Chapter 217
Lance
The last security contractor had just left my office when Vincent appeared in the doorway, balancing two espresso cups with the precision of a man who'd learned not to spill caffeine around someone with my particular brand of obsessive-compulsive tendencies.
"Final walkthrough's done," he said, setting one cup on the coaster I'd already positioned at the exact corner of my desk. "Grandfather's eightieth birthday gala will have tighter security than Fort Knox. Though I suspect the real threat won't be external intruders—more likely whatever passive-aggressive toast Uncle Marcus decides to give."
I didn't respond. My attention had already drifted to my phone, fingers moving almost unconsciously to pull up the GPS tracking app. The blue dot representing Serena's Aston Martin blinked steadily at her office building. She'd driven to that Thai restaurant in Midtown twenty minutes ago, then circled back. But now the dot was moving again, heading north.
Was she coming here? The thought surfaced before I could stop it, unwanted and far too hopeful for a man who prided himself on emotional control.
Vincent's knowing chuckle made me look up.
"That's the third time," he said, dropping into the chair across from me with zero regard for professional boundaries. "Third time in the fifteen minutes I've been in and out of this office. You've checked that GPS tracker three times, Lance."
"I'm simply—" I started, then caught myself. Cleared my throat. "Well. I'm merely concerned about her safety. You know as well as I do what kind of attention a young woman driving a car like that attracts. Beautiful, clearly wealthy, and this is New York. The crime statistics alone—"
"Oh, please." Vincent's smirk widened. "Felix's Italian friends rounded up the last of those car theft rings two weeks ago. The city's actually safer than it's been in months. So unless you're worried about what kind of attention she's attracting—specifically, which trust fund playboys might be circling that particular gallery opening right now—then I'm calling bullshit on your 'public safety' excuse."
The accuracy of his observation hit closer than I cared to admit. I'd spent the last hour imagining exactly that scenario—some smooth-talking heir with better social skills and fewer control issues striking up a conversation with her. Serena laughing at his jokes. Serena accepting his business card. Serena—
"You can leave now," I said, my tone clipped.
Vincent opened his mouth, probably to deliver another smartass comment, when my phone emitted a sharp, distinctive chime. Not a text notification. Not a call. The specific alert I'd programmed into the Aston Martin's diagnostic system.
His expression shifted instantly from amused to alert. "What was that?"
I was already pulling up the vehicle monitoring app, my pulse accelerating as the dashboard data populated on screen. Red warning indicators blinked across multiple readouts.
"Brake fluid," I said, my voice gone flat with the particular calm that only came when panic was trying to claw its way up my throat. "Hydraulic pressure showing abnormal decline."
Vincent leaned forward, his finger stabbing at a line of smaller text beneath the main warning. "Lance. Look at the timestamp. Brake fluid went from one hundred percent to sixty-two percent in—" He checked his watch. "Eight minutes. Eight minutes."
"I know what that means." I was already dialing her number, my other hand gesturing sharply at Vincent. "Get on your laptop. Now. I need real-time data feed and traffic camera access for her current route."
He moved fast, yanking out his computer while I listened to the phone ring. Once. Twice. On the third ring, Serena's voice came through, bright and unbothered.
"Hey! Miss me already?"
Every instinct screamed at me to tell her exactly how much danger she was in, but I forced my voice into something resembling control. Controlled but tight, each word carefully measured. "Where are you right now?"
"Just dropped off takeout for a colleague! Now I'm getting on FDR Drive to test out this car. Why? What's wrong?"
"Your car has a problem. Pull over immediately."
A pause. Then a laugh, warm and utterly unconcerned. "What problem? It's driving perfectly fine."
"Serena—" My jaw clenched. "Pull over. Now."
The laughter faded slightly. She must have heard something in my tone, because her next words came slower, more careful. "Lance, you're scaring me. What's going on?"
"Your brake system is failing. You need to stop the car."
"Oh!" Relief flooded her voice. "God, you scared me. I thought something was actually wrong. It's just the brakes being a little sensitive, right? New car break-in period. I've noticed they're a bit soft, but I'm getting used to—"
"It's not the break-in period." My knuckles had gone white around the phone. "The brake fluid is leaking. Actively leaking. You have maybe minutes before—"
"Wait, wait." Her tone shifted, caught between disbelief and something that might have been amusement. "Did you put monitoring software in my car? Lance Lawson, did you actually install surveillance equipment in the Aston Martin you—"