I felt a cold smile pull at the corners of my lips. It was the smile my father used to wear when a rival company thought they could bully him into a corner.
“A short-term internal credit line?” I asked softly. “Without board approval? Without my signature? That isn’t a loan, Conrad. That is grand larceny.”
“Now wait just a minute!” Blythe stepped forward, her face contorting with rage. The initial shock had evaporated, replaced by the toxic arrogance of generational wealth that had never faced a consequence. “My father is worth half a billion! Do you honestly think we need to steal pennies from your moldy old hotel? Conrad merely facilitated a booking convenience! When my father signs the check, you’ll get your precious four million back, along with a tip! So wipe that smug look off your face, take your thrift-store coat to the dry cleaners, and remember who you’re talking to!”
I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t flinch.
Instead, I looked over at the head of lobby security, Marcus Vance—no relation to Blythe, thank God—who was standing twenty feet away, his jaw clenched, waiting for my signal. Marcus had served under my father for fifteen years.
“Marcus,” I called out.
“Yes, Ms. Ashcroft,” the towering former Marine answered, stepping forward with heavy, purposeful strides.
“Please escort Mr. Ellis to his office. He is suspended immediately pending a full forensic criminal audit. He is not to touch a single computer, drawer, or document. Confiscate his master keycards, his corporate phone, and his security access fobs.”
“Nina, please! Don’t do this!” Conrad cried out, tears of sheer panic finally spilling down his cheeks. “Richard Vance will destroy me! You don’t understand what he’s holding over my head!”
“You should have considered that before you stole from the woman who gave you a career,” I replied.
Marcus grabbed Conrad firmly by the elbow. Conrad didn’t fight; his legs seemed made of lead as he was guided toward the executive elevators.
Then, I turned my gaze to Blythe.
She was staring at me, her chest heaving, her gilded facade cracking into jagged pieces of fury.
“As for you, Ms. Vance,” I said, stepping closer until only inches separated us. She flinched, instinctively recoiling from the scent of the champagne she had poured on me. “You are officially persona non grata on any Ashcroft property worldwide. Your reservation is canceled. Your luggage will be brought to the curb. And if you ever set foot inside these doors again, you will be arrested for criminal trespassing.”
“You can’t do that!” she shrieked, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “My bridal shower is tomorrow! Two hundred of the most influential women in Chicago are arriving here at noon! You’ll ruin me!”
“No, Blythe,” I whispered, cold as ice. “You ruined yourself the second you mistook kindness for weakness, and a simple wool coat for an invitation to humiliate someone.”
I turned to Rosa, who was staring at me with awe.
“Rosa,” I said gently. “Call the front desk supervisor. Inform them that the Vance suite is locked out. Then, come with me to the owner’s suite. We need to talk about your future at this hotel.”
