Chapter 3 - THE FIRST DOOR CLOSES
I booked a room at the Kensington Hotel three blocks away.
Not because I needed luxury.
I needed privacy.
Before I reached the elevator, Marcus called.
I let it ring twice before answering.
“What did you do?” he demanded.
His confidence was already cracking.
“I made a phone call.”
“To whom?”
“You’ll find out.”
“Isabella, don’t play games with me.”
I almost laughed.
“You threw your wife out of a hotel while your mistress stood behind you wearing her robe and her dead mother’s jewelry.”
“She isn’t my mistress.”
“Then what is she?”
Silence.
That was answer enough.
Marcus changed tactics.
“You embarrassed me tonight.”
I stared at the city through the hotel window.
“You had security escort me through a lobby filled with my employees.”
“My employees.”
There it was again.
That word.
My.
“You should check your email, Marcus.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Check it.”
I hung up.
At 9:41 p.m., Hale Meridian’s general counsel sent Marcus formal notice that his spending authority had been frozen.
At 9:43, company credit cards linked to executive discretionary accounts were suspended.
At 9:47, the Monarch Grand’s regional director received instructions prohibiting Marcus from entering secure management areas without board authorization.
At 9:52, Natalie tried to charge champagne and dinner to the presidential suite.
The charge was rejected.
I knew because the hotel’s acting manager called me.
“Mrs. Hale?”
“Yes.”
“This is Daniel Reeves.”
I remembered him immediately.
Daniel had joined the Monarch Grand eight years earlier as a night auditor.
I had promoted him twice.
“Daniel.”
His voice shook.
“I’m not sure what’s happening, but corporate instructed us to restrict Mr. Hale’s access.”
“Follow the written orders.”
“There’s another issue.”
“What?”
“Ms. Cross is refusing to leave the presidential suite.”
I looked at the clock.
“Is Marcus with her?”
“Yes.”
“Then security can handle it professionally.”
Daniel hesitated.
“Mr. Hale keeps saying he owns the building.”
I stared out the window.
“Show him the property ownership certificate.”
Another pause.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Ten minutes later, Marcus called again.
This time, he was no longer shouting.
“Isabella.”
I said nothing.
“What is Hartwell Heritage Holdings?”
There it was.
The first crack in the illusion.
“You should ask your lawyers.”
“Why does that company own the Monarch Grand?”
I sat down slowly.
“Because it always has.”
His breathing changed.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you should have read the documents before calling something yours.”
The line went silent.
May you like
Then Marcus whispered the question I had feared for eleven years.
“Who are you?”
