Chapter 5

Darian's POV

I stared at the envelope, a sense of foreboding settling over me.

"What is it?"

Jake wore an expression that suggested he was carefully weighing his words.

"This is, well, something the hotel staff found in your room when they were cleaning... some money."

The envelope was already open, and my sense of foreboding proved accurate.

The money I never wanted to see again in my life had returned to confront me.

"They wanted to know what this money meant..."

"I forgot it on the floor," I said immediately. "Dropped it accidentally when I was changing. That's all."

Jake studied my expression. "Then this money..."

"Handle it yourself," I said. "Consider it your tip."

As long as it kept me from being reminded of my experience of being "bought," I didn't care what happened to it.

His expression brightened immediately. "Oh, this is really..."

"Is there any other information?"

Jake cleared his throat lightly. "The hotel's registration records show that the guest on the fifth floor last night was registered under Mr. Grant."

"Grant?" I repeated. "A man?"

"Yes, a gentleman with several people on the fifth floor. Then a woman said she was going to see them. She didn't register because she said she wasn't getting a room—just meeting someone and leaving. The front desk called Mr. Grant, and then there was some... chaos on the fifth floor."

"Apparently this Mr. Grant tried to force his way up to the sixth floor. The hotel knew you were resting and wouldn't let him disturb you. His people made too much noise and were restrained, then they left angrily. As for the woman, no one paid attention."

"There were also several other women already in the hotel, so there's no way to confirm whether they had anything to do with..."

"All useless," I concluded. "Nothing helpful at all?"

Jake's eyes drifted toward the envelope again.

I knew that was all there was.

Fine.

I exhaled in frustration.

At least I knew the Grants had been at the hotel last night. Perhaps my wife in name only had been there too.

But we hadn't crossed paths, and I had spent the night with some unknown woman.

My expression must have been quite ugly, because Jake took a step back.

"Keep investigating," I said. "Check the surveillance cameras on that street, taxi drivers who passed through. She left wearing hotel slippers—she should look like a woman in some state of disarray."

Jake nodded at each instruction, carefully observing my expression. "Sir, this may be somewhat presumptuous, but in order to better find this person, may I ask whether that woman last night in your room..."

"No. Don't ask what you shouldn't ask."

"Alright," he said awkwardly. "What about the woman from five years ago?"

"Keep looking for her too."

"Alright, I'll get right on it."

He took the envelope and left. I noticed his fingers exploring the outside of the envelope, trying in a discreet and dignified manner to figure out how much money was inside.

I felt inexplicably irritated. "Stop."

He stopped.

I took the envelope and dumped the money out directly.

Two fifties, several twenties.

I let out a cold laugh.

Less than an hour of my salary to buy my entire night—how utterly unfair.

Ha, and one hundred-dollar bill.

How "generous."

I pulled out that bill, then paused.

In the corner, there were traces of pencil doodles.

A pencil-drawn star with a crooked, lopsided smiley face. Next to the drawing were a few letters, tilted and uneven, as if left by a child who hadn't quite learned to hold a pen properly, using what she considered her most solemn strokes to leave her signature.

"Looks pretty childish," Jake commented from the side.

"No," I said—I didn't know why I was contradicting him, but I did so instinctively.

"This is innocent... quite endearing, actually."

He stared at me, saying nothing.

I pulled out that bill and shoved the rest into his hand, commanding him.

"Take it, then get out of my sight!"

He left quickly.

I looked at the bill for a while longer, then pressed it deep into my drawer.

That woman likes to doodle?

Or perhaps she has a child around her?

A child who scribbles... probably not too old, maybe around Cal's age?

Then I thought of Cal's situation.

This wasn't unusual—I was somewhat surprised myself by how often I thought of Cal, especially since I hadn't originally planned to think about him at all.

Four years ago, I found him on a street in Bay Harbor, wrapped in a hospital blanket, looking newborn, furiously raging against the world. The shape of his cry reminded me of someone—

I brought him home.

That single sentence was all the reason I had at the time. I brought him home, gave him a name, handled the paperwork, and waited for myself to change my mind.

I never did.

But he doesn't seem happy now.

If there could be someone to cheer him up a bit...

Then I remembered I had arranged for a fashion designer to see him today.

Four years ago, when I was unconscious in the ICU, my grandmother had contacted the Grant family and arranged for their daughter to marry me.

To prevent the other members of the Stone family from discovering how dire my condition really was and causing chaos, she used her maiden name, Voss, to give me a new identity: Elliott Voss.

Now that everything except my leg had recovered to normal, there was naturally no need to continue using the Voss name.

I hadn't planned to maintain contact with the Grants—they would only try to squeeze money out of me at every turn.

But the old Mrs. Grant was different from the other useless members of that family. She managed her company well and was a worthwhile business partner.

And sometimes, she reminded me of my grandmother.

So when I decided to find someone to design Cal's wardrobe this time and she approached me saying she had a suitable candidate, I didn't refuse.

Either way, Cal would decide for himself whether it was suitable or not.

I picked up the phone and called Wesley.

"How is he today?"

"Very quiet, sir," Wesley said in a low voice. "Lunch didn't go smoothly—he refused to eat the healthy nutritional meal Mrs. Walsh prepared. He spent most of the afternoon in the study."

The same pattern again.

"The new designer is coming today, the one for Cal's wardrobe."

"Yes, sir, expected to arrive around four-thirty." He paused briefly. "Cal seems to sense that today is different. He's been staring at the security camera feed by the door since two o'clock."

"Let me know if anything happens," I said.

"Of course."

I put down the phone and looked out at the skyline—the gray edge of the Atlantic barely visible between the buildings. Today was no different from any other day.

I was busy with endless work, and my son was sitting in the study staring at security camera footage, waiting for a stranger to arrive.

For the first time, I found myself hoping that whoever was coming would be someone he could tolerate.