29. Serena
Serena
The air was thick with the smell of old money—a blend of leather and pipe tobacco, tempered by the sharp, clean scent of recently mown grass.
One foot in front of the other. Smile. Nod. Don’t trip.
The breeze, warm and gentle as silk, rolled off the hills, whispering through the tented canopies and rustling the crisp white uniforms of the valet attendants, carrying with it the faint sounds of distant music and laughter. The sound of hooves across turf pounded like a heartbeat.
I could feel the tension in my calves from walking too precisely in heels that were just a little too high for the turf. Stupid. I should’ve gone with the thicker heel. But Gigi said I’d need to look polished and sexy, and the stilettos went best with the dress.
My palms were sweating. My throat was tight.
I shouldn’t be nervous. This was like any other job, right? And this was the last time. I promised myself that. No matter what.
Three violins played by the main tent, their music carrying on the wind. Beneath the linen of my dress, my purse pressed against my hip, the weight of the velvet box inside a silent reminder.
I took a deep breath through my nose. Held it. Released.
You’re Serena fucking King. You’ve walked into worse rooms with a bigger target on your back. You know how to finish.
The grass crunched softly beneath my heels as I moved toward the VIP tent, spine straight, hips relaxed, mouth curved in that calculated, unreadable smile.
But a very familiar laugh made me pause.
No.
I turned and made eye contact with Mayor Dante Castillo.
Fuck.
He stood in the center of a small circle, an entourage around him. He tipped back his drink, his dark hair glinting in the sunlight, and I saw a woman place a hand on his shoulder.
“Serena?” I heard Dante say.
I drove almost three hours to get here. What was Dante doing here? Did Jenese do this on purpose?
The laughter in his circle faded as I approached.
“Serena Whitmore ,” he mused, tilting his glass in my direction. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Are you here with your?—”
I offered a professional smile. “Mayor Castillo.”
“No need to be formal. Not here.” He glanced at the men and women around him—people who I assumed were low-tier celebrities, city planners, donors, and one I swore I’d seen in a leaked article about offshore accounts.
“Give me a minute,” Dante said to them with that easy charm. “You all go grab another drink. On me.”
They peeled off like trained birds, laughing and murmuring as they made their way back to the bar. He didn’t look at them. His eyes were on me.
“What are you doing so far south of Lush?” I asked.
“What are you doing here?”
“I don’t think my mama would like this. You know she prefers the mayors that keep it professional.”
A dark look flashed across his face, his jaw tightening as his eyes lost their warmth. “Yvonne doesn’t agree with a lot of my methods. I’m guessing as her favorite daughter you share the same opinion.”
Her favorite daughter? Hmph.
“I think for myself, Dante,” I told him.
His lips curled. “You have potential, then.”
Maybe Dante being was a good opportunity to get another perspective on my current situation. “Dante,” I began, watching him sip from his glass. “You ever have someone in your circle who…outlived their usefulness?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You mean a problem? Don’t tell me you want to get rid of Miles already.”
“I mean someone who doesn’t know when to quit. Someone who thinks they’re smarter than they are.”
He chuckled, smooth and amused. “Darlin’, that’s most of the people I know.”
“Can you tell me what you know about Jenese Delacroix?”
Dante’s face dropped. “Jenese? How do you know her?”
“I found a picture of you two online. And I asked you the question first.”
“That’s not how we’re going to do things, Serena,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s a very specific name to ask about, and you don’t seem like the type that should know a person like her. So I’ll ask again, and be honest. How do you know her?”
“She was my…mentor.”
“Mentor?” Dante repeated like he didn’t believe me. “Your mother is Yvonne King.”
“I know who my mother is,” I said. “I met Jenese six years ago after Laurene first left. She taught me things about business. But now she’s back and threatening me.”
“I thought I saw her at the cigar lounge, but I hoped my eyes were deceiving me,” Dante murmured, and I watched his face flicker with emotions.
“Don’t tell anyone this.” I lowered my voice. “She’s writing a book. I’m in it. With some incriminating evidence.”
Dante looked more intrigued.
“I need a favor,” I said finally.
Dante’s smile was immediate. Hungry. “Now we’re speaking the same language.”
“I need to get rid of Jenese and evidence,” I told him.
“And what happens after I give you what you want? What do you plan to do with the address?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“See,” he said, wagging a finger, “that’s the part that makes me nervous. My term is ending soon. That means reelection. I can’t jeopardize that, you understand.”
A ripple of cheers rolled through the crowd, followed by the thundering of hooves thundering across manicured grass.
Despite the helmet and dark sunglasses, I recognized Jasper Crewe instantly from Jenese’s picture. The sun glanced off his polished boots, his frame bent low as he urged his mare into a gallop, rumbling toward the ball.
A collective gasp swept through the crowd as his bat connected with the ball, sending it flying in a clean, sharp arc across the grass; his teammates surged forward as one.
“You think I’d come to you if I had options?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just took a long sip of his drink.
I rolled my eyes. “If I can find out some more dirt on Jenese, what she’s been doing these last few years, maybe she’ll be willing to scrap the book and leave me alone.”
“Oh, I’ve heard about her. She’s definitely dirty. I’ve got stories from my interactions with her and some…close friends of mine.”
That was both helpful and alarming.
“You basically are going all Dog the Bounty Hunter on her, hmm? What will you give me in exchange?”
“I’ll owe you a favor,” I said.
“A King, offering favors? What’s the world coming to?” He studied me again, his amusement dimming into something more dangerous. “You wouldn’t be the first King to bite off more than they could chew.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dante just grinned.
“Can you do it or not?”
“Alright,” he said, stepping back, that slick smile stretching across his face. “I’ll think about it.”
My brow arched. “That’s not a yes.”
“It’s not a no either.” He leaned in just enough that only I could hear. “We’ll talk again. Soon.”
I watched Dante disappear into the crowd when a deafening roar erupted as Jasper’s winning shot swished through the net. His horse kicked up turf, nostrils flaring, and the referee’s whistle cut through the air like a blade.
Jasper slid off his horse with ease, handing the reins off to a waiting staff.
His helmet came off, and his smile flickered wide and easy as a crowd started to gather. Men slapped him on the back. Women leaned in a little too close. He said something that made them laugh.
A tall, willowy woman appeared at his side, her caramel-blond hair twisted in a silk scarf that matched her pale blue dress. She kissed his cheek, possessive but poised.
I wove through a manicured garden toward the side of the house. Jasper’s estate was a well-oiled machine—event staff stationed at every entry, servers ferrying champagne and charcuterie, private security lingering at the perimeter.
Two bored security guards, more interested in chatting than work, stood by the side doors. I kept walking as if returning inside from the terrace like I had a right to be here.
“Ma’am?”
I didn’t blink. “Sorry, just needed a break. My shoes are killing me.” I gestured to my heels.
“Stick to this area only.”
“Appreciate it.” I slid through before they could say anything else.
The hall was cooler, quieter. Still opulent, of course. Cream paneling, gilt trim, a massive painting of someone’s ancestor glaring disapprovingly from the wall. I kept my pace calm. The adrenaline was there, buzzing under my skin, but I didn’t let it show.
I moved down the hall, looking for any opportunity.
An office. Bedroom. Closet. Something.
When staff rushed by, I dropped my head and turned away, pretending to find the paintings interesting before continuing my search.
Then I saw it: a discreet sign beside a narrow hallway. Private Suite—Riders Only.
The farther I got from the main corridor, the quieter it got.
The hallway forked—one direction led to a lounge still echoing with laughter, the other to a closed door marked with Jasper’s monogram. I went with the second.
Locked.
Of course.
I pressed my ear against it. Nothing. No voices.
Reaching into my clutch, I found the small lock pick. I worked the lock. One soft click.
Inside, the suite was surprisingly clean, all sleek and masculine. Leather chairs. A rack of uniforms pressed and waiting. A wall of gleaming trophies.
I crossed the room fast, already pulling the velvet box from my bag.
Somewhere obvious, but not sloppy.
I tucked the box on the shelf that looked to be his regular streetwear clothes.
Done.
Now Jenese was out of my life. I’d get the manuscript. I’d move on with my life. Rushing out of the room, I retraced my steps and turned the corner, and almost ran into somebody.
“I’m sorry?—”
I sucked in a breath, and I froze.
“Daddy?”
He stood there, shocked, but even worse—Audrey Whitmore was coming out of a room behind him.