Chapter 2 - THE REAR-DOOR TAPE
The security control room in the basement smelled of ozone, stale coffee, and sweat.
When Adrian slammed the door open, the shift manager, a man named Henderson, nearly dropped his coffee mug. Sitting beside him, looking sleek, manicured, and utterly untroubled, was Victor Sloan, the General Manager of the Hawthorne Meridian.
Sloan turned with a practiced, flattering smile on his face. “Adrian! Good God, man, look at you! What happened to your suit? Senator Bellamy is at the head table, and your uncle Richard is getting anxious—”
Sloan’s voice trailed off as Adrian closed the distance between them in three long strides.
Before Sloan could react, Adrian grabbed him by the lapels of his expensive suit and slammed him back against the steel control console. Keyboards rattled; monitors flickered.
“Mr. Hawthorne!” Henderson yelled, scrambling out of his chair.
“Sit down,” Adrian snapped without looking at the guard. His gaze was locked onto Sloan’s pale, sweat-beaded face. “You left a woman bleeding under a crushed pallet for forty minutes.”
Sloan’s eyes darted frantically toward the monitors. “Adrian... listen to me... it was a minor workplace incident! The staff overreacted. We couldn't have emergency vehicles flashing lights while the press was broadcasting the Senator’s arrival for the Promise Fund! It would look terrible on the news—'Charity Gala Blocked by Hotel Injury.' I handled it! I ordered security to clear the lane!”
“You let a mother lay in a puddle of oil so your red carpet looked nice,” Adrian hissed, his fingers tightening on Sloan’s jacket. “Who told you to ignore her?”
“Nobody! I made a management decision!” Sloan stammered, his polished composure dissolving into pure panic. “It’s about protecting the Hawthorne brand!”
“Show me the loading dock footage from the last hour,” Adrian ordered, releasing Sloan with a shove that sent the manager stumbling into a chair. “Now, Henderson.”
Henderson’s hands trembled over the keyboard. “Sir, I... I’m not sure if that feed saved correctly—”
“If you touch a delete key, Henderson, I will have you arrested for tampering with evidence before the ambulance arrives,” Adrian said, his voice dropping into a register of quiet, lethal authority. “Pull up Camera 14. The rear loading bay.”
Henderson swallowed hard and clicked a mouse.
The high-definition monitor flared to life, showing the rain-slicked service alley from a wide overhead angle. The timestamp in the corner read 07:15 PM.
Adrian watched the screen.
On the video, Naomi Paige could be seen rolling a heavy delivery cart past the pallet stacks. Suddenly, a figure stepped out from the shadows near the manager’s private entrance.
It was not a warehouse worker. It was a man wearing a cashmere overcoat and a silk scarf.
The man argued with Naomi. Even without audio, the body language was hostile. The man grabbed Naomi’s arm; she pulled back violently, attempting to shield her apron pocket. In the struggle, the man shoved Naomi backward into the unstable pallet stack. The heavy wooden crates collapsed directly onto her leg.
Naomi fell, screaming in silent agony on the screen.
Instead of helping her, the man in the cashmere coat stepped over her prone body, reached down, and snatched an envelope from her pocket. Then, he turned to the camera, his face fully illuminated by the halogen security light for three crisp seconds before he walked inside.
Adrian felt the air leave his lungs. The blood in his veins ran instantly cold.
The man on the screen—the man who had shoved Naomi Paige into a deadly trap and left her to suffer in the rain—was not Victor Sloan.
It was Richard Hawthorne.
Adrian’s own uncle. The co-chairman of the Hawthorne Promise Fund, the elder statesman of the family, and the man currently upstairs giving a speech about compassion for the poor.
Adrian stared at the screen, his pulse roaring in his ears. “Why did my uncle push a housekeeper?”
Sloan sat frozen in his chair, his face entirely drained of color. He didn't answer.
Adrian stepped over to Sloan, grabbing the back of his chair and spinning him around to face the monitor. “You didn't hide the ambulance to protect the gala, Victor. You hid the ambulance to protect him.”
“Adrian... please,” Sloan whispered, his voice shaking. “You don't understand what’s at stake. If that tape gets out... it destroys everything. The Fund, the family name, the hotel stock... Richard said it was an accident! He said she threatened him!”
“She’s a housekeeper!” Adrian shouted, the fury finally breaking through his stoic exterior. “What could a housekeeper possibly threaten a billionaire with?”
Before Sloan could reply, the muffled sound of sirens echoed from the street above. The paramedics had arrived.
Adrian looked at Henderson. “Lock this file. Export three copies to a secure external drive and hand them to me. If this footage disappears from the server, you will go to prison alongside my uncle. Do you understand me?”
Henderson nodded frantically.
May you like
Adrian grabbed the flash drive, shoved it into his ruined coat pocket, and turned toward the door. The gala upstairs was about to begin its main event. His uncle was about to take the stage.
And Adrian was about to drop a bomb on the family empire.
