Chapter 27 – Lance
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Best Friends and Olive Branches…
Lance
I'd been staring at the same financial report for twenty minutes when Gwen appeared in my office doorway at Pendragon, looking like she'd been mainlining espresso and bad news.
"Conference room. Now," she said without preamble.
The grim set of her jaw told me this wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation.
"About the server data?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"About what I found in the server data." She paused. "You're going to want to sit down for this one."
My phone buzzed as I followed her down the hall. Morgan.
Morgan: Just submitted everything to Adele. Officially freaking out now.
Me: She's going to love them. You're brilliant.
Morgan: You like my ass. I think you're biased.
I was still typing a snarky response when we reached the conference room where Atticus, Pierce, and Micah were already assembled. The familiar pre-battle energy filled the space—everyone looked like they were bracing for impact.
My phone rang before I could sit down. Morgan again.
"Hey," I answered. "Everything okay?"
"I keep thinking about what Gwen said yesterday. About needing to talk." Her voice carried that edge I recognized as barely controlled anxiety. "This is about the server data, right? Do you need me there?"
I glanced around the room, weighing options. Did I need her there? Not strictly. Did I want her there, where I could see her, protect her, know she was safe? Absolutely. But did she need to be exposed to whatever fresh nightmare my family had created?
"You don't have to come," I said carefully. "You just submitted your designs—you should celebrate, not dive into DuLac family drama."
"That's not what I asked." Her voice sharpened with that tone that meant arguing would be pointless. "Do you need me there?"
The honest answer was complicated. I'd been walking a tightrope since we'd gotten married, trying to balance protecting her with respecting her independence, keeping her safe without treating her like she couldn't handle the reality of what she'd married into.
"I don't know what Gwen found. Could be routine financial records. Could be something that changes everything we think we know about my family's current operations."
"I'm coming. Amber can wait for girl talk about married bliss."
"Morgan—"
"Don't try to protect me from information that affects my life," she said firmly. "If this is about your family, it's about me, too, now. For better or worse, remember?"
The determination in her voice made something proud and possessive unfurl in my chest. This was the woman who'd walked away from me when she discovered my lies about her father. The same woman who'd agreed to a fake marriage to save her life. She was stronger than I wanted her to need to be.
Twenty minutes later, Morgan walked into the conference room wearing paint-splattered jeans and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy bun secured with what looked like a pencil. Faint smudges of fabric dye decorated her fingers—evidence of another dawn-to-dusk work session.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, settling beside me. "Traffic was hell."
"No problem," Gwen said, pulling up her first slide. "I was just about to explain why we're all probably fucked."
The visualization resembled a spider web designed during a paranoid breakdown—lines connecting nodes across continents, clusters of activity pulsing like digital heartbeats.
"Jesus Christ, Gwen," Micah said, leaning forward. "How much data are we talking about?"
"Terabytes. Literally terabytes spanning decades." Gwen's voice carried exhaustion and awe. "Financial records, communication logs, operational data, personnel files—it's like they backed up their entire digital existence."
Atticus frowned. "That level of data retention seems excessive, even for a multinational corporation."
"Because it's not just corporate data," Gwen said grimly. "Personal communications, off-the-books transfers, operational details for activities that definitely don't appear in annual reports."
She clicked to reveal a financial flow chart that looked like arterial mapping—money moving through channels in patterns that made my head spin. Red lines indicated cash flows, blue showed wire transfers, and yellow highlighted cryptocurrency movements.
"First thing I noticed, the US arm of DuLac Enterprises is hemorrhaging money. Leveraged beyond belief, spending significantly more than they're bringing in through legitimate operations."
"What does that mean exactly?" Morgan asked, her hand finding mine under the table.
"They're living on borrowed time and borrowed money," I said, studying the numbers with growing unease. My grandfather had always been obsessed with financial security, paranoid about maintaining liquid assets. For him to operate in the red like this meant something fundamental had shifted.
"But here's the interesting part," Gwen continued, highlighting transactions in red. "They've been propped up by massive cash infusions from Europe. Millions in regular transfers over six months."
"That's not necessarily unusual for multinationals," Pierce pointed out.
"It is when the spending pattern makes no sense." Gwen zoomed in on specific transaction chains. "Large cash withdrawals, payments to shell companies existing only on paper, transfers disappearing into financial black holes. This isn't legitimate business spending."
I leaned forward, studying the patterns. There was something familiar about the structure, the way money moved through intermediary accounts before vanishing. It reminded me of operational security protocols from my training—the kind of financial tradecraft my grandfather had taught me years ago.
"They're funding something off the books," Atticus said, voice taking that cold edge that meant someone was about to have a very bad day.
"Something expensive and very secret," Gwen agreed. "Burning money at rates that would make small countries nervous."
"There's more," Gwen continued, tone getting grimmer. "The day after the gala—Sunday morning—there was an emergency meeting at the family estate in Eze. All hands on deck, drop everything and get to France immediately type of situation."
"How do you know that?" I asked, though I was already dreading the answer.
"Private jet manifests, communication spikes, sudden schedule changes across three time zones." She showed concentrated activity around a twelve-hour period. "Whatever happened in that meeting, the aftermath was immediate and dramatic."
The next slide made my blood turn to ice.
"As of Monday morning, both your great-uncles—Henri and Claude—pulled their financial support from your grandfather's operations. Completely."
Silence fell over the room. I stared at financial records showing abrupt termination of funding streams that had been active for decades—agreements that went back to my childhood, treaties that had seemed as permanent as gravity.
"That's impossible," I said, my voice rougher than intended.
"Why?" Morgan asked quietly, squeezing my hand.
"Those funding streams represent generational agreements between European and American branches.
Treaties negotiated by my great-grandfather, sealed with blood and marriage alliances.
" I ran my free hand through my hair. "To cut support entirely would take something catastrophic.
Something that threatened the entire family structure. "
"Or knowledge of something too dangerous to remain associated with," Micah observed grimly.
"There's even more," Gwen said, expression darkening further. "Hector accompanied your grandfather to France for that meeting. Travel records show he flew out Sunday morning on the family jet."
She paused, letting the weight settle.
"Since then? Complete communications blackout. No credit cards, phone records, digital footprint."
"He's gone dark," I said grimly. "Hector knows how to disappear when he wants to. Could be he's on assignment—grandfather might have sent him on a job that requires complete operational security."
The weight of that possibility settled over the room. Because if Hector was on assignment, it meant whatever my grandfather was planning was already in motion.
Morgan's grip tightened. "What does this mean for us? Are we safer now, or in more danger?"
The question I'd been dreading. The answer depended on variables I couldn't control—my grandfather's mental state, his remaining resources, whatever he'd set in motion before losing European support.
"We don't know how he's reacting to losing their support," I said carefully. "He was burning through millions before my uncles cut him off—whatever he was funding might already be in motion. Or he might be scrambling to find new backing. We're flying blind here."
"Should mean reduced capability," Pierce pointed out. "Fewer enforcers on payroll, less operational flexibility."
"Should, yes. But we don't know his current resources or what contingencies he might have in place," I replied. "The man who taught me to always have three exit strategies wouldn't be caught completely unprepared."
Gwen closed her laptop with a definitive click. "Bottom line—we need more information. Lance, I need your help analyzing this data. There are patterns, code names, operational structures I can't interpret without context."
"I'll make time. But we should bring Silas in—he knows family structure better than anyone, and he might be able to shed light on what my grandfather could be funding that requires this level of secrecy."
"Good idea," Atticus agreed. "The sooner we understand what we're dealing with, the better we can prepare." He closed his notebook and stood. "Let's reconvene once Lance and Silas have had a chance to analyze this data. Everyone stay alert in the meantime."
As people filed out, Morgan leaned close. "I love you."
"Love you too, Spitfire."
After Morgan left, the room emptied until just Gwen and me remained. She packed her laptop with efficient movements, the weight of her discoveries etched in the exhaustion lines around her eyes.
"Gwen," I said quietly.
She looked up, expression unguarded for the first time in weeks.
"I know you're still angry about the lies?—"
"Lance," she said with her hand up, stopping me. "I've been thinking about what you said at the hospital. About protecting us by keeping us away from your world."
I waited.
"Looking at this data, seeing the scope of your family's involvement..." She shook her head. "I understand now why you ran. Why you never looked back. I understand why you hid so much, even yourself, from us."
"But you did know me," I said, leaning forward.
"The most important parts—you knew those.
You knew I'd protect the people I love. You knew I'd never hurt you or Morgan.
You knew I was loyal, that I cared about family.
" I met her eyes. "The violence, the training, the name—that was my past. Who I was with you and Morgan, that was real. "
She was quiet for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I'm still hurt. Ten years of friendship, and there were parts of you I never knew existed. But you're right—the parts that mattered, the parts that made you family to me, those were real."
Relief flooded through me. "Does this mean?—"
"I want my friend back," she whispered.
I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face. "Good. I've missed you."
"Missed you, too." She finished packing, then fixed me with a serious look.
"But Lance, based on what I'm seeing in this data.
.. I don't think your grandfather is just going to fade away quietly from your life.
Also, the money patterns, the operational expenses—it feels like he's building toward something. "
"I know."
"Promise you won't handle this alone. We're family now. All of us."
I nodded, watching her head for the door. At the threshold, she paused.
"Oh, Lance? When you talk to Silas about this data..." She turned back, expression troubled. "Ask him about Marseille. There are references in the financial records—payments to contacts there, operational expenses. Might mean nothing, but..."
"But?"
"Marseille is where your mother died, isn't it?"
The words hit me like ice water. "Yeah. It is."
"Then maybe it's not nothing after all."
The door closed behind her, leaving me alone with that revelation. I stared at the empty conference room, new dread settling in my chest like a physical weight. If my grandfather was funneling money to Marseille, to contacts in the city where my mother had died...
My mother, who had been the only thing standing between me and my grandfather's complete control. My mother, whose death had removed the last barrier to my transformation into the weapon he'd always wanted me to become.
Whatever he was planning wasn't just business.
It was personal.
And that made it infinitely more dangerous.