Chapter 5 - THE REMNANTS OF DISCOVERY
The gala continued, though the festive atmosphere had completely curdled into a tense, hushed corporate summit. People murmured in frightened clusters, whispering about federal investigations, asset freezes, and the sudden downfall of the Hayes household.
By ten o'clock, Sebastian excused himself, leaning heavily on his cane as his personal physician and security detail escorted him back to his penthouse suite on the top floor of the hotel. Before he left, he handed me a heavy brass key on a leather fob.
"The penthouse private study is yours, Charlotte," he told me quietly. "All of your father’s old papers, photographs, and unredacted trust documents are locked in the floor safe. The combination is your birthday."
"Thank you, Grandfather," I whispered, pressing a kiss to his weathered cheek.
"Get some rest," he said, his eyes softening. "Tomorrow, we start taking back our home."
After he left, I didn't return to the ballroom. I bypassed the elevators, taking the private service stairs up to the penthouse level, wanting a moment of absolute quiet to let the shock of the evening settle into my bones.
The penthouse hallway was dimly lit, smelling of aged cedar, expensive wax, and old paper. I walked down the corridor, inserting the heavy brass key into the double doors of the private study. The lock clicked open with a satisfying, heavy sound.
I pushed the doors open and stepped inside.
The room was vast, lined with towering mahogany bookshelves, a massive oak desk, and a large Persian rug covering the center of the floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking, glittering view of the city skyline stretching out into the dark night.
Yet, as I walked further into the room, something felt off.
A faint sound—the rustle of paper and the soft click of a drawer sliding shut—echoed from the far corner near the private balcony doors.
I froze, my hand still resting on the brass door handle.
"Who's there?" I called out, my voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.
A figure stepped out from the shadows of the bookshelf, holding a thick manila folder in one hand and a small silver flash drive in the other.
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It wasn't a security guard. It wasn't a hotel employee.
It was Julian Hayes—Margaret’s husband, the senior executive vice president who had just been stripped of his corporate title twenty minutes ago.
