Chapter 4

Darian's POV

The hotel.

I opened my eyes, my body heavy—a heaviness I'd grown used to. Ever since the car accident four years ago that nearly killed me, I'd learned to wake up first to the dull ache in my lower back and the dead weight below my hips. I steadied my breathing, pushed through it, and let the memories trickle back.

Last night, I'd followed my grandmother's instructions and arranged to meet my wife in name only—Miss Grant. When a woman in heavy makeup sidled up to me and handed me a drink, I'd assumed, reflexively, that she was her. After all, in my understanding, Miss Grant loved money. She'd married me—comatose in the ICU—for fifty million dollars without ever having met me. It made sense she'd approach me with that kind of ingratiating smile.

I'd taken the drink from her hand and downed it in one go, then told her I wanted a divorce. I watched her expression shift to surprise, and that's when I noticed the name tag pinned to her revealing dress: "Sweetheart Mary." A bar girl. Not Grant.

Then came the familiar heat, crawling under my skin. The drink had been spiked—something to set the mood, no doubt. My mind snapped back to five years ago: that same burning sensation, that same night, and the woman who'd said she loved me, only to vanish without a trace by morning. The woman I still hadn't found.

The heat and the anger collided in my head, and I knew I was in trouble. I had the bar girl removed immediately, then wheeled myself up to the sixth floor and checked into a room. I needed to be alone.

Fortunately—perhaps because I'd been through this once before—the night wasn't unbearable. I remember the first half being difficult, even hallucinatory. I thought I saw her again, the woman from five years ago, smiling as she wrapped her arms around me, pressing me down onto the bed, and then—

Then I noticed something else.

I sat up and looked down at my chest. It was covered in smudged lipstick marks. I pulled back the sheet. A faint arc crossed my abdomen—a nail mark, four shallow crescent moons, as if someone had taken her time leaving her signature.

Had a woman actually come into this room last night?

I turned my head. The other side of the bed was empty, the sheet pulled aside with the careless haste of someone who'd left in a hurry. On the nightstand sat a folded piece of hotel stationery, next to a stack of cash.

I reached for the note.

To Mr. S—Last night was my mistake. I'm willing to pay for it. The money on the table is for you. Please clean yourself up as you see fit. I have urgent business and had to leave first.

No signature.

She'd left me money. What the hell did she think I was?

And she expected me to clean up after myself?

I looked down at the mess of marks all over my body and almost laughed from sheer irritation. Another goddamn woman.

I swept the cash off the nightstand with one hand. The bills scattered across the floor in a chaotic sprawl. I didn't look at them again. Then I picked up my phone and called the front desk.

"I need to pull last night's surveillance footage. My floor."

A pause. The voice on the other end was careful, the kind of caution that comes from knowing exactly who you're speaking to. "Mr. Stone—I'm very sorry, but there was a technical malfunction with the cameras last night. We're currently working on repairs, and footage from the fifth and sixth floors is temporarily unavailable—"

"What caused it?"

"Our system was attacked. Unknown origin. We're doing everything we can to restore it—"

I hung up.

The fifth floor. That's where I'd arranged to meet the Grant woman. The cameras had failed on the fifth floor, and conveniently, mine as well.

I stared at the wall across from me, turning the facts over in my mind. A five-star hotel like this shouldn't make such a basic mistake. Someone had planned something shady on the fifth floor.

I called my secretary, Jake.

"I need you to find someone. A woman came into my room on the sixth floor last night." I glanced around. Aside from the money, there was nothing. She'd been thorough. "Pull records of everyone who left the hotel from the fifth and sixth floors before seven a.m. Cross-reference them."

"Understood," Jake said. He'd heard my tone and knew when not to ask questions. "Also—your grandmother called."

"I know. I'll call her back."

Jake went to work, and I took a deep breath before dialing my grandmother.

Her voice had that particular texture—the one she used when she was waiting for the outcome of something while already considering contingency plans.

"Last night's meeting," she said without preamble. "How did it go?"

"I didn't see her."

A beat of silence.

"The Grant girl didn't show?"

"There was a situation on the fifth floor." I wasn't about to elaborate. "She didn't come."

Not that I'd seen her, anyway.

My grandmother didn't ask what the situation was. She only ever needed conclusions, not process.

"I'll speak with the Grants."

"Don't bother."

"Darian—"

"I don't need that girl," I said. "I never did. Have the lawyers prepare the termination documents. There's no reason for this arrangement to continue."

Silence on the other end. Not hesitation—she was recalibrating.

"Cal," she said eventually. "Mrs. Walsh brought him up again. She said he bit another child last week. Her granddaughter."

"She's overstepping." I kept my voice flat. "I didn't tell her to bring her granddaughter over."

My grandmother's tone remained calm. "I've met the girl. She's about Cal's age, has plenty of friends at preschool. Mrs. Walsh invited her over hoping Cal could socialize the way other children do. Unfortunately, it didn't go well."

I said nothing.

"He'll be five in three months."

"I know when my son's birthday is."

"Then you should also know," she said quietly, "that this can't continue. That child doesn't need a nanny, or a caregiver, or a rotating staff of employees who won't give him the care he deserves. He needs a mother—even one we choose for him."

I looked down at my hand resting on the armrest of the wheelchair.

"My son should be strong. He doesn't need—"

"Do you want him to be like you, Darian?"

She cut me off.

"That wouldn't be so bad."

Through the phone, I heard her sigh.

"Darian, I'm old. You've grown up. But Cal—he's still young. He still has a chance at a complete family."

We were quiet for a moment.

"By his birthday," I said. "If there's no improvement by then—"

"I'll handle it myself."

My grandmother made a low sound in her throat—the kind that meant she wasn't entirely satisfied, but the topic was closed.

"I have work at the company. I need to go."

I ended the call quickly, unsure what I was running from.

I buried my mind in a full day's work. In the afternoon, Jake came to the office.

"Did you find her?" I asked.

He pulled out an envelope, his expression complicated.

"Sir."