Chapter 30
Serena
The private dining room at Le Bernardin was designed for discretion—floor-to-ceiling windows, a single table set for three, and the kind of hushed atmosphere where deals were made and reputations destroyed over impeccably plated seafood.
Elena had insisted we arrive separately. "Take a cab," she'd said at the house, already heading for the door. "I need to get there early—don't be late." She'd left before I could ask why a finalized contract needed her there thirty minutes early.
Now, standing in the doorway with my hand still on the brass handle, I caught it—the tail end of whispered conversation, the quick exchange of glances between Elena and the man across from her as they registered my arrival. Whatever they'd been discussing cut off mid-sentence.
I understood why she'd wanted that head start.
"Serena!" Elena's voice was too bright, too eager. She was already seated, a half-empty wine glass in front of her and a flush on her cheeks that suggested it wasn't her first. She gestured me forward with a sweep of her arm that sent her Cartier bracelet—one she'd bought two years ago, when our family still had credit—glinting in the light. "Finally! Mr. Henderson has been waiting."
The man who stood to greet me was exactly what I'd feared. Fifties, with the kind of wealth that showed in his custom suit and Patek Philippe watch, but couldn't disguise the predatory gleam in his eyes as they traveled slowly down my body. His handshake lingered too long, his palm slightly damp.
"Miss Vance." His voice was smooth, practiced. "Your father has told me so much about you. Yale, wasn't it? Art history and business? Impressive."
I extracted my hand carefully, resisting the urge to wipe it on my skirt. "Mr. Henderson. I understand we have a contract to discuss."
"All business, I see." He laughed, the sound oily. "I like that. Please, sit."
Elena had already claimed the seat across from him, leaving me the chair to his right. Close enough that his cologne—something expensive and suffocating—filled my lungs with every breath. I sat rigidly, my purse clutched in my lap like a shield.
A server appeared immediately, hovering with the silent efficiency that came with a three-star Michelin establishment. Elena was already on her second glass of wine, her cheeks flushed, her laugh too loud for the intimate space.
"So, Mr. Henderson," I began, keeping my voice level. "The contract my father mentioned—"
"Patience, Miss Vance." He settled back in his chair, entirely too comfortable. "We have all evening. First, let's enjoy ourselves. When was the last time you had a proper meal?"
The question was casual, but his eyes were calculating. Assessing. I'd seen that look before—on Wesley's face when he wanted something, on my father's when he was setting up a manipulation. My stomach turned.
"I ate lunch," I said shortly. "But I appreciate the thought. Perhaps we could review the terms while we wait for our appetizers?"
Elena kicked me under the table. Hard. When I glanced at her, her smile was fixed, brittle. "Serena, don't be rude. Mr. Henderson is being generous with his time."
"Of course." I forced my lips into something approximating a smile. "I apologize."
The server presented menus, and Henderson ordered for all of us without asking our preferences. Oysters to start. Sea bass for the main course. A bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet that probably cost more than my monthly rent at Chloe's apartment.
"You know," Elena said, leaning forward conspiratorially as the server departed, "my sister has always been the brilliant one in the family. Top of her class at Yale. Internships at the Met, the Frick. She could have had any job she wanted." She paused, her eyes glittering with something cruel. "But she chose to spend three years following around Wesley Lawson like a lost puppy instead."
Heat flooded my face. "Elena—"
"It's true!" She laughed, turning to Henderson. "Three years, Mr. Henderson. Three years of being his secret girlfriend because he was too embarrassed to introduce her to his family. Can you imagine? My brilliant sister, hiding in the shadows for a trust fund baby who couldn't even remember their anniversary."
Henderson's smile widened. "Is that so?"
"It's not—" I started, but Elena rolled right over me.
"Oh, it gets better. She gave up job offers for him. Turned down opportunities in London, Paris, New York—all because Wesley wanted her available whenever he snapped his fingers." She took another sip of wine, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. "And then he dumped her. For Vanessa Holland, no less. Left her with nothing but debt and a broken heart."
I wanted to disappear. To sink through the floor and keep falling until I hit bedrock. Every word was technically true, but the way Elena weaponized them—turning my pain into entertainment, my humiliation into proof of my desperation—made me want to scream.
"How unfortunate," Henderson murmured, his gaze fixed on me with renewed interest. The kind of interest that made my skin crawl. "But perhaps it was for the best. A woman of your talents shouldn't waste herself on someone who doesn't appreciate her."
The oysters arrived. Henderson insisted I try one, demonstrating the proper technique with a theatrical slurp. Elena giggled. I stared at the glistening shellfish on my plate and felt bile rise in my throat.
"Actually," I said carefully, setting down my fork, "I'm not particularly hungry. Perhaps we could move directly to the contract discussion? I have work early tomorrow—"
"Work?" Elena's laugh was sharp. "At Lawson Capital? Serena, I heard you only got that job because Eleanor felt sorry for you. You're a charity case."
"That's not true." My voice came out harder than I intended. "I earned that position."
"Did you?" She tilted her head, false sympathy dripping from every word. "Or did you earn it the same way you're earning this contract tonight?"
The implication hung in the air like poison gas. Henderson's smile never wavered, but something in his eyes sharpened. Focused.
"The contract," I repeated, my voice flat. "My understanding was that the terms are finalized. I just need to sign."
"Of course, of course!" Henderson laughed, but his gaze was still crawling over me. "What else would this be about? Elena's just teasing. We're all friends here." He gestured broadly. "Relax, Miss Vance. Enjoy yourself."
Then he noticed my empty glass. "But you're not drinking! What kind of host am I?" A snap of his fingers. "Service! The lady needs wine. Now."