Chapter 77
Serena
I stared at the screen, the words hitting me like a bucket of cold water.
"Are you seriously challenging me right now?" The words came out before I could stop them.
Chloe leaned over my shoulder, reading the message. "Oh my God. You told him last night, didn't you? That you were going to become a CEO?"
"Well..." I laughed, setting down my phone. "You know how it is when you're drunk. Everything feels so simple. So obvious. The whole blueprint just appeared in my head—resign from Lawson Corp, acquire my parents' company, rebuild my grandfather's legacy." I paused, biting my lip. "It was supposed to be a long-term plan. Like, a month or two of careful strategizing before I even—"
"But?" Chloe was watching me with that knowing look.
I picked up my phone again, reading Lance's message one more time. The challenge in those words. The implicit dare. Prove it.
My jaw tightened.
"But fuck that," I said, my fingers already flying across the keyboard. "I'm not giving Lance Lawson the satisfaction of thinking I'm all talk."
Me: Next time I walk into your office, Mr. Lawson, it'll be as a fellow CEO. Try not to look too impressed.
I hit send with more force than necessary.
Chloe burst out laughing. "Oh my God, you're incredible. You know that, right?"
"I'm about to be a lot more incredible." I was already moving, grabbing clothes from her closet—my emergency work wardrobe that I kept here. Navy blazer, crisp white blouse, the heels that meant business. "Where are my good shoes?"
"Under the bed." Chloe watched me transform from hungover mess to corporate warrior, her expression shifting from amused to impressed. "You know, I have to say—the only person who could possibly get you from 'barely alive' to 'ready to conquer Wall Street' in five minutes flat is Lance Lawson."
I paused mid-button, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Please. He's just fuel."
"Fuel?"
"Yeah. High-octane, premium-grade, annoyingly effective fuel." I grabbed my bag, checking for essentials. "The kind that makes you want to prove everyone wrong just so you can watch them eat their words."
Chloe followed me to the living room, still grinning. "That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard."
"It's not romantic. It's competitive." But I was smiling too as I grabbed the coffee she'd already poured. "Thanks for this, by the way. You're a lifesaver."
"Always." She leaned against the counter. "So... do you want backup? I could come with you. Moral support and all that."
I downed half the coffee in one gulp, then grabbed a piece of toast from the breakfast spread. "Absolutely not."
"Why not?"
"Because when I unleash on my parents, it's not going to be pretty." I took a bite of toast, talking around it. "And I'd hate for you to witness me at my absolute worst and decide we can't be friends anymore."
Chloe's laugh was warm and genuine. "Babe, if that was going to happen, it would've happened in college. Remember the incident with your thesis advisor?"
"We don't talk about that."
"Exactly." Her smile softened into something more serious. "But okay. If you don't want me there, I get it. I'll just stay here and worry about you from a distance."
"Don't worry about me." I grabbed my bag, slinging it over my shoulder with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly what battle you were walking into. "Save your concern for my parents. And Elena. God knows they're going to need it."
"Your sister's going to lose her mind when you show up."
"That's the plan." I took one more bite of toast, then headed for the door. "Wish me luck. By tonight, I'm either going to own a company or be completely disowned. Either way, it'll be memorable."
"Text me when it's over," Chloe called after me. "And Serena?"
I turned back.
"Go destroy them."
I grinned. "That's the plan."
The taxi ride gave me just enough time to review the financial documents Lance had sent. Every weakness in Vance Heritage's position, every leverage point—I had it memorized by the time we pulled up to my parents' house.
The company was bleeding money, yes. But the bones were good. The reputation—tarnished though it was—still meant something in certain circles. And the art collection, what remained of it, was valuable enough to serve as collateral if I played this right.
I could do this.
I would do this.
---
I stood at the front gate, taking in the estate I'd grown up in. The lawn wasn't as pristine anymore, weeds pushing through the hedges. Paint peeling on the white columns. Evidence of decline everywhere, if you knew where to look.
I straightened my blazer and pushed through the gate. Ten AM on a Saturday. They'd be having breakfast—all of them together, probably, the way they always did on weekends when they wanted to pretend they were still a functional family.
Perfect.
I clicked across the driveway in my heels—not hurrying, not hesitating, just moving with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly what you wanted and exactly how you were going to get it.
The front door was unlocked. Of course it was. They'd probably stopped locking it years ago when they realized there was nothing left worth stealing.
I let myself in.
The house smelled the same—that particular combination of old money and older furniture, with an undertone of desperation that no amount of expensive candles could quite mask. I could hear voices from the dining room. Low. Tense. The sound of a family barely holding it together.
My heels clicked deliberately on the marble floor as I made my way toward them, each step an announcement: I'm here. I'm not asking permission. And I'm not leaving until I get what I came for.
I paused in the doorway of the dining room.
My father sat at the head of the table, looking older than I remembered—more gray in his hair, deeper lines around his mouth. My mother beside him, still impeccably dressed despite the early hour, though I noticed the dress was one I'd seen a dozen times before. No new designer purchases lately, then.
And Elena. Perfect, poised Elena, picking at a plate of scrambled eggs and toast that looked decidedly modest compared to the elaborate breakfasts we'd once enjoyed.
No smoked salmon. No imported cheeses. No fresh pastries from the French bakery mother used to order from weekly.
Just eggs. Toast. Jam from a jar.
I felt my lips curve into a smile that probably looked more like a predator baring its teeth.
"Well," I said, my voice cutting through their conversation like a knife through butter. "How the mighty have fallen."
Three heads snapped toward me in perfect synchronization.
"Once upon a time, the Vance family was one of the four great houses of New York society." I stepped into the room, letting the door swing shut behind me with a soft click that sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. "Grandfather's collection was the envy of the Met. This house hosted senators and CEOs and actual royalty."
I picked up the jar of grocery-store jam from the table, examining it with exaggerated interest.
"And now? The great Vance family is eating discount eggs and supermarket jam for breakfast." I set the jar down with a decisive clink. "How absolutely tragic."