Chapter 10 - Return to the Grand Regency
The neon sign of the Grand Regency Hotel buzzed through the relentless midnight rain, casting long, bruised streaks of magenta and gold across the polished marble lobby.
Three weeks ago, I had walked out of these revolving glass doors with a battered suitcase, twenty-eight dollars in my pocket, and a profound sense of utter defeat after being framed by management to protect a wealthy, untouchable guest.
Tonight, I walked back through those exact same doors wearing a tailored charcoal coat, flanked by Lincoln Frost and two armed operatives from his inner circle.
The front desk clerk—the same young man who had handed me my pink slip three weeks ago—looked up, his eyes widening in sheer terror as he recognized me, before immediately freezing when he saw the towering, terrifying silhouette of Lincoln Frost standing beside me.
“Good evening, Mr. Frost,” the clerk squeaked, his hands trembling over his keyboard. “Suite... suite 800 is ready. Mr. Sterling requested absolute privacy.”
“He’ll have all the privacy a concrete box can offer very soon,” Lincoln replied smoothly, his voice dropping an octave as we bypassed the elevators and headed straight for the private service stairs.
We didn't take the public lift. Lincoln didn't want to risk a trapped car or a compromised control panel. We climbed the concrete stairwell in silence, our footsteps echoing against the concrete walls—eight long flights of stairs that felt symbolic of every grueling step of the last month.
When we reached the heavy mahogany double doors of Suite 800—the penthouse crown jewel of the Grand Regency—Lincoln motioned for Bruno to hang back.
He looked down at me, his pale gray eyes softening just a fraction. “You don't have to go inside, Delia. I can handle Arthur.”
“I didn't survive a burning kitchen and a warehouse shootout to sit in the hallway, Lincoln,” I said, lifting my chin with absolute resolve. “That man’s syndicate helped destroy my life before I even met you. I’m going in.”
A faint, respectful smile touched Lincoln’s lips. He reached out, gripping the brass handle of the heavy double doors, and pushed them open.
The suite was breathtaking—all crystal chandeliers, white leather furniture, and floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the rain-slicked skyline of Hadley.
Sitting in a velvet armchair by the window, swirling a glass of amber whiskey with an expression of serene, unbothered detachment, was Arthur Sterling.
He looked up as the door clicked shut behind us, his silver hair immaculate, his sharp eyes crinkling at the corners as he offered a polite, grandfatherly smile.
“Ah,” Arthur said smoothly, setting his glass down on the glass table. “The bodyguard and the maid. You know, Lincoln, I always admire a man who knows how to pick up strays. But bringing her here? That was a tactical error.”
Lincoln stepped forward, placing his body squarely between Arthur and me, his hand resting near his coat. “Your game is over, Arthur. Meridian Holding is frozen, Garrett is singing to federal prosecutors, and your private jet is grounded.”
May you like
Arthur chuckled softly, standing up and adjusting his jacket cuffs with infuriating slowness. He looked past Lincoln, straight into my eyes.
“Is it, my dear?” Arthur asked calmly. He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a thick, legal manila envelope, tossing it carelessly onto the table. “Before you talk about federal prosecutors, Elena... you might want to look at who actually owns the mortgage deed to the house your niece and your friend are currently sleeping in tonight.”
