Chapter 4
Serena
"That's different and you know it—"
"Why? Because you're a man? Because you're a Lawson?" I tilted my head, studying him like a bug under glass. "Or is it because deep down, you know the real difference? You lied. You snuck around. You made me look like a fool at every social event in New York while you paraded your mistress in front of everyone who mattered."
"She's not my—"
"I don't lie." Each word landed like a hammer blow. "If I don't love someone, I don't fake it. I don't string them along for three years while I build my real relationship in the shadows. I don't make them pick up my dry cleaning while I'm texting someone else. I'm not you, Wesley. I could never be that cruel."
His hand shot out, gripping my arm hard enough to bruise. "You're going to shut your fucking mouth right now before—"
"Before what?" I wrenched my arm free, surprising both of us with the violence of it. "Before you hit me? Go ahead. Show Vanessa what kind of man you really are. Show her the temper you've been so good at hiding from everyone but me."
"Serena, you're being hysterical—" Vanessa tried.
"No." I rounded on her, watching her perfect composure falter. "I'm being honest for the first time in three years. You want to know what's really hysterical? My parents locking me in a room when I was seventeen and explaining that my only value was marrying well. That our family's debts could only be paid with my future."
Wesley's face shifted, some of the rage giving way to confusion. Good. Let him see what he'd been too self-absorbed to notice.
"My sister—my own sister—telling me I should be grateful Wesley even looked at me after what happened to our family. That women like us, from fallen families, we don't get to choose. We get to survive."
The words were tumbling out now, three years of carefully maintained silence cracking open like a dam.
"So I played the part. The good girlfriend. The understanding one who didn't mind being kept secret because 'the timing wasn't right' or 'his grandfather wouldn't approve' or whatever other bullshit excuse you fed me that week." My voice was rising, echoing off the hallway walls.
"I learned to smile when you introduced Vanessa as your friend. To pretend I didn't see her hand on your thigh under the table. To act grateful for whatever scraps of attention you threw my way between fucking her."
"That's not—we weren't—" Wesley sputtered.
"But tonight?" I took another step forward, forcing him to retreat. The hunter becoming the hunted. "Tonight I learned something revolutionary. Want to know what it is?"
He just stared at me, mouth working soundlessly.
"Turns out there are men in this world who aren't disgusting, lying, mediocre wastes of space." I let my gaze drift over him with deliberate contempt. "Men who are six-foot-three with shoulders that could carry the world. Men whose faces look like they were carved by Michelangelo. Men who know how to smile—really smile—in a way that makes your entire body forget how to function."
Wesley's face had gone from red to purple. "You fucking—"
"So thank you." I smiled sweetly, savoring every second of his rage. "Both of you. For showing me exactly what I was settling for. For teaching me that I deserve better than your scraps."
"Better?" He choked out a bitter laugh. "You think you deserve better? You're nothing, Serena. Your family is bankrupt. You have no prospects, no connections that aren't through me—"
"Wesley." My voice cut through his rant like a knife. "We're done. Over. Finished. Consider this our official breakup."
"Breakup?" His eyes went wild, spittle flying as he screamed. "YOU DON'T GET TO DUMP ME! You're nothing without me! You'll do whatever the fuck I say, whenever I say it, because that's the arrangement our families made—"
He lunged again, this time with clear intent to hurt.
I didn't have time to move.
"EXCUSE ME." A sharp, authoritative voice cracked through the hallway like a whip. "What exactly is going on here?"
We all froze.
A man in an impeccable suit—clearly hotel management—stood at the end of the corridor, flanked by two massive security guards. His expression was the perfect blend of professional concern and barely concealed disgust.
"Sir." He addressed Wesley with the kind of ice-cold courtesy reserved for people causing scenes in five-star hotels. "I'm going to have to ask you to step away from the lady and lower your voice. The other guests are complaining about the disturbance."
Wesley's fist was still raised, his face contorted with rage.
The manager's eyes flicked to me—disheveled, clearly shaken—then back to Wesley. His expression hardened.
"Now, sir. Or I'll be forced to call the police."