Chapter 197
Serena
The moment Thomas finished speaking, every head in that grand hall swiveled toward Lance and me like we were exhibits in a museum suddenly spotlighted under harsh lights.
I felt the weight of dozens of eyes—curious, scandalized, calculating—boring into us from every direction, and my first instinct was pure panic. Without thinking, I jerked my head away from Lance's shoulder where I'd been leaning just seconds before, putting what I hoped was a respectable distance between us. Heat flooded my face so fast I must have turned the color of a fire engine. My cheeks burned with the kind of mortifying embarrassment that made me want to sink through the floor and disappear into the foundation of this godforsaken mansion.
But Lance—
Lance didn't move an inch.
He sat perfectly still beside me, his posture unchanged, his expression carved from stone. No flinch, no retreat, no attempt to create distance or deny the implications hanging in the air like smoke. Instead, his gaze locked onto Thomas with the kind of cold, lethal focus I'd only seen once before—in that restaurant, seconds before he'd torn into Wesley's justifications with surgical precision.
Dangerous didn't begin to cover it.
Thomas, naturally, was still talking, his voice carrying that infuriating blend of concern and manipulation that made my skin crawl. "If anyone doubts what I'm saying—"
"Please," Wesley's voice cut through the murmurs like a blade, sharp and utterly devoid of the uncertainty that used to define him, "don't insult me. Don't insult my uncle Lance. And for God's sake, don't insult Serena."
I blinked, startled by the steel in his tone. This wasn't the Wesley who used to deflect and dodge. This was someone who'd found his spine in the worst possible circumstances and decided to keep it.
Thomas's smile didn't waver—if anything, it deepened, taking on a quality that reminded me of a snake deciding whether to strike or simply watch its prey squirm a little longer. "Wesley," he said, his tone dripping with false gentleness, "when an elder is speaking, it's rather rude to interrupt before he's finished, don't you think?"
Arthur's voice boomed across the hall before Wesley could respond, the old man's shock apparently giving way to ingrained propriety. "Wesley! Mind your manners and let Thomas continue."
Thomas let the silence stretch just long enough to savor his regained control, then turned with theatrical precision to point directly at Wesley. "Wesley," he said, his voice carrying to every corner of the room, "Serena was your girlfriend for three years, wasn't she?"
Wesley's jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jump beneath his skin, frustration and something that looked almost like shame flickering across his face before he crushed it down. "Yes," he bit out, the single word heavy with resentment. "So what?"
He opened his mouth to continue—probably to defend himself, to explain, to contextualize—but Thomas raised one hand in a silencing gesture that somehow carried more authority than Arthur's shout had, and Wesley's words died in his throat.
Then Thomas pivoted, his finger swinging toward Lance with the precision of an accusation, and my stomach dropped.
"Lance," Thomas said, his smile widening as he addressed his nephew with the tone of a prosecutor who already knew the answer to his question, "you've always been a man of your word. You don't lie—it's one of your defining qualities, the reason you represent this family and our company with such distinction." He paused, letting that praise settle like a noose around Lance's neck. "So answer me honestly, in front of everyone here: Is Serena your girlfriend?"
The question hung in the air, sharp and unavoidable.
My heart hammered against my ribs so hard it hurt. I couldn't breathe. Every instinct screamed at me to look at Lance, to read his face, to brace for whatever was coming, but I couldn't make myself turn my head. Instead I stared at Thomas's smug expression and thought, Deny it. Please, Lance, just deny it. This isn't the time. If you admit it now, you hand Felix every excuse he needs.
Then I felt warmth envelop my hand.
My gaze snapped down to where Lance's fingers had closed around mine, his grip firm and unmistakable, and my breath caught. He was—he was going to—
"Well, Thomas," Lance said, his voice ringing out clear and utterly unapologetic, loud enough that every single person in that hall could hear him without straining, "you have excellent eyes. Yes, Serena is the woman I love."