Chapter 23
Serena
The hallway went silent. Every employee who'd been watching the spectacle—the torn papers, the grabbing, the gossip—collectively inhaled.
Lance didn't need to raise his voice. He didn't need to do anything except exist in that space, and the power dynamic shifted like a tectonic plate.
Wesley felt it too. His entire body went rigid. He tried to yank his hand free from Vincent's grip—tried and failed. Vincent's fingers remained locked around his wrist like a steel trap, unmoved.
"Uncle—" Wesley's voice cracked. "I wasn't—I didn't mean—"
"Weren't you supposed to be in Asset Management?" Lance's voice was arctic. Each word precisely enunciated, cutting through the air like a scalpel. "What are you doing in my department, Wesley? Assaulting my employee in a public corridor?"
Wesley's face flushed crimson. "Uncle, I was just—just scaring her a little. Playing around. We're not—it's not what it looks like. We're together. Boyfriend and girlfriend. You know that—"
"Ex-boyfriend," I snapped, finding my voice. "Ex."
Lance's eyes slid to me. Gray-blue. Unreadable.
And suddenly, against all logic, I felt a surge of hope.
This was Lance Lawson. The man who'd protected me at The Sovereign. Who'd sent Vincent to my house. Who'd ordered meals to my desk at midnight. This was the man who'd held absolute power in that boardroom when he demoted Patricia.
Justice. Authority. Protection.
I straightened my spine. Clutched the now-empty folder against my chest like armor.
"Sir." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I have a report. About embezzlement within the company. It concerns Global Procurement. It's about your cou—"
"And you."
Lance's voice cut through mine like a blade.
I froze.
"You've been with this company for less than forty-eight hours," he continued, his tone flat, clinical. "And you're presenting me with a report on Global Procurement? One of our largest operational divisions?" His eyes narrowed fractionally. "Please don't manufacture scandals to get my attention, Miss Vance. I don't appreciate theatrics."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Around me, the whispers started immediately.
"Knew it. She's just trying to sleep her way up."
"Pathetic. Making up corporate fraud accusations?"
"Forty-eight hours and she thinks she can play investigator?"
"Daddy's girl doesn't know how real companies work."
Wesley's smile widened into something triumphant. "Exactly, Uncle. She doesn't have clearance to access those files. What level is she? Junior analyst? And she's accusing senior management of fraud?" He laughed, sharp and cruel. "She's just making things up."
But I barely heard him.
I was staring at Lance. At that perfectly composed face. That mask of absolute authority.
The hope drained out of me like water through a sieve.
Fuck.
Of course. Of course family came first. Of course a man like Lance Lawson—heir to an empire, protector of the family name—wouldn't let some nobody analyst accuse his own cousin of embezzlement.
What had I been thinking?
That he'd actually help me? That the brief flashes of tenderness I'd seen—the protective gestures, the midnight meals—meant I mattered more than bloodlines and quarterly earnings?
Fuck.
I'd been so stupid. So pathetically, desperately stupid.
I was a junior analyst. Barely employed for two days. And I'd just tried to report one of the company's largest shareholders—Lance's own cousin—for fraud.
"Miss Vance has been quite the disruption since she arrived."
Patricia's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. She materialized at the edge of the crowd, her expression a careful blend of concern and disapproval. "I've tried to be patient, Mr. Lawson, truly. But she hasn't completed a single assignment properly. She's been antagonistic toward senior staff. And now this—" She gestured at the scattered paper scraps on the floor. "Fabricating fraud allegations? I'm afraid she's simply not suited for this work environment."
The crowd murmured agreement. I could feel their eyes on me—judging, condemning, already writing me off.
My hands curled into fists.
Two days. I'd lasted two fucking days before they buried me.
"Uncle." Wesley's voice dripped with false concern. "Maybe this just isn't the right fit for Serena. She's—well, you know. She doesn't really have the background for corporate work. It's not her fault."
The condescension in his tone made my blood boil.
Fuck this. Fuck all of them.
If I was going down, I wasn't going down quiet.
I opened my mouth—prepared to unleash every piece of evidence I'd memorized, prepared to scream the truth even if no one would listen—
"You're right."
Lance's voice silenced the entire hallway.
Every whisper died. Every movement stopped.
He took one step forward, his presence commanding absolute attention.
"This work isn't suited for Miss Vance." Each word dropped like a stone into still water. "A Yale graduate with dual degrees in Fine Arts and Economics—" His eyes remained fixed on some point beyond the crowd, as though the entire spectacle bored him. "—doing clerical work."
He paused. Let the weight of that sink in.
"Waste of a quarter-million-dollar education. I don't tolerate inefficiency."
Wait.
What?