Chapter 7
The air in the penthouse suite grew dense and suffocating. Clara marched into the room past her husband, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor before hitting the thick rug. Her eyes locked onto the sparkling diamond necklace resting casually on the mahogany coffee table like a common trinket.
“Don't you dare play games with us, Raymond,” Clara said, her voice shaking with a dangerous, controlled fury. She pointed a trembling finger at the necklace. “You stole it. You broke into our suite using a cloned key card, you planted it in an innocent girl's bag, and you sat here drinking whiskey like nothing happened.”
Raymond didn't flinch. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, swirling the amber liquid around the crystal glass before setting it down on the table with a soft clink. He leaned back in the leather armchair, crossing one leg over the other with practiced nonchalance.
“An innocent girl,” Raymond repeated, letting out a light, cynical chuckle. “Clara, darling, let’s be entirely realistic for a moment. Housekeeping staff in hotels like this are revolving doors. They come and go, they wash sheets, and half of them supplement their minimum-wage salaries by skimming whatever they can find lying around. I merely accelerated a natural process.”
Julian stepped into the room, his green jacket pulled tight across his chest as he clenched his fists in his pockets. His face was entirely devoid of color, carved from the same hard granite as the buildings he designed.
“You didn't accelerate a process, Raymond,” Julian said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “You framed an innocent human being to save your own skin. You stole my wife’s family heirloom to pay off your poker debts to Viktor Vance’s old associates, didn't you?”
Raymond’s smirk faltered for just a fraction of a second, a micro-expression of genuine surprise flashing across his dark features before he quickly rebuilt his armor of arrogance.
“You always were paranoid, Julian,” Raymond said, though his voice lacked its previous bounce. “Viktor has been dead for five years. My debts are my own business. Besides, what does it matter? The necklace is right here. You recovered it. Nobody called the police yet, did they? We can keep this strictly a family matter. No scandal, no ruined reputations in the society columns.”
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Clara stepped forward, her hand coming down flat on the coffee table with a sharp crack that made Raymond jump. “A family matter? You let us scream at a twenty-five-year-old girl in the hallway! You watched on the lobby cameras as we accused her of a crime she didn't commit! If Arthur and I hadn't checked the access logs, that poor girl would be sitting in a jail cell right now with her life completely destroyed!”
“She’s a maid, Clara,” Raymond snapped back, his aristocratic veneer finally cracking to reveal the bitter, desperate man underneath. “Her life isn't worth twenty minutes of bad press for our family name! Do you have any idea what the tabloids would do if they found out the Vances are broke? Yes, look at me! Look at both of us! The family trusts are empty. The investments tanked last quarter. That necklace was our last liquid asset, and I was going to fence it, clear my debts, and buy us all six months of breathing room!”
