Chapter 6
Arthur Pendelton swallowed hard, his fingers dancing across the tablet to check the active electronic key logs for the penthouse level. “Mr. Raymond Vance’s card was registered entering suite four-fourteen just four minutes ago. He hasn't left the building.”
Julian handed the tablet back to the manager with a sharp nod. “Stay here,” he told Arthur. He turned his gaze to Clara, whose face was pale with a mixture of betrayal and lingering rage. “Clara, stay in the corridor. Do not let Maeve leave.”
“I’m coming with you,” Clara said instantly, stepping forward. Her brown dress swished around her ankles as she prepared to follow him down the hall. “That is my family heirloom, Julian. And that is my brother-in-law. I deserve to be there when we tear him apart.”
Julian hesitated, looking into his wife’s eyes, and nodded once. “Fine. Stay close.”
They left Maeve standing by the service alcove with Arthur Pendelton. The young maid let out a long, shuddering sigh as the Vances strode down the hallway toward the private elevator bank. Arthur offered her a sympathetic, albeit stiff, corporate smile.
“I am profoundly sorry for the accusation, Miss Jenkins,” Arthur said, adjusting his glasses. “The hotel will compensate you for this distress. Three weeks of paid leave, starting immediately.”
Maeve didn't smile. She looked down at her hands, the lingering fear replaced by a quiet dignity. “I don't want their pity, Mr. Pendelton. I just want people like that to realize that poor people aren't disposable.”
Meanwhile, Julian and Clara reached the private elevator. Julian swiped his master key card, the polished brass doors sliding open with a soft, pneumatic hiss. They stepped inside in silence. The ascent to the fourth-floor penthouse suite felt agonizingly slow. The digital floor numbers ticked upward—one, two, three, four—each glowing red digit hammering away at the remnants of Julian’s family loyalty.
When the doors opened on the fourth floor, the penthouse hallway was bathed in soft, recessed lighting. Thick Persian runners muffled their footsteps as they walked toward suite 414. The heavy oak door was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm yellow light spilling out onto the dark carpet.
Julian paused outside the threshold. He raised his hand and pushed the door open without knocking.
The suite was luxurious, featuring high vaulted ceilings, mahogany furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. Raymond Vance sat comfortably in a leather armchair by the window, a crystal tumbler of amber whiskey resting in his hand. On the mahogany coffee table before him sat Clara’s diamond necklace, catching the late afternoon sun and throwing brilliant flashes of light across the ceiling.
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Raymond looked up as the door swung open. He didn't look panicked; instead, a slow, lazy smirk spread across his handsome face.
“Julian, Clara,” Raymond said smoothly, raising his glass in a mock toast. “To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure? Did you finally lose the necklace, or are you just here to admire the view?”
