KEEP READING INTO CHAPTER TWO TO DISCOVER THE COMPLETE STORY.

-2-

Suite 904 was a masterclass in understated luxury, featuring sweeping views of the Chicago skyline through double-paned acoustic glass that effectively muffled the frantic hum of the city below. The spacious living area was dominated by plush velvet armchairs, a polished mahogany writing desk, and a magnificent stone fireplace currently unlit and smelling faintly of cedar.

Lupita unlocked the heavy double doors, stepped inside to turn on the discreet recessed lighting, and gently pulled back the heavy silk drapes to reveal the glittering expanse of downtown Chicago framed against the dark winter night.

"Shall I have room service send up warm milk and crackers for the little one, Mr. Vance?" Lupita asked quietly, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping child.

"No, thank you, Lupita," Ethan murmured, carefully easing Lily off his shoulder and laying her down on the king-sized bed in the adjoining master bedroom. The little girl gave a soft murmur, her hand blindly searching the blankets until her fingers brushed against the worn, velvet ears of her stuffed rabbit, whereupon her small shoulders relaxed. "She had a full dinner before the flight. Just make sure we aren't disturbed until morning. No housekeeping, no calls, no management check-ins."

"Consider it done, sir," Lupita said, offering a respectful nod before quietly exiting the suite and pulling the heavy door shut behind her.

Ethan stood beside the bed for a long moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of Lily’s chest. The ambient light from the hallway caught the golden strands of her hair splayed across the white goose-down pillow. She looked so much like Sarah at that moment—possessing the same delicate curve of the jaw and the same stubborn, beautiful resilience that had kept Ethan anchored during the darkest days of his life.

Three years.

Thirty-six months since the sterile white walls of the oncology ward had echoed with the final, shallow breaths of the woman who had taught him how to love something more than his own ambition.

Ethan turned away from the bed, walking back out into the living area where he had left his scuffed backpack and the bruised bouquet of red roses. He picked up the flowers, their stems slightly bent from being clutched during the flight and the subsequent humiliation at the front desk. He walked over to the wet bar in the corner, searched through the cabinets until he found a crystal highball glass, filled it halfway with tap water, and carefully arranged the roses inside.

He placed the makeshift vase on the center of the mahogany writing desk, switching off the overhead lamps until the room was illuminated only by the neon glow of the city filtering through the glass.

Then, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

It was a text message from an unknown number, displaying a local Chicago area code. Ethan pulled the device out, frowning slightly as he unlocked the screen.

“You think buying a hotel gives you immunity, Ethan? Check your corporate audit files for 2024. Your empire is rotting from the inside out, and the bill is coming due tomorrow morning.”

Ethan stared at the screen, a cold spike of adrenaline cutting through the exhaustion that weighed down his limbs.

In the high-stakes world of international hospitality development, enemies were as common as copper pennies. Ethan had fought off hostile takeovers, survived smear campaigns, and outmaneuvered corporate raiders across three continents. But anonymous threats sent to his private cell phone—especially on the anniversary of Sarah’s passing—carried a different, more personal maliciousness.

He tapped the screen to reply, intending to trace the number through his private security contractor, but before his fingers could hit the keypad, a second notification popped up.

It was an encrypted email attachment from his chief financial officer, Marcus Vance—no relation, despite the shared surname, but a man fiercely loyal to the Vance name since the company's inception.

The subject line read: URGENT: UNAUTHORIZED DISBURSEMENT DETECTED IN CHICAGO REGIONAL LEDGER.

Ethan’s jaw tightened. He unlocked his laptop, plugged in his security key, and opened the encrypted file. What he saw made the blood run cold in his veins.

Over the past six months, a series of micro-transactions—each just beneath the threshold requiring executive sign-off—had systematically drained four point two million dollars from the Chicago operational reserve account. The funds had been funneled through a shell company named Meridian Holdings, registered out of a post office box just three miles from the Grand Regent.

Worse still, the digital signature authorizing the transfers bore the administrative credentials of Harrison Sterling, the general manager who was currently pacing frantically in the lobby downstairs, desperate to apologize for his receptionist's mistake.

Ethan leaned back in the leather desk chair, letting out a slow, heavy breath that fogged the cool air of the suite.

The humiliation at the front desk hadn't been a random act of corporate snobbery. It was a calculated stress test. Someone inside his own organization was trying to see if the founder was still paying attention—or if he had become too distracted by grief, fatherhood, and ghost-chasing to notice the wolf gnawing at the foundations of his house.