Chapter 64
Lance
The words left my mouth before I'd fully processed the scene—Wesley's hand wrapped around Serena's wrist, her body pressed back against the chair, the ugly flush of rage on his face. "Wesley! What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
My voice cut through the office like a whip crack, and I watched my nephew's face drain of color in an instant, that familiar cocktail of fear and resentment flooding his features. Good. He should be afraid.
The grip on Serena's wrist loosened immediately, his hand dropping as if her skin had burned him, but there was something different this time—a hesitation, a beat of defiance before his shoulders curled inward in that practiced posture of submission.
"Uncle Lance," he said, the title falling from his lips like an apology he didn't mean. His eyes darted between Serena and me, calculating, and I recognized that look. I'd seen it in boardrooms when desperate men were cornered with no good options left.
Serena moved the instant she was free, crossing the space between us with quick, purposeful steps until she stood at my side, close enough that I could feel the residual tension radiating from her body.
The urge to reach out, to confirm she was unharmed, to pull her behind me entirely, surged through me with an intensity that should have been alarming. I locked it down, channeling it into the cold fury I directed at Wesley instead.
"I asked you a question." My tone could have frozen steel. "What are you doing in Ms. Vance's office?"
Wesley's jaw worked, and I watched him struggle with whatever script he'd prepared, whatever excuse he thought might work. "I wasn't—it's not what you think. I just needed to talk to her about—"
"About what, exactly?" I took a step forward, not missing how he flinched. "About why you felt entitled to put your hands on her?"
"I didn't—" He stopped, swallowed hard. "Uncle Lance, I came to discuss a family matter. Her parents, they—"
"Leave." The word came out flat, final. "I don't allow you to set foot in her office again."
Something shifted in Serena's posture beside me, a softening I felt more than saw, and the knowledge that my intervention mattered to her sent an unwelcome warmth through my chest.
But Wesley wasn't moving. For the first time in years, he stood his ground, and I felt my anger crystallize into something sharper, more dangerous. The boy I'd raised—poorly, evidently—was looking at me with an expression I'd never seen before. Defiant. Almost contemptuous.
"No," he said quietly, and the single syllable hung in the air like a declaration of war. "You don't have the authority to keep me away from her."
The audacity of it struck me silent for a heartbeat. This was the same man-child who'd cowered at every stern word I'd ever spoken, who'd learned to read my moods and adjust his behavior accordingly, who'd spent a decade walking on eggshells around me. And now, here, over this woman, he was choosing to grow a spine?
"Is that so?" I kept my voice level, clinical, even as fury coiled in my gut. The kind of fury that came from watching something you'd tried to build—however poorly—crumble into rubble.
Wesley's chin lifted, and I saw the tremor in it, the fear he was trying to mask with bravado. "I came to discuss her parents' debt. You know about it—the money they owe. They can't pay it back, and they asked me to speak with Serena." He glanced at her, something ugly flickering across his face. "After all, they're family."
"Like hell they are!" Serena's voice cracked like a gunshot, sharp and immediate. "Who the fuck said I'm family with them? Their debts have nothing to do with me!"
Wesley's mask slipped, genuine anger bleeding through. "But they're in crisis, Serena! The whole family's collapsing, and you're the only one with a stable income now. Yet here you are, acting like none of it matters. Don't you have any shame—"
"That's enough." I didn't raise my voice. Didn't need to. "You heard her. Ms. Vance has made it clear she doesn't wish to see you, doesn't wish to have any association with you, and her parents' financial disasters are certainly not grounds for you to harass her in this building."
I took another step forward, crowding into Wesley's space, forcing him to either hold his ground or retreat. He held, barely, and I saw his hands clench into fists at his sides.
"Wesley, I'm going to give you one piece of advice, for the sake of your parents' memory—the parents who died and left you in my care." The words tasted bitter, heavy with the weight of my own failures. "Stop disgracing the Lawson name. Walk away while you still can."
His head dropped, but not in defeat. I could see it in the rigid line of his spine, the way his breathing had gone shallow and rapid. This wasn't submission. This was a fire being banked, not extinguished. When he finally looked up, there was something in his eyes I'd never seen before—a coldness that mirrored my own.
"Of course, Uncle Lance," he said softly, and the smile that curved his mouth held no warmth whatsoever. "You're the one who upholds this family's honor best, after all."
He turned toward the door with deliberate slowness, each step measured, and I felt the wrongness of it settle over me like a shroud. This wasn't how Wesley moved when he was beaten. This was strategy. Retreat with purpose.
The thought surfaced unbidden: I failed him. Not just now, but years ago, when I'd chosen to give him money and distance instead of guidance, when I'd let my own damage dictate how I raised a grieving fourteen-year-old boy.
And now that failure was walking out of this office wearing my nephew's face, transformed into something I didn't recognize and couldn't predict.
At the doorway, Wesley paused, his gaze dropping to the trash can beside Serena's desk. I followed his line of sight and felt my stomach drop as he gestured toward the empty Caviar Russe container sitting there, the restaurant's distinctive logo unmistakable even crumpled.
"Uncle Lance," he said, his voice carrying a dangerous lightness. "Do you know who sent her that?"
My throat closed. The question was a trap, and I'd walked straight into it by being here, by caring enough to intervene, by letting Vincent arrange those goddamn meals in the first place. "This is a company—company policy—"
"Company policy?" Wesley's laugh was sharp, cutting. "Funny. I've worked late plenty of times over the years, and no one ever sent me three-hundred-dollar dinners." His eyes locked onto mine, and I saw the pieces clicking together in his mind, the conclusions forming. "Oh, but that's right. In your eyes, I never really worked late at all, did I? I was just out chasing women, wasting time, being useless."
"Wesley, I never said—"
"You didn't have to." He was already turning away, his shoulders shaking with something that might have been laughter or might have been something darker. "You're right, Uncle Lance. I am exactly the kind of man you think I am."
The door swung shut behind him, but his final words echoed in the sudden silence: "A complete waste of space."