Chapter 34
Lance
The dining room at the Lawson estate had always felt like a theater—chandeliers casting dramatic shadows across the mahogany table, every word a performance, every silence calculated. Tonight was no exception.
My grandfather presided at the head like some aging monarch, Eleanor to his left maintaining her usual glacial composure, Wesley picking at his food with the sullen air of a scolded child.
I hadn't touched my steak in ten minutes.
Serena had requested emergency leave this morning—family matter, her message had said. Brief. Professional. None of my business. I'd approved it without comment and returned to the acquisition proposal on my desk.
Except I'd called Vincent two hours later and told him to check on her. Discreetly. Just to confirm there wasn't anything... problematic. Security protocol, I'd told myself. She was working on a two-hundred-million-dollar project. I needed to ensure nothing was compromising her focus.
Vincent had called back at noon. She'd gone home—to her parents' house, the Vance estate in Greenwich. He'd stationed someone nearby, just in case. In case of what, I hadn't specified. He hadn't asked.
By six PM, I'd checked my phone eight times. No updates. Which should have been reassuring. Instead, the silence felt wrong—a low hum of unease I couldn't shake, growing louder as the evening wore on.
Something felt off. I couldn't articulate why, but the feeling had been gnawing at me all day.
"I'm thinking we should invite the Ashfords," Arthur was saying, swirling his wine with evident satisfaction. "Charles mentioned his daughter just returned from Paris. Studied at the Sorbonne, I believe. Very accomplished young woman."
Eleanor's knife scraped against her plate—a sound so sharp it might have been deliberate. "How thoughtful of you to take such interest in the younger generation's education."
"It's a birthday gala, Eleanor, not a funeral." My grandfather's smile didn't reach his eyes. "We're celebrating New York's finest young talent. It would be remiss not to showcase our own social circle's brightest stars."
I knew exactly where this was heading. The same choreographed dance we'd performed countless times before—Arthur dangling eligible socialites like bait, me refusing to bite, Eleanor watching the spectacle with barely concealed contempt for the institution of arranged marriages. Tonight I simply didn't have the patience for it.
"Invite whoever you want," I said, my voice flat. "But if you're planning to seat me next to another 'accomplished young woman' with matrimonial expectations, you can save yourself the trouble. I won't be participating in whatever matchmaking theater you're staging."
Arthur's expression shifted—surprise giving way to something harder, more calculating. "No one's staging anything, Lance. Though I fail to see why you're so opposed to meeting suitable—"
"Because I'm not interested." Each word came out clipped, precise. "Not in meeting them. Not in entertaining their parents' ambitions. Not in pretending I don't see exactly what game you're playing."
Wesley snorted into his wine glass. Eleanor's lips curved in what might have been approval.
"Speaking of invitations," Arthur continued, pivoting with the smooth ruthlessness that had built empires, "I've been thinking we should extend one to the Vance family. Richard and I go back years—his father and I were quite close before the unfortunate business with their finances."
The name hit me like a physical blow. I forced myself to remain perfectly still, my hand steady around the wine glass.
"The Vances?" Wesley's voice dripped with derision. "They're practically bankrupt. What's the point of inviting people who can barely afford the gas to drive here?"
"The point," Arthur said with exaggerated patience, "is that Richard has two daughters. One of whom, I understand, was recently your girlfriend. How quickly you forget your obligations, Wesley."
Wesley's face flushed. "That's over. Ancient history."
"Ancient history that ended less than one week ago." Eleanor's tone was acid. "How modern of you."
"Richard's father was a brilliant man," Arthur continued, ignoring the exchange. "Built one of the finest private art collections in the country before his son squandered it. The family may have fallen on hard times, but they were—and in some ways still are—significant players in the art world. Which is precisely why we're only sending one invitation for both daughters. No need to make them feel we're being charitable."
He turned to Wesley with a smile that made my jaw tighten. "You'll deliver it personally, of course. Tomorrow afternoon would be appropriate."
"Grandfather," Wesley said, a hint of protest in his voice, "our invitations are impossible to get. Half of New York society is begging for one. Even if you and Richard's father were close, we can't possibly invite both daughters. It sets a bad precedent—"
"Then we'll send one invitation," Arthur interrupted, as if the solution were obvious. "For the family. Let Richard decide which daughter attends. Problem solved."
Wesley muttered something under his breath but didn't argue further. "Fine. Whatever."
The thought of Wesley delivering that invitation made my jaw tighten. He'd find some way to twist it into humiliation—I knew him well enough to predict that. I was opening my mouth to suggest a courier when my phone vibrated against my thigh. Vincent's pattern.
I pulled it out under the table, angling the screen away from Arthur's sharp eyes.
Confirmed: Miss Vance at Le Bernardin with sister and Henderson. Duration: 3+ hours. Subject never arrived at family residence as stated. Awaiting instructions.
The room went cold. Three hours at Le Bernardin. With Elena—the sister who hated her. And whoever the Vances were selling her to this time.
Her "family emergency."
I was on my feet before I'd consciously decided to move.
"Lance?" Arthur's voice sharpened. "What's happened?"