Chapter 5

Serena

I waited for Wesley to cave. To back down. He always did when someone with real authority challenged him.

Instead, Vanessa's entire demeanor transformed in the space of a heartbeat.

Gone was the shocked, scandalized expression. Her face smoothed into a practiced smile, the kind that graced magazine covers and charity gala programs. She stepped forward with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent her entire life learning how to command a room.

"Oh my goodness." Her voice dripped honey and amusement. "I think there's been a terrible misunderstanding." She laughed—actually laughed—like this whole situation was just a silly little mix-up. "We would never resort to violence. That's simply not who we are."

The shift was so complete, so perfectly executed, it would have been impressive if it weren't so nauseating.

"Perhaps," she continued, tilting her head with practiced charm, "you didn't get a clear look at our faces in all the... excitement." Her smile widened, showing perfect white teeth. "This is Wesley Lawson. The future heir to the Lawson empire."

She placed a manicured hand on his arm, grounding him like a handler with an aggressive dog. "And I'm Vanessa Holland. Of Holland Media & Luxury Group."

She let the names hang in the air, waiting for the usual reaction. The deference. The apology. The swift retreat.

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

Not a polite chuckle. A real laugh, sharp and bitter, echoing off the hallway walls.

"Oh, now you're going to pull out the family credentials?" I turned my gaze on the manager, whose expression remained carefully neutral. "You can walk away if you want. I won't hold it against you. I'm not asking for protection because of who I know or what name I carry." My voice steadied, cold and clear. "I'm just Serena. And if you're scared of them, you can pretend you didn't see anything and leave."

Wesley's face lit up with triumph. Vanessa's smile turned smug.

They thought they'd won. Again. Just like they always did.

The manager's expression didn't change for a long, terrible moment.

Then his eyes went arctic.

"I don't care," he said, each word precisely enunciated, "who either of you are."

Vanessa's smile faltered.

"But I do care," he continued, his voice dropping to something far more dangerous, "that this is Lance Lawson's private floor. This entire level belongs to him. Only his personal guests are permitted access." His gaze swept over me with something almost like approval. "Miss Vance was granted access. Therefore, she is a valued guest. Your harassment of a valued guest is a direct challenge to Mr. Lawson's authority in his own property."

The color drained from Wesley's face so fast I thought he might pass out.

"Uncle Lance's floor?" His voice cracked. "Fuck. I—I completely forgot he owned this level—"

"But—" Vanessa was staring at me like I'd sprouted a second head. "Only high-ranking officials and people of significant influence are ever invited to stay here." Her eyes narrowed, confusion and something darker flickering across her perfect features. "How did you—"

The question hung unfinished in the air between us.

My mind was racing. The manager's arrival. The perfect timing. The way he'd known exactly who I was.

Lance.

Had he sent them? Was he protecting me from his own nephew? Or was this just about maintaining his precious order, keeping the disturbance away from his pristine bubble of control?

Or was it—

No. Don't go there. Don't read into it.

"Gentlemen," the manager addressed the security guards, "please escort these two off the premises."

"What?" Wesley sputtered. "You can't—"

"Now." The single word cut through his protests like a blade.

Vanessa tried one more smile, this one strained around the edges. "I'm sure we can discuss this—"

"There's nothing to discuss." The manager's expression didn't budge. "Leave. Or I call the police and let Mr. Lawson know that you were harassing his guest. Your choice."

The threat of Lance finding out did what nothing else could. Wesley's face went gray. He turned and walked away without another word, Vanessa clicking after him in her stilettos.

The manager turned to me. His expression softened fractionally. "Miss Vance. I apologize for the disturbance. We have a car waiting to take you home whenever you're ready."

"A car?" I blinked.

"Mr. Lawson's instructions." He gestured toward the elevator. "Please, this way."

I followed him in a daze, my mind still trying to catch up with everything that had just happened.

The car was waiting in the private garage. Not a regular town car. A Bentley, midnight blue, gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

The driver stepped out as I approached. Tall, dark-haired, with the kind of polished good looks that suggested he spent more time at the gym than most people spent at work.

"Miss Vance." He opened the door with a smile that was somehow both professional and genuinely warm. "I'm Vincent Petty. Mr. Lawson asked me to ensure you got home safely."

I slid into the leather seat, inhaling the scent of expensive upholstery and subtle cologne.

Vincent caught my eye in the rearview mirror as he started the engine. There was something almost... curious in his expression.

"I have to say," he said carefully, pulling out of the garage, "in all the years I've worked for Mr. Lawson, you're the first woman he's ever personally asked me to drive home."

Heat flooded my face.