THE ALDER ROOM SECRETS

"He's staging a health crisis," I whispered to myself, staring at the grainy black-and-white monitor.

Answer one. Robert’s plan wasn't just to buy the company. It was to tank the stock price first by creating a massive, public scandal involving the health department and the press, allowing the rival company to buy Mercer Hospitality for pennies.

And he was doing it right now.

On the screen, Robert set the covered silver platter down in front of the lead health inspector.

I didn't need to be in the room to know that whatever was under that dome was going to shut my restaurant down and ruin my family's legacy.

"Sophie," I said, my voice sharp. "We have to go."

"But the door is locked," she said, pointing to the heavy steel door.

I looked around the small office. There was no back exit. Just a small air vent near the ceiling and a reinforced window looking out into the alley.

I checked my watch. 6:58 p.m.

The inspector was reaching for the handle of the silver dome.

I grabbed the manila folder containing the forged deeds and shoved it inside my heavy work jacket.

Then I looked at the steel door. Robert thought he had me trapped. He thought I wouldn't cause a scene because I was trying to protect my daughter.

He forgot I spent twenty years on construction sites before I ever sat in a boardroom.

"Cover your ears, sweetheart," I said.

I took three steps back.

I raised my heavy, mud-caked work boot—the exact boots Patricia had tried to kick me out for wearing.

I kicked the steel door precisely where the lock met the frame.

The impact echoed like a gunshot in the small room. The cheap metal frame buckled.

I kicked it again, harder.

The lock shattered, and the door flew open, smashing against the tile wall of the kitchen.

The chefs froze.

I didn't look at them. I grabbed Sophie's hand and marched straight through the kitchen, bursting through the swinging doors into the main dining room.

The restaurant was dead silent.

I marched straight past the stunned patrons, heading directly for the heavy oak doors of the private dining room.

Patricia stepped in front of me, her eyes wide.

"Mr. Mercer, you can't go in there! The press—"

"Get out of my way, Patricia."

I pushed past her and shoved the oak doors open.

Flashbulbs immediately blinded me. The journalists turned, their cameras clicking wildly at the sight of a man in muddy boots and a faded jacket holding a little girl's hand.

Robert stood at the head of the table. His hand was resting on the silver dome.

His face drained of color as he saw me.

"What is the meaning of this?" the health inspector demanded, standing up indignantly.

"The meaning," I said loudly, my voice projecting across the room, "is that dinner is canceled."

I marched up to the table.