Chapter 3

Serena

For a split second—so brief I almost missed it—something flickered across Lance's face. Not anger. Not disgust.

Concern.

The Ice King of Wall Street, the man who'd just threatened to bankrupt my entire family, looked... worried. For me.

Then it was gone, locked behind that impenetrable mask as he opened his mouth to speak.

I didn't give him the chance.

"Don't." I was already moving, snatching my dress from the floor with hands that should have been shaking but weren't. "Tonight isn't about your nephew drama or whatever fucked-up family dynamics you people have."

The silk slid over my damp skin, still half-wet from the jacuzzi. I didn't bother with the zipper, didn't care that the back gaped open or that my hair was a disaster. I looked exactly like what I was—a woman who'd been interrupted mid-seduction.

Perfect.

"This is my three-year purgatory coming to an end." I met his eyes as I said it, watching something dark and unreadable flash in those gray depths. "My debt collection. My fucking reckoning."

"I don't care about your relationship drama," Lance said quietly, but his jaw was tight. "Whatever mess you're walking into—"

"Is my mess." I was already at the door, fingers on the handle. "Not yours."

Behind me, I heard him take a step forward, heard the sharp intake of breath that might have been a warning or a plea.

I glanced back over my shoulder, catching his gaze one last time. Then I let a slow smile curve my lips—wicked, deliberate.

"Shame about tonight though. Rain check on the rest of this?"

His eyes widened fractionally. Actual surprise breaking through that perfect control.

I winked.

The door swung open with enough force to make it bang against the wall, and I stepped through, slamming it shut behind me.

Whatever Lance was thinking could wait.

Wesley stood in the hallway looking exactly how I'd expected—red-faced, disheveled, reeking of expensive cologne and barely controlled rage. His usually perfect hair stuck up in places where he'd been running his hands through it.

And clutching his arm like a fucking barnacle was Vanessa.

Of course she was here. Of course she'd come along for the show.

She wore a cream-colored Chanel dress that probably cost more than my monthly rent, her long dark hair perfectly styled despite the late hour. Those doe eyes that fooled everyone into thinking she was sweet and innocent widened as she took in my appearance—the barely-fastened dress, the wet hair, the way my lips were probably still swollen from Lance's kiss.

"Wesley, don't be too hard on her," Vanessa cooed, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "I'm sure she didn't mean—"

"DIDN'T MEAN WHAT?" Wesley's roar cut her off. His eyes raked over me with something between fury and disgust. "Look at her! Her tits are practically falling out of that dress! And you want me to believe she wasn't fucking someone in there?"

Old Serena would have flinched. Would have stammered an apology, eyes downcast, hands clasped like a penitent schoolgirl.

Old Serena would have taken a step back.

I took a step forward.

Both of them actually startled, bodies jerking back an inch in synchronized shock.

God, that felt good.

Maybe it was the champagne still singing in my veins. Maybe it was the memory of Lance's hands on my skin, the way he'd looked at me like I was something precious and dangerous all at once. Maybe it was three years of swallowed rage finally finding its voice.

Whatever it was, I felt invincible.

"Deny it?" I let a slow smile curve my lips, watching Wesley's face turn an even deeper shade of red. "Why would I deny it? I was absolutely in there. We fucked in the jacuzzi, on the couch, against the window with the entire city watching. Every position you can imagine and a few you probably can't."

Silence.

Beautiful, perfect silence as they both stared at me like I'd grown a second head.

Then Vanessa's mask cracked. "What did you just—how can you be so shameless—"

"Shameless?" I laughed, and even I was surprised by how cold it sounded. "That's rich coming from you, Vanessa. Tell me, does Wesley fuck you in the bathroom at charity galas? Or do you prefer hotel rooms? I'm genuinely curious about the logistics since you both seem so practiced at it."

"YOU FUCKING BITCH—" Wesley lunged forward.

I didn't move. Didn't even blink.

He stopped inches from my face, breathing hard, fists clenched. This close, I could see the blown pupils, smell the whiskey on his breath. He was drunk. Angry. Probably capable of hitting me.

I still didn't move.

"What's wrong, Wesley?" My voice was perfectly calm. Detached. "You can sneak around and fuck your 'best friend' for months, but I can't have one honest night with someone who actually wanted me?"