Charlotte was sitting in her fancy mansion, in a room with a big window that showed the city below and the sea far away. She held a glass of expensive champagne in one hand. On the table next to her was a letter from the presidents of the Delish Delight Company, Mr. Corleone and Mr. Moretti, along with a box of cake.

  She took another sip of her drink and opened the letter. As she read it, her eyes moved slowly over each word, as if trying to take it all in deeply. Then suddenly, she threw the champagne glass across the room. It hit the floor and shattered into pieces. The broken glass caught the light from the windows, which lit up Charlotte’s already pale face.

  She read the letter again, this time faster. The words seemed to rush by but stayed clear in her mind. She didn’t need to read it again—the message was stuck in her head, forming a picture that she knew would stay with her for a long time. The words kept circling in her mind like buzzing insects.

  "How dare they," Charlotte growled, clenching the paper tightly in her hand. She looked at the box of cake, then threw it hard against the wall. It hit with a loud thud and fell to the floor.

  "They’re going to regret this. I’ll ruin their whole company!" she shouted, her voice rising sharply and echoing through the room. Even the servants outside the door could hear her.

  She took a few deep breaths, then called them in. "Clean this mess," she said coldly. As they entered, she glanced one last time at the cake, the words from the letter playing over and over in her head like a curse: "And consider this cake a token of sympathy. I hope you still have your sweet tooth."

  Charlotte stood stiffly, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her face hard and cold. The servants rushed to do as she said, quickly grabbing a broom and dustpan to clean up the shattered glass.

  Without a word, Charlotte poured herself another glass of champagne and drank it all in one swift gulp. The maids worked quickly, their hands trembling slightly as they picked up the sharp pieces. But in their haste, they began to bleed—tiny cuts and scratches appeared on their hands and arms, where the glass had pierced their skin. Still, they didn’t stop. They knew better than to complain in front of her.

  "Clean it up. Now!" Charlotte snapped, her voice sharp and furious, her eyes burning like red flames. One of the maids reached for the cake, but Charlotte caught her with a glare.

  "Don’t touch that cake," she said, her tone colder now. The maid froze. "My friends sent it. A gift from the heart," Charlotte added with a twisted smile. "So, of course, I have to accept it... with gratitude." Her smile widened, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "Don’t throw it away—feed it to the dogs."

  Her eye twitched slightly as she said it, and then her smile disappeared. There was something strange in her gaze—something dark and unsettling—but no one seemed to notice. No one except Charlotte herself.

  The servants quickly went back to work, sweeping up the shards and carefully dabbing the cake with a dry towel before putting it back in its box. They didn’t say a word as they hurried out of the room. They knew better. When Charlotte was like this, it was dangerous to stay too long.

  She let out a deep sigh, watching them go, the silence in the room growing heavier with each second.

  Charlotte sank back into her chair and took another slow sip of champagne, her body numb and her mind clouded. She had never really liked alcohol, but ever since that disastrous meeting with the presidents of Delish Delight, she found herself reaching for it more often. Something inside her hurt deeply—her pride, her soul, maybe both—but her body refused to accept the comfort the drink was supposed to bring. Instead, it only fueled her bitterness.

  Since her company, Lopez Foods, had landed in hot water, Delish Delight had turned into a constant threat. They were the ones spreading rumors, filing complaints with the authorities, dragging her company’s name through the mud. She was certain they were behind the recent food poisoning scandal—but no proof, not yet. She had even tried to settle it quietly, offering to negotiate, but they had the nerve to demand 60% of her company. There was no way she would ever hand it over.

  And now, today, they had gone too far. They sent her a legal notice demanding property transfer—along with a smug, mocking gift: one of their cakes.

  Charlotte let out a low, humorless laugh. This is what they think? That Lopez Foods is weak? That I’ll just give up? Her hands trembled slightly as she drained the last of her champagne. Her eyes, red with rage, narrowed as she slammed the empty glass down on the table.

  She stared at the letter again. Her voice dropped to a dark whisper. "They should die. That’s the least they deserve, right?"

  Her hand hovered over the letter. A shiver ran down her spine. She hesitated—but only for a second. Then she grabbed it and ripped it to pieces, shredding it until the air was filled with fluttering scraps of paper. Bits of it landed on the floor, the table, even in her lap.

  Without another word, Charlotte stood up and walked to the bathroom. She turned on the cold water and splashed it on her face, the shock helping to cool the fire burning in her chest—just a little.

  Suddenly, Ethan's eyes snapped open to the shrill sound of the alarm. It was still pitch dark. He noticed Ava sleeping beside him, undisturbed, so he leaned over and silenced the alarm. The clock read 3:00 a.m.

  Quietly, he grabbed his pants from the floor and slipped them on, then stepped out of bed. Lighting a cigarette, he walked out of the penthouse for some air. The scene outside was still tense. Police officers lingered nearby, their presence a reminder of the chaos just hours before. Kaylee’s body had already been taken to the hospital for examination, and Detective Dario was still inside, searching the place for anything that might break the case open.

  Ethan sat on a bench just outside the building, cigarette in hand. He blew out the smoke slowly, shaping it into lazy spirals that floated into the early morning air. Though his eyes were half-closed, he stayed sharp, watching the quiet road ahead.

  His thoughts drifted back to the night before. He recalled everything—the sounds, the faces, the moment it all went wrong. He could see Dario inside the penthouse, moving methodically, searching, calculating. Dario looked every bit the part of a seasoned detective—tall, with short brown hair and a light beard that made him seem older than he was.

  Then Dario spotted him. His eyes locked with Ethan’s. Without breaking his pace, the detective walked steadily toward him.

  "You're pretty calm about this situation," Dario said, his tone even as he leaned against the railing beside Ethan. "For a guy who killed a girl. How can you be so calm?"

  Ethan didn’t flinch. He took one last drag of his cigarette, exhaled slowly, then replied, "Because I’ve been through things a lot worse than this."

  Dario raised an eyebrow. "What kind of things?"

  Ethan turned his head, locking eyes with the detective. His voice was low but steady. "As if you don’t already know."

  Dario didn’t blink. "We both know you lied."

  Ethan dropped his cigarette to the ground, grinding it beneath his heel. "If you’re that eager to hear a story, arrest me again. I only like talking in confession rooms."

  Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Dario staring after him, unreadable.

  "With pleasure, Mr. Lopez," Dario muttered, shaking his head with a tired sigh as Ethan disappeared into the shadows.

  There wasn’t much he could do—not yet. Ethan was always slippery, always one step ahead. Too smart for his own good. Dario had been watching him for a long time, and deep down, he knew Ethan had killed Kaylee. Just like he knew about the others. But as always, Ethan left no trail, no fingerprints, no camera footage. Nothing but a growing pile of doubt and suspicion that wasn’t enough to hold up in court.

  All Dario could do was wait, observe, and hope Ethan would make a mistake.

  The hotel around them was no longer the glittering high-rise it had once been. A heavy silence lingered in the halls, broken only by the murmurs of police officers and the quiet hum of cleaners trying to scrub away the tragedy. The glint of luxury had dulled, replaced by the dark memory of Kaylee’s lifeless body lying cold in one of its rooms.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The atmosphere hung thick with tension—guilt, fear, and unanswered questions.

  ━???━???━

  It was 5 a.m. when Blair and Masson finally arrived at the Luxor Lodgings Hotel—nearly seven hours later than planned. They were exhausted, their steps heavy as they pushed through the grand entrance, barely able to keep their eyes open after a long, grueling trip.

  The early morning still cloaked the city in shadows, and the soft glow of the hotel lights felt like a quiet promise of rest. Masson tugged his hoodie lower over his short, curly black hair, his warm brown eyes scanning the lobby with curiosity. Everything looked expensive, elegant—nothing like the world they were used to.

  Their new designer outfits didn’t help either. The sleek, high-end clothes felt more like costumes than comfort. Masson walked stiffly, the fabric unfamiliar against his skin. He couldn’t stop thinking about the money it must’ve cost—and how they could never afford it on their own. When he’d asked Blair where she got the cash, she had just smiled and changed the subject. Something in her eyes had told him not to push.

  Still, even if it was just for one night, Masson let himself feel something rare: like he belonged to a different world. One where he wasn’t just surviving.

  With a mixture of anticipation and unease, Blair and Masson stepped cautiously into the hotel, their hearts racing with each step. The usual hum of activity had vanished, replaced by a heavy, unsettling silence. It felt wrong—like the air itself was charged with tension.

  The flashing lights from police cars outside bathed the hotel in an eerie, unnatural glow. Masson’s instincts kicked in. His detective sense, honed over years of experience, screamed that this was a crime scene. Everywhere he looked, there were police officers in black uniforms, methodically moving around, photographing evidence with bulky cameras strapped to their belts. The atmosphere was thick with the kind of gravity that only followed tragedy.

  When Masson spotted Dario among the officers, a rush of panic gripped him. He quickly ducked his head and pulled his hoodie further down, hoping to avoid being noticed. The last thing he needed was Dario’s sharp eyes landing on him.

  They walked forward, their footsteps echoing softly in the tense silence. As they neared the fountain in the center of the lobby, the sight of the yellow caution tape hit them like a punch to the gut. It stretched across the entrance to the hallway, a stark and unmistakable warning: Do Not Enter. The words seemed to mock them, a cruel reminder that something horrific had taken place within those walls.

  A shiver ran down Masson’s spine as the reality of it all settled in. Whatever had happened here, it was bad—far worse than they could’ve imagined.

  Two exhausted police officers stood watch by the caution tape, their faces etched with fatigue and disbelief. Their eyes met Blair's, and without saying a word, they conveyed the gravity of the situation. It was clear from their tense posture that they weren’t prepared for whatever had unfolded inside the hotel. They had been told to guard the scene, but something about the way they looked at her and Masson suggested they, too, had their own questions.

  The officers didn't need to say a word—they simply made it clear: You’re not supposed to be here.

  Masson’s heart skipped a beat when he saw Dario from across the room. The detective’s sharp eyes flicked over to him, and for a split second, Masson froze. He quickly turned to Blair, his voice barely above a whisper.

  "What could possibly happen here, Blair?" he asked, his words thick with confusion and unease.

  Blair mirrored his shock, her composed exterior momentarily slipping. She scanned the surroundings, her eyes darting from the police officers to the crime scene, as though looking for an answer in the stillness of the hotel. The usual calm demeanor that had always been her shield faltered.

  "Looks like we're too late," Blair replied, her voice tinged with regret. She sighed, her gaze drifting upward, as though the answer to everything might lie in the towering walls of the hotel. "The meeting must have already ended."

  Masson blinked in surprise. Blair's words seemed out of place, almost too detached for the gravity of the situation. It was as if she was trying to shift the focus elsewhere, away from the dark reality of the crime scene.

  He shook his head, trying to steady his thoughts. "There has been a murder here, Blair," he reminded her, his voice sharp. He wanted to snap her back into the present—this was what mattered, not any meetings or distractions.

  Blair’s eyes finally shifted, meeting his gaze with an odd intensity. For a moment, it was as if the weight of her thoughts collided with the grim truth. But instead of reacting the way Masson expected, she tilted her head back, her eyes tracing the high ceilings of the hotel as though the answer to everything was hidden somewhere above them.

  Blair’s eyes flicked between Masson and the two weary police officers guarding the scene. “But we didn’t come here for this murder case," she said, her voice steady, though there was an edge of impatience in it. "The police will take care of it. We’re actually late because Thomas Martin must be gone by now."

  Masson blinked, momentarily stunned by her words. They hadn’t come here for the murder? The weight of the crime scene still hung in the air, but Blair’s reminder snapped him back to their original purpose. They had a mission—their mission.

  He followed her into the spacious hotel lobby, the polished floors gleaming beneath their feet. Their heads held high, they walked past the reception, making a conscious effort to blend in, to stay unnoticed. Every staff member seemed to be watching them, eyes flicking over them with curiosity and a hint of suspicion. Blair, unfazed by their attention, pulled a golden card from her designer bag.

  Masson leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. "Opulent Heights Penthouse Mastercard?" he asked, his surprise evident.

  Blair just smiled, her lips curling slightly as she slipped the card back into her bag. The card glinted in the light—one of the most exclusive, and expensive, access keys in the city.

  As a chef, Masson had always seen Blair as resourceful, clever, and sharp in the kitchen. But this... this felt different. Her cool, confident demeanor, the way she effortlessly wielded the card—it almost made her seem like a professional spy, or perhaps an undercover agent in a world that was far beyond his own.

  They reached the sleek, modern elevator at the end of the hall. The glass doors slid open smoothly, and they stepped inside. The elevator operator gave them a polite nod, pressing the button for the Opulent Heights Penthouse on the 100th floor. As the doors closed, they were enclosed in the small, mirrored space, the soft hum of the elevator filling the silence.

  Masson glanced at Blair, the tension from earlier lingering in the air. “So, what exactly is waiting for us up there?” he asked quietly, his curiosity piqued by her calm composure.

  Blair didn’t answer immediately, her eyes fixed on the soft reflection in the elevator mirror. When she finally spoke, her voice low, almost a murmur, she said, “You’ll know.”

  As the elevator started to go up, Masson felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. Going to the penthouse was a big deal. The elevator moved smoothly, and soft music played in the background, adding to the feeling of mystery. He felt like he was about to enter one of the most secure places in Washington. The owner, Dylan Stark, was a powerful billionaire. Masson knew that Dylan did a lot of charity work to help poor people and others in need. Dylan was self-made and owned many businesses, including the Stark Foundation, which gives free education, health care, and food to homeless people. Masson’s friend, Ethan, had a meeting at Dylan’s place today since Dylan lived in New York.

  Blair and Masson shared a look, silently reminding each other how important their mission was. Blair was here to get a crucial piece of information that could change everything, while Masson was only here to help his fiancée. He knew it wasn’t that big of a deal, but since Blair had asked for his help, he was doing it just for her.

  When the elevator doors opened on the 100th floor, they stepped out and immediately saw the sleek black door of the penthouse. Blair smoothly slid the golden card into the electronic lock, as if she visited this place all the time. With a soft click, the door opened, revealing a stunning scene inside.

  They entered the penthouse and carefully started looking around. To their surprise, there was no one there except for a girl sleeping peacefully in Ethan's master bedroom. Blair and Masson exchanged a look, realizing that not only was Thomas Martin missing, but so was Ethan. They had definitely arrived late.

  "Not just Thomas Martin, but Ethan too," Masson muttered, glancing at Blair. "We’re really late."

  "Thieves usually leave clues behind, Masson," Blair said in a mysterious tone.

  "Stop repeating my words, Miss Detective Bee," Masson laughed. "By the way, why did you come when you knew we were late?" Blair rolled her eyes at him calling her “Bee.” It wasn’t that she disliked it; she just didn’t like anyone calling her that except for one person.

  “Because Ethan is still inside,” she said confidently, locking eyes with him.

  “And how do you know that?” Masson raised an eyebrow, clearly doubtful.

  “I know something you don’t,” she said with a teasing smile and a wink.

  Masson didn’t fully understand what she meant, but he nodded anyway. Just then, in the quiet of the penthouse, they heard the unmistakable sound of a door closing. Masson’s eyes went wide, and both of them quickly rushed toward the sound. As they reached the hallway, they caught a glimpse of someone slipping away in the distance—it was Ethan, leaving the penthouse.

  “Ethah...?” Masson started to call out, but Blair quickly covered his mouth, stopping him before he could make any noise.

  "We gotta be quiet, Masson," Blair whispered urgently. "He's probably near the elevator. Let's catch up before he slips away." Masson nodded, and they carefully followed Ethan, their footsteps faint in the silence of the penthouse. It felt like a chase they could never win—Ethan was always one step ahead.

  "Yeah, yeah, we need to make it to the Amethyst Diamond Casino fast," Blair whispered, suddenly stopping and pulling Masson back as they neared the elevator. They ducked behind a nearby wall, just in time to overhear Ethan’s phone call.

  "Thomas Martin will be there too, and the deal should go down today," Ethan said into his phone, his voice low but clear. "And yeah, my driver Marcus will pick you up from the Blue Fressy Bar. Just tell Thomas I sent you to my place."

  There was a short pause.

  "No, no, I'll handle that murder case," he added, before pressing the elevator button and stepping inside as the doors opened.

  Blair and Masson shared confused looks as the elevator doors closed behind Ethan. His phone call didn’t sit right with either of them, and they couldn’t shake the feeling that something bigger was unfolding.

  “Alright, Masson,” Blair said firmly, snapping back into action. “You have to take Marcus’ place at the Amethyst Diamond Casino—no matter what.”

  Masson frowned. “But why? I thought we were just here to spy on your new boss. That’s why I came with you. Why are we suddenly chasing him to the casino—or wherever he’s going?”

  Blair gave him a look and then pulled the classic move—her signature pout. “Just do as I say, please.”

  Masson sighed, defeated. “Fine, fine. I’m only doing this because of that face.”

  Blair smirked. “I know.”