before I forced them still. Control. Always control.
Except I couldn't stop thinking about her.
Serena Vance, standing in my conference room this morning with a file folder clutched against her chest and that damned coffee in her trembling hands. She'd looked terrified. Apologetic. The perfect picture of a flustered first-day employee.
But her eyes...
Those dark, defiant eyes had told a completely different story.
There'd been calculation behind that nervous flutter. Ambition beneath that stammered apology. The way she'd held my gaze for half a second too long—challenging me even while playing the submissive role Patricia had scripted for her.
It reminded me of myself at twenty-four, walking into my first board meeting as the newly appointed CEO. Every director in that room had expected me to fail, to crumble under the weight of my father's legacy and my grandfather's manipulation.
I'd gutted half of them within six months.
A sharp knock interrupted my thoughts.
"Come in."
Vincent entered, tablet in hand, his expression carefully neutral. My head of security knew better than to show emotion in my presence—I paid him seven figures a year precisely because he could read a room and keep his mouth shut.
"Sir." He closed the door behind him with a soft click. "You wanted to know how Miss Vance gained employment here."
I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled beneath my chin. "I assume you found the answer?"
"Your stepmother." Vincent's tone was utterly flat. "Eleanor Lloyd-Lawson used her board influence to create the position and expedite Miss Vance's hiring. Directly into your department."
A laugh escaped before I could stop it—cold, humorless. "My stepmother? The volatile widow everyone's too terrified to approach?" I shook my head, genuinely impressed despite myself. "Serena Vance convinced Eleanor to help her infiltrate Lawson Capital? And got herself placed directly under my supervision?"
"Apparently so, sir."
"Ballsy." The word came out almost admiringly.
Vincent's eyebrow quirked. "You don't sound upset."
I shot him a look that could've frozen nitrogen. "Don't presume to tell me how I sound."
"Of course not, sir." But the corner of his mouth twitched. The bastard was enjoying this. "There's also the matter of Miss Lewis."
"Patricia?"
"Her treatment of Miss Vance today appears... orchestrated. Someone may have encouraged her to make things difficult for the new hire."
My jaw tightened. Office politics. The one thing I despised more than incompetence. "And you think I should intervene?"
"I'm simply presenting the facts—"
"She joined this company," I cut him off sharply, "which means she signed up for everything that comes with it. If Serena Vance can't handle Patricia Lewis and her petty power plays, she can tender her resignation tomorrow morning."
Vincent nodded slowly, his expression suggesting he'd expected exactly that answer. "Understood, sir." He glanced down at his tablet. "I also took the liberty of compiling her background information. Shall I—"
"Did I ask you to investigate her?"
He froze mid-swipe, finger hovering over the screen.
I stared at him. He stared back.
Then my gaze dropped to the tablet despite every instinct screaming at me to dismiss him, to maintain my carefully constructed indifference, to not give a damn about Serena Vance's history or motivations or the particular shade of determination in her eyes when she'd handed me that wrong coffee this morning.
A photo materialized on the screen Vincent had already turned toward me. Teenage Serena, maybe seventeen, wearing a Brearley School uniform and a genuine smile. Her hair was longer then, pulled back in a ponytail. She looked... young. Unburdened. Happy.
Nothing like the woman I'd met at The Sovereign.
"Since you already compiled it," I said icily, "you might as well brief me."
Vincent's expression didn't change, but I knew that internally, he was smirking. Smug bastard.
"Graduated from Brearley School—top five percent of her class. Full scholarship to Parsons School of Design, double major in Fine Arts and Art Business. Graduated summa cum laude. Her senior thesis on contemporary art market dynamics was published in Art Forum and cited in three academic journals."
I felt my eyebrows rise despite myself. "Impressive."
"Very." Vincent scrolled down. "She was being recruited by Christie's and Sotheby's for their analyst programs when her family's financial situation imploded. Father's gambling debts, failed investments. The Vance Art Heritage fund collapsed."
"And she got sold off to my nephew instead of pursuing her career."
"Not... sold, exactly." Vincent's tone was carefully diplomatic. "But Wesley needed a fiancée to access the marriage clause in his trust fund. The Vance family needed capital. It was a transaction that benefited both parties."
"Except Serena herself."
Vincent was quiet for a moment, his fingers stilling on the tablet. Then: "Forgive the overreach, sir, but I've rarely seen such a stark reversal." He hesitated, then continued. "Before nineteen, she was a rising star—published scholar, recruited by Christie's and Sotheby's. Then came the past three years..."
He closed the tablet with a soft click. "The least like herself she's ever been."
"Well." My voice came out quieter than intended. "She's reclaiming it now."
Then I stood abruptly. "Enough. We're leaving."
We walked in silence through the executive floor. Most offices were dark now—even the most ambitious analysts had gone home hours ago. The only sound was our footsteps against marble, the soft hum of the HVAC system.
Then I saw it.
A single pool of light at the far end of the twenty-ninth floor, emanating from a cubicle buried in the corner. The worst desk placement in the entire department—furthest from windows, closest to the break room noise, zero privacy.
Patricia's idea of a welcome, no doubt.
"Why is she still here?" The question emerged before I could stop it.
Vincent's response was maddeningly casual. "You did say you wouldn't help her, sir. Miss Lewis assigned her approximately forty hours of cross-referencing work. Due tomorrow morning."
Forty hours. For a first-day employee.
Vindictive bitch.
"So?" I kept my voice flat. "People work late. It happens."
"Of course, sir."
We reached the elevator. I jabbed the call button harder than necessary.
"It's cold tonight," I said, not looking at Vincent. "Long hours require proper fuel. Tell the executive dining hall to prepare something substantial."
"For yourself, sir?"
I shot him a look that could have stripped paint. "I don't eat after nine. You know that."
A beat of silence.
"Then who—"
"Figure it out, Vincent." I leaned against the elevator wall, suddenly exhausted. "I'll be in the car."
"Of course." His voice was utterly professional, but I caught the knowing glint in his eye. "I'll ensure this meal is delivered to the appropriate recipient."
"See that you do."