Chapter 94
Serena
He was staring at me like he'd seen a ghost.
"Miss Vance?" His voice trembled slightly. "Is that... is that really you?"
I looked at him more closely. Something familiar in his face. In the way he stood. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was surprised.
"I'm sorry," I said carefully. "Do I know you?"
"Grayson," he said, his eyes getting wet. "Grayson Webb. I worked with your grandfather—he hired me right out of college. Promoted me three times. I owe everything I have to Peter Vance."
The name clicked. Memories surfaced—Christmas parties at my grandfather's house, a kind man who always brought me peppermints and showed me his sketchbooks.
"Grayson," I said slowly, recognition dawning. "I remember. You used to let me look at the auction catalogs."
"You were seven years old and already knew more about Qing dynasty ceramics than most of my colleagues," he said with a watery smile. He took a step closer, his expression shifting from shock to something more complicated. "Your father mentioned yesterday that there was a shareholder meeting. Stock transfer. But I never thought—I mean, I didn't expect—"
"Wait, she's serious?" The woman had lowered her feet from the desk, looking between us in confusion. "She's actually—"
"The new CEO," Grayson finished, and suddenly he was moving fast for a man his age, crossing the room with purpose. "Oh my God. Richard said his daughter was taking over, but I thought..." He shook his head. "I thought it was just another one of his schemes. I didn't think you'd actually come."
He reached me, and for a moment I thought he might actually hug me. Instead, he just stood there, looking at me with something like wonder.
"You came," he said softly. "You actually came."
"I came to save my grandfather's legacy," I corrected.
I paused, making sure I had everyone's attention.
"And as for the rest of you—if anyone tries to sell company assets without my explicit authorization, I will report you to the police. You have a new boss now. If you have no faith in this company's future, you're welcome to leave. But if you stay—" I paused, letting that sink in, "—you'll be paid. On time. Every month."
Something shifted in the room. Backs straightened. Eyes that had been dull with resignation suddenly sharpened with something that looked almost like hope.
"However," my voice hardened, "I will hold you accountable for every day you spent letting this place rot while you were here."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Slowly, one by one, they slunk back to their desks. Opened their computers. Tried very hard to look busy.
Grayson's eyes were shining. "You sound just like him," he said quietly. "Just like Peter. That same fire. That same..." He shook his head, smiling. "Come on. I'll show you what we have left."
---
The basement was worse than I'd imagined.
Not because the art wasn't there—it was. Paintings, ceramics, sculptures, all the pieces my father had accumulated over the years and couldn't sell.
But they were just... piled. Stacked against walls. Leaning haphazardly against each other. Some still in their crates. Others exposed to dust and moisture and God knows what else.
My heart clenched.
"I know it looks bad," Grayson said quietly. "But they're all authentic. Every piece. The problem is your father's reputation. No one wants to do business with us anymore. And the few buyers who are interested..." He sighed. "They're offering pennies on the dollar. Taking advantage of our desperation."
"How much are they offering?" I asked, already moving toward the nearest painting.
"For everything? Maybe a hundred and fifty thousand. Two hundred if we're lucky."
I didn't answer. I was too busy carefully lifting a canvas, examining it in the dim light.
"Dutch still life," I said aloud, turning the painting to catch what little light there was. "Seventeenth century. Minor artist—not Rembrandt, but competent. Good condition despite the storage." I set it aside gently. "Market value probably four to five hundred thousand to the right buyer."
I moved to the next one without waiting for a response.
"French landscape. Nineteenth century. Beautiful color work. Some restoration needed on the frame but nothing major." I traced the gilded edge with one finger. "Another three to four hundred thousand, easy."
"Miss Vance?" Grayson's voice had gone strange. "How do you—"
I was already kneeling beside a ceramic vase, turning it carefully in my hands. "Qing dynasty, Kangxi period if I'm not mistaken. Minor damage to the base but nothing that would significantly impact value to a serious collector." I held it up to the light, examining the glaze. "Eight to nine hundred thousand, assuming we can authenticate the reign mark."
The silence behind me was deafening.
I stood up, dusting off my skirt, and turned to face Grayson. His mouth was hanging open slightly, his eyes wide with something between shock and awe.
I smiled. "Did you really think I'd come here to clean up this mess without knowing exactly what I was dealing with?"
"Grayson," I continued, my tone shifting back to business. "I need better light down here. And a proper inventory sheet—something I can write on."
"I—yes, of course, but—"
"Good. Bring them down. I need to document everything."
For the next hour, I worked. Sorting. Categorizing. Moving carefully from piece to piece, examining each one under the portable lamp Grayson had brought down, making notes on the clipboard he'd found.
There was a particular ceramic bowl with a small stain on the rim—nothing permanent, just age and poor storage. I used the hem of my blouse to wipe it carefully, not caring about the silk, focused only on revealing the piece's true quality.
Grayson watched in stunned silence as I moved through the collection with the precision of a surgeon and the speed of someone racing against a clock.
Finally, I straightened up.
"Twelve paintings," I announced. "Five ceramic pieces. Three sculptures."
I'd been running calculations in my head the entire time. Market values, realistic sale prices, the collectors I knew who might be interested.
"Total estimated value, assuming we can find serious buyers and not opportunists..." I met Grayson's eyes. "Six million, two hundred and ninety thousand dollars."
The words hung in the dusty air.
Grayson's mouth fell open. "Six... six point two..."
"Million," I finished. "Yes."