Chapter 51
Serena
The apartment smelled like takeout Thai food and Chloe's expensive candles—some ridiculous scent called "Midnight in Paris" that probably cost more than my grocery budget for a month.
I was sprawled on her oversized sofa, a glass of wine in one hand, staring at the flat-screen TV where some reality show couple was having a dramatic breakup. Chloe sat beside me, her legs tucked under her, occasionally offering commentary on the contestants' poor life choices.
But I couldn't focus.
Felix's story kept playing on loop in my mind. That woman—brilliant, ambitious, twenty-six years old—falling through twenty-three floors of empty air. Felix attending her funeral. Sending flowers. Playing the grieving mentor while her father's company lay in ruins.
The fear I'd felt in my office had slowly curdled into something else. Something hotter.
Rage.
Because that woman could have been me. Three years ago, desperate and naive, I would have eaten up every word Felix fed me. Would have trusted him completely. Would have become just another piece in whatever game he was playing.
My phone was in my hand before I'd consciously decided to pick it up. My fingers moved across the screen, typing out a message to Lance before I could second-guess myself:
I can't stop thinking about that woman who fell. She was my age. She trusted him. I want to help you take Felix down—I don't care what it takes.
I hit send.
Then stared at the screen, my heart hammering.
Three dots appeared immediately. He was typing.
Then: ???
Just three question marks. No context. No elaboration.
I frowned, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Was that confusion? Surprise? Dismissal?
I started typing again: I'm serious. That woman deserved better. And if Felix is still out there hurting people—
"Who are you texting?"
I jumped, nearly dropping my phone. Chloe was leaning over, trying to peek at my screen with undisguised curiosity.
"No one!" I pulled the phone against my chest defensively.
"Bullshit." Chloe's grin was wicked. "Your face has been doing this whole emotional rollercoaster thing for the past five minutes. Happy, then angry, then determined, then—" She gasped dramatically. "Oh my God. Are you texting Lance?"
Heat flooded my face. "I don't know what you're—"
"You are! You're texting the Ice King!" She sat up fully now, abandoning all pretense of watching TV. "This is amazing. Wait—weren't we supposed to be discussing his bedroom performance? You never finished telling me about your steamy night at his place!"
"There was no steamy night," I said, taking a long sip of wine to avoid her penetrating gaze. "We slept in separate rooms. Very separate. Like, different floors separate."
Chloe's expression shifted from excitement to deep disappointment. "Are you kidding me? You were at his penthouse. Alone. With Manhattan's hottest CEO. And you're telling me nothing happened?"
"Well..." I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. "The bedroom performance discussion was purely theoretical. You know, hypothetical analysis. No actual field research conducted."
"Oh my God." Chloe flopped back against the sofa dramatically. "I knew it. I fucking knew it." She shook her head like I'd personally betrayed her. "Do you know how many women in New York would kill for a chance with Lance Lawson? Literally kill. I've seen women at galas practically throwing themselves at him, and he just walks past them like they're furniture."
"Well, I'm not them." I took another sip of wine, unable to keep the smirk off my face.
Chloe's eyes narrowed. "Okay, I'll bite. What makes you so different?"
I set down my glass, considering how to phrase this. "Those women? They all play the same game. Pretending they're interested in his brilliant mind, his business acumen, his 'vision for the future.'" I made air quotes with my fingers. "They dress up their lust in respectability, act like they're above wanting him just for his body." I shrugged. "I'm not doing that."
"You're not—wait, what?" Chloe blinked at me.
"I'm being honest." I picked up my wine again, swirling it casually. "I think he's gorgeous. That face, that body, the whole brooding intensity thing he's got going on—it's insanely attractive. And yeah, I want to sleep with him. I'm not going to pretend otherwise or wrap it up in some intellectual justification."
Chloe stared at me for a long moment, her mouth slightly open. "You're just...saying it? Out loud? Like that?"
"Why not?" I grinned. "It's the truth. And honestly, I think that's exactly why I'll succeed where they fail. They're so busy trying to seem sophisticated and unaffected that they come off as fake. Lance isn't stupid—he can see right through that performance." I leaned back against the cushions.
"Me? I'm not performing. If I want him, I'll let him know. No games, no pretense."
"So you're just going to...what, march up to him and announce you want to jump his bones?"
"God, no." I laughed. "I said I'm honest, not tactless. There's an art to this." I paused, then added with deliberate nonchalance, "Besides, I will sleep with him eventually. That's inevitable. But what's the rush?" I met her eyes, my smile turning slightly wicked.
"The anticipation is half the fun. Watching him try to maintain that famous self-control while I slowly dismantle it? That's the interesting part. A goal that's too easy isn't worth having."