Everyone laughed when the young cleaner started sketching the millionaire while he chatted with his guests. Alejandro was the only one who stepped closer to take a look. Then, he saw something that made his blood run cold: the drawing showed a small scar behind the man's ear. No one could have seen it from where the young woman was standing. Alejandro recognized the mark because it appeared in an old photograph of someone his family had been searching for for years. "How did you know it was there?" he asked. The cleaner set her pencil down on the table. What had she seen before she started drawing? Find out at the link. / Chapter 4 / 8

Chapter 4 - Shadows in the PenthouseMidnight struck, and the glittering façade of the Sterling Foundation gala began to dissolve. The wealthy socialites staggered out toward their waiting limousines, leaving the grand ballroom to the quiet army of cleaners and staff clearing away the debris of excess.

In the private penthouse suite on the top floor of the Grand Regent Hotel, Arthur Sterling poured himself a heavy glass of nineteen-year-old single malt scotch.

His hands weren't steady.

He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling glass window, staring down at the glittering city skyline below. The memory of the young maid standing near the marble pillar earlier that evening gnawed at the back of his mind. There was something in her eyes—something cold, calculating, and far too intelligent for someone in a custodial uniform.

She was looking at my ear, Arthur thought, his chest tightening with sudden paranoia. She saw it.

“You’re sweating, Julian,” a raspy voice echoed from the dimly lit shadows of the penthouse study.

Arthur spun around, spilling a drop of scotch onto his tailored silk shirt.

Stepping out from the darkness near the bookshelf was Victor Thorne—the man with the gold serpent ring, the very same man Elena had seen earlier. Victor was older, his face lined with decades of white-collar crime, blackmail, and dangerous secrets.

“Don’t call me that!” Arthur hissed, slamming his glass down onto the mahogany desk. “That name died twenty-five years ago in that burning house in Vermont, Victor. I am Arthur Sterling. I own half this city, and the board of directors answers to me.”

“You own nothing,” Victor laughed softly, stepping into the pool of amber lamplight. His eyes gleamed with malicious amusement. “Without my network, without the forged birth certificates and the shell companies I set up to bury the real Julian Vance, you’d be rotting in a federal prison or a wooden box. And now, I hear whispers that someone on the hotel staff caught a glimpse of your little souvenir behind your ear.”

“It was a maid,” Arthur muttered, his voice tightening. “Just a nobody. I’ll have her fired, discredited, and run out of the county by morning.”

“You’re a fool,” Victor snapped, his smile vanishing. “A maid with a sketchbook just dismantled a twenty-five-year illusion. Do you really think she hasn't told anyone?”

Before Arthur could answer, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed loudly against the heavy oak penthouse door.

Both men froze.

Arthur reached instinctively inside his jacket toward the concealed shoulder holster holding his legal, licensed defensive firearm. “Who is it?” he demanded, his voice echoing in the silent suite.