Chapter 3 - THE PENTHOUSE SUITE
Upstairs on the fourteenth floor, the hallway was dead silent.
Heavy acoustic carpeting muffled my footsteps as I walked toward Suite 1402.
Julian had given me the master override card—a digital passkey that bypassed even the interior deadbolts.
My heart hammered against my ribs, not out of fear, but out of pure, crystalline realization.
Every doubt I had ever harbored about Adrian’s late-night meetings, his sudden business trips, his expensive new watches evaporated into the dim corridor lighting.
He wasn’t working.
He was bleeding my family’s legacy to fund his lavish lifestyle and his office romance.
I slid the master card into the slot.
The LED indicator flashed a crisp, approving green.
The latch clicked open.
Pushing the heavy mahogany door forward just an inch, I peered into the foyer.
Soft jazz played from a Bluetooth speaker on the marble wet bar.
Expensive champagne bottles chilled in silver ice buckets.
Adrian’s tailored suit jacket was draped over the velvet sofa, his expensive silk tie tossed carelessly onto the coffee table beside an empty plate of imported cheeses.
From the master bedroom, muffled laughter drifted out.
“Adrian, you’re impossible,” Celeste’s voice trilled, dripping with affected playfulness.
“If the board approves the Vale Harbor deal tomorrow, MorganWell’s stock will skyrocket.”
“Let them buy up shares,” Adrian’s voice answered, rich with arrogance.
“Once we merge our brand with this hotel chain, I’ll restructure the entire board.
I’ll push out anyone who questions my authority—starting with the old guard.”
“And Elise?” Celeste asked, her tone shifting into something sharper.
“Does she suspects anything about us? Or about the company's liquidity?”
“Elise?” Adrian scoffed openly.
“My wife is harmless, Celeste.
Since her father died, she’s been completely lost in grief.
She doesn’t know a balance sheet from a menu.
She thinks marriage is about baking pastries and keeping house.
By tomorrow afternoon, she’ll sign whatever partnership papers I put in front of her.”
Standing in the shadows of the foyer, I felt every last remnant of affection I had ever held for Adrian incinerate into ash.
Harmless.
Lost in grief.
A wife good for baking pastries.
He had no idea that the pen he expected me to sign with tomorrow was already dripping with his professional execution order.
I pulled out my phone, opened the camera app, and recorded ten seconds of the room's interior audio—his voice crystal clear, mocking me, detailing his betrayal.
Then I stepped back out into the hallway.
I let the heavy door click softly shut behind me.
May you like
Adrian could enjoy his champagne while it lasted.
The bill was going to be astronomical.
