Chapter 36
Serena
I didn't know why I ran.
One second I was standing there in the cold, phone pressed to my ear as Chloe confirmed the photographers were on their way to document Elena's spectacular downfall. The next, I heard my name—"Serena!"—cutting through the night air with an urgency that made my heart stutter.
I looked up. Lance Lawson stood across the street, backlit by the restaurant's warm glow, his perfectly tailored suit somehow still immaculate despite the fact that he'd clearly been running. But it wasn't his appearance that stopped my breath. It was his eyes.
I'd seen Lance angry. I'd seen him cold, calculating, dismissive. I'd even seen that flash of heat in the bathtub at The Sovereign, desire barely leashed behind iron control.
But this? This was different.
He looked at me like I was something precious that had nearly slipped through his fingers. Like he'd been searching for me with the kind of desperation that didn't fit the carefully constructed machine he presented to the world.
The cold wind that had been biting at my skin suddenly felt warm, almost electric. The pleasant buzz from the wine I'd been drinking—the clean glass, not Elena's drugged one—intensified into something headier, more intoxicating.
No one had ever looked at me like that before.
And then, without conscious thought, I ran.
Maybe I wanted to see if he'd chase me. Maybe the alcohol and adrenaline and sheer absurdity of the evening had finally broken something loose inside me, some wild thing that had been caged for too long. Maybe I just needed to move, to feel my blood pumping and my heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with fear or manipulation or survival.
Whatever the reason, I took off down the alley, my heels clicking against the pavement in an erratic rhythm, and I couldn't stop the smile that spread across my face when I heard his footsteps behind me—steady, determined, gaining ground.
He was chasing me. Lance Lawson, the Ice King of Wall Street, was actually chasing me through a Manhattan alley like we were teenagers playing some ridiculous game.
I laughed—actually laughed—as I rounded a corner, my coat billowing behind me. The sound echoed off the brick walls, bright and unrestrained and probably slightly unhinged. I didn't care. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I felt genuinely, deliriously happy.
Of course, he caught me. Or rather, I let him catch me, slowing just enough that his hand could close around my wrist, spinning me around with enough force that I stumbled into his chest.
"What the hell were you thinking?" His voice was rough, breathless, and I could feel his heart hammering against my cheek where I'd landed against him. "You can't just—"
"Why were you chasing me?" I countered, pulling back just enough to look up at him. My face felt hot despite the cold air, flushed from the run and the wine and the way he was looking at me now, close enough that I could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes.
Vincent appeared at the mouth of the alley, looking considerably more disheveled than his boss but wearing an expression of poorly concealed amusement. Lance's jaw tightened.
"You came looking for me," I said slowly, the realization settling over me like warm honey. "Both of you. Specifically."
"We were in the area," Lance said stiffly, but his hand was still on my wrist, thumb pressed against my pulse point like he was confirming I was real. "Just... passing by."
Liar. The word hung unspoken between us. He'd known I was at dinner with Henderson. He'd known, and he'd come anyway, and now he was standing here pretending it was coincidence while his eyes betrayed every protective instinct he was trying to suppress.
I decided not to call him on it. Not yet.
"Oh, what a coincidence," I said lightly, letting the words drift between us like smoke. "I just finished a business dinner myself."
Lance's entire body went rigid. "Did he touch you?" The question came out sharp, almost violent, before he seemed to catch himself. His expression smoothed over, that careful mask sliding back into place. "I mean—are you alright?"
"Sir," Vincent interjected, that smile still playing at the corners of his mouth, "Miss Vance seems perfectly fine. Perhaps I should arrange a car to take her home while you—"
"No." The word came out sharper than I'd intended. I looked up at Lance. His hand was still wrapped around my wrist, warm and steady, and the concern in his eyes was unmistakable. I'd be damned if I was going to let this opportunity slip away.
I swayed slightly, catching his sleeve. "Lance, look at my face. I'm flushed, I can barely stand straight—does this look fine to you?"