Chapter 3 - Wolves in the Penthouse
The silence at our table stretched like a piano wire pulled to the breaking point. Before I could speak, heavy footsteps clicked against the heart-pine floorboards behind me.
Derek appeared.
He was adjusting the French cuffs of his crisp bespoke shirt, a heavy gold Rolex catching the low amber light of the chandeliers. His cheeks were flushed pink from rooftop cocktails, and his thin, predatory mouth curved into an easy, triumphant smirk.
“You should see the view from the terrace, Richard,” Derek said, clapping a heavy hand onto my father’s shoulder. He didn't even acknowledge me; he treated me like furniture. “The mayor’s chief of staff is up there right now with two city commissioners. If we lock down that property in Ardsley Park, we can host the fall PAC fundraiser. It’ll practically guarantee my equity partnership.”
Cassandra reached up, leaning into her husband’s hip with theatrical pride. “Did you tell her the number, Dad?”
“I did,” my father said, never taking his eyes off me. “Maya is just taking a moment to realize where her loyalties lie.”
Derek finally looked down at me, his eyes traveling over my dark, tailored blazer and the small silver hotel pin on my lapel. There was contempt in his gaze—the smug, casual dismissal of a man who believed every woman in the world existed to make his path smoother.
“Maya,” Derek said, his voice dripping with condescension. “Look, I know things were messy between you and your folks back then. But family is family. Sixty thousand is nothing compared to the prestige my partnership brings to the sterling name. When I make partner, your little hotel gets our firm’s corporate booking account. Think of it as an investment. You scratch our back, we keep you in business.”
“An investment?” I asked, my voice dangerously level. “In an Ardsley Park mansion you can’t afford? If you’re making partner next month, Derek, why can’t you secure a bridge loan from a commercial bank?”
Derek’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. A sharp, ugly flash of irritation crossed his eyes before he masked it with a dry chuckle. “Institutional banks have red tape. Bureaucracy. We need the earnest deposit cleared into escrow by Friday noon to beat a competing cash offer. We keep the money in the family. That’s how old money works, Maya. But I guess you’ve been away from high society so long you forgot how the game is played.”
“Old money doesn’t shake down their estranged daughters in the middle of a dinner rush,” I countered coldly.
My father’s hand slammed flat against the linen table. The silverware jumped. Two elderly guests at table four turned in shock.
“That’s enough!” my father hissed, rising halfway out of his seat. “You insolent little—”
“Mr. Sterling.”
The voice was quiet, crisp, and came from three paces to my left.
Marcus, our head of hotel security, stood with his arms folded neatly behind his back. At six-foot-three, built like a brick fortress and dressed in a discreet black suit, Marcus didn’t need to shout to command an entire room. Behind him, Celia, my assistant general manager, stood with an iPad tucked against her chest, her dark eyes flashing warning signals at me.
“Is there an issue at this table, Ms. Sterling?” Marcus asked, his tone impeccably polite, though his gaze remained locked on Derek and my father.
Derek puffed his chest out, stepping forward. “We’re having a private family discussion, buddy. Back off.”
“You are guests in the main dining room of the Montgomery House,” Marcus replied smoothly, not moving an inch. “Disrupting the comfort of our patrons is a violation of house policy. If voices are raised again, I will have the Savannah Police Department escort you to the sidewalk.”
My father’s face flushed a deep, mottled crimson. He adjusted his jacket, glaring at me with raw, unfiltered fury. He realized that pushing further in this public dining room would embarrass him in front of the very local elites he was trying to impress.
He leaned across the table one last time, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. “You have forty-eight hours, Maya. Sixty thousand dollars wire-transferred directly to Cassandra’s account. If that notification doesn’t hit my phone by Friday at nine a.m., Arthur Vance will have your eviction paperwork drafted before lunch. Don’t test me.”
He turned on his heel. “Eleanor. Cassandra. Derek. We’re leaving.”
They walked out like a pack of wolves retreating from a campfire, heads high, arrogant and entitled. But as the brass-framed glass doors clicked shut behind them, the cold reality crashed over me like tidal water.
May you like
Dad wasn't lying about Arthur Vance. And if I didn't find a way out of this trap, seven years of blood, sweat, and survival were going to burn to the ground.
***
