Chapter 230
Serena
The elevator ride to Lance's penthouse felt endless. I stood beside him, hyperaware of every shallow breath he took, every muscle coiled tight beneath his suit. He hadn't said a word since we left the estate. Just that white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel the entire drive back, jaw locked so hard I was afraid he'd crack a tooth.
When the elevator doors finally slid open, he walked straight to the windows overlooking the city, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The skyline glittered below us, oblivious and beautiful. I wanted to say something—anything—but every platitude died on my tongue before it could form.
Instead, I moved quietly to the kitchen, filled a glass with water. My hands were steadier than I expected. Maybe because one of us had to be.
"Lance," I said softly, approaching him with the glass. "You should—"
His hand shot out, catching my wrist. Not rough, but firm enough to stop me in my tracks. "I'm fine." His voice was low, controlled. Almost too controlled. "Don't look at me like I'm about to shatter. My mother's death doesn't get to destroy me. Not now. Not ever."
I opened my mouth to respond, but the words evaporated when I met his eyes. They were glacial, shuttered completely. The kind of cold that comes from years of practice, from building walls so high even he couldn't see over them anymore.
Arguing would be pointless. Meaningless reassurances would only insult us both.
So I did the only thing that made sense. I set the glass down on the coffee table, sat beside him on the sofa, and waited. When he didn't move, I reached up and rested my hand on his shoulder, fingers light against the tension there. He stiffened initially, that instinct to pull away, to handle everything alone. But I didn't let go. Just kept that steady pressure, that quiet insistence that he didn't have to carry this by himself.
Slowly—so slowly I almost didn't notice—he began to lean into the touch. I guided his head down to my shoulder, half-expecting him to resist. He didn't. Just let me shift him until his weight settled against me, and then further still, until he was lying with his head in my lap.
The transformation was subtle but unmistakable. That rigid control began to thaw, degree by degree. His breathing deepened. The lines around his mouth softened.
And then, impossibly, he smiled. Just a hint of one, but it was there.
"You really know how to handle me, don't you?"
I couldn't help but smile back, running my fingers through his hair. "Well, I can't let you spiral into some brooding CEO cliché. I've got to do something."
His laugh was quiet but genuine. "Fair enough."
"So," I said carefully, "can we talk about tonight now? Your mother's death—do you think Thomas was involved?"
Lance's jaw tightened, his gaze still fixed on the city lights. "Thomas spent years perfecting that dying man act—fooled everyone, including the doctors. A man like that doesn't lose control." His fingers curled slightly against his thigh. "But tonight? He couldn't maintain it. Whatever he's been hiding, he knows it's about to come out. He was behind my mother's death."
I reached for his hand instinctively, but he shook his head slightly.
"I'm fine." The words came out clipped. "Better than fine. For the first time in thirty years, I know who's responsible. I can finally give her justice."
I studied his face, the cold determination there, and felt a chill run down my spine.
After a moment, I asked quietly, "And Vanessa? Felix was behind her murder too, wasn't he?"
Something cold flickered across Lance's face. "He all but admitted it at dinner. Every word out of his mouth was a confession wrapped in theatrics—showing off exactly what he's capable of, daring anyone to call him on it."
"Christ," I breathed, the weight of it settling in my chest. "They're both cornered now. Felix and Thomas—they know you're onto them, which means they're going to come at you with everything they have."
Lance turned to face me fully, catching my hand in his. His thumb traced slow circles over my knuckles. "They won't get the chance."
"Lance—"