Chapter 4 - THE CASHMERE COAT
The sterile smell of the hospital waiting room was a sharp contrast to the vanilla and champagne that still clung to Marcus’s clothes. He sat on the edge of the plastic chair, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
Oliver was stable. The doctors said the EpiPen bought them enough time to flush the toxin from his system. It wasn't just an allergic reaction; it was a localized, non-lethal dose of a chemical designed to mimic extreme anaphylaxis. If Grace hadn't been so fast, Oliver would be gone.
Grace sat two chairs away. Emma was asleep, her head resting on her mother’s lap. Marcus had insisted they come in the ambulance. He refused to let the only two people he currently trusted out of his sight.
"I can arrange a car to take you home, Grace," Marcus said quietly, not looking up. "You've done more than enough."
Grace stroked Emma’s hair. "We’re not leaving until we know he wakes up, Mr. Vance. My daughter is worried about her friend."
Friend. Marcus swallowed hard. His son had been surrounded by children of the elite all night, and none of them had noticed him suffocating. Only the cleaner's daughter had seen the truth.
Marcus stood up, needing to move. The police had locked down the hotel. Natalie was in custody, screaming about her innocence regarding the poison. But David—his brother David—had vanished.
David had been forced out of the company five years ago after embezzling millions. He walked with a silver-tipped cane after a car accident that he always blamed on Marcus. But David had been explicitly banned from the hotel tonight. How did he get in? And why target Oliver?
"Mr. Vance?"
A nurse walked out of the ICU, holding a clear plastic evidence bag. "We were cataloging your son’s belongings. He had this bundled up inside his blazer pocket. We thought you should have it."
Marcus took the bag. Inside was a heavy, black cashmere coat. It was small, meant for a child, but Oliver hadn't worn a coat tonight. It was summer.
"That isn't Oliver's," Marcus said, frowning.
He opened the bag and pulled the coat out. As he did, something stiff crinkled inside the inner breast pocket. Marcus reached in and pulled out a stack of letters, tied together with a faded black ribbon.
The handwriting on the envelopes made his heart stop. It was his late wife’s handwriting. Elena.
Marcus tore the ribbon off and opened the first letter. It was dated six years ago—a year before Elena died in a sudden, tragic accident.
David, the letter read. I can’t do this anymore. Marcus suspects nothing, but the guilt is eating me alive. If he finds out what we did to the original land deeds, he won't just divorce me. He will ruin both of us. We have to tell him the hotel empire wasn't built on his father's money. It was stolen.
Marcus stopped breathing. He read it again. And again.
Elena and David. They had conspired. The entire foundation of Marcus’s empire—the flagship hotel where they had just celebrated Oliver’s birthday—was built on stolen land.
He flipped to the next letter.
I’m going to tell him, David. I’m giving the deeds back to the rightful owner. Arthur deserves to know what happened to his property.
Arthur.
Marcus looked up, his eyes locking onto Grace.
"Grace," Marcus said, his voice trembling. "What was your late husband's name?"
Grace looked up, surprised by the sudden question. Her face tightened with old grief.
"Arthur," she said softly. "Arthur Hayes. He was an architect. Why?"
May you like
Marcus stared at the woman in the faded hotel uniform. The woman cleaning his floors was the rightful owner of a billion-dollar empire. And his brother had likely killed Marcus’s wife to keep the secret. Now, David was coming to finish the job by wiping out Marcus’s only heir.
"We aren't safe here," Marcus said, grabbing the letters and shoving them into his pocket. "Wake Emma up. We have to leave. Right now."
