Chapter 2 - The Ghosts in the Room
Before security could lay a finger on Nova, a commanding voice cut across the ballroom like a steel blade.
"Nobody touches her!"
Grayson Cole descended the grand staircase in four long, furious strides. The thirty-five-year-old billionaire had spent the evening courting investors, but his dark eyes were locked entirely on Nova.
Brooke scrambled to her feet, face flushed scarlet with humiliation. "Grayson! She attacked me! The maid put her hands on me in front of everyone! Fire her! Have her arrested!"
Grayson stepped right past Brooke. He didn't even look at his fiancée. He stopped directly in front of Nova, his chest heaving, his voice dropping to an urgent, protective murmur.
"Are you injured?"
Nova looked up at him. She recognized the shadow behind his eyes. She had known who he was from the day she applied at the hotel, though she had prayed he would never see through her disguise.
"I'm fine, Mr. Cole," Nova replied, her voice cool and formal. "I apologize for the broken glass."
"You have nothing to apologize for," Judge Malcolm Reed declared, stepping forward from Table Fourteen. His deep baritone carried across the entire room. "I saw the entire incident. Miss Hathaway kicked this young woman unprovoked, and then attempted battery. The employee merely redirected the blow."
"Malcolm!" Brooke’s mother hissed from nearby.
"Do not 'Malcolm' me, Eleanor," the retired federal judge snapped. "I still know assault when I see it."
Ambassador Morel stood beside Ruth Mercer, both staring at Nova as if seeing an angel risen from a mass grave. Ruth took a step toward Nova, her voice cracking. "Child... is it really you?"
Nova’s eyes widened slightly. A subtle, guarded mask dropped over her features. She pulled her sleeve down over the scar, hiding the silver emblem.
"You have the wrong person, ma'am," Nova whispered. She bowed her head to Grayson. "Excuse me, sir. I have tables to clean."
Nova slipped through the heavy double doors into the labyrinthine service corridor before anyone could utter another word.
Brooke stood trembling in the center of the ballroom, every phone camera aimed at her ruined pride. "Grayson! Do you hear me? Call the police!"
Grayson turned to Brooke. The warmth in his eyes was completely extinguished.
"The engagement is over, Brooke," Grayson said clearly, loud enough for twenty reporters and fifty socialites to hear. "Take your belongings from my penthouse tonight. If you ever threaten a member of my staff again, I will release the unedited ballroom security footage to every news outlet in North America."
A collective gasp swept through the guests. Brooke looked as though she had been slapped.
Meanwhile, behind the service pantry, Priya Okafor—the veteran wardrobe supervisor—grabbed Nova’s arm and pulled her into a private linen room.
"Nova! What on earth was that?" Priya whispered, fetching an ice pack for Nova’s bruised shin. "Judge Reed defended you! Ruth Mercer was weeping! And Grayson Cole just torched a three-year engagement for you!"
"Priya, please," Nova said, leaning against the cold metal lockers, closing her eyes. Her heartbeat was drumming in her ears.
"Who are you, Nova?" Priya asked gently, lifting Nova’s sleeve to inspect the bruise. She stared at the jagged white scar. "You told me you did transport work. What kind of transport gives you shrapnel scars and brings three world leaders to tears?"
"The kind of work," Nova whispered, "that gets everyone you love killed if people start asking questions."
Across town, three hours later, Brooke Hathaway sat in her penthouse, mascara running down her cheeks, consumed by toxic, unbridled rage. She dialed a private investigator who operated in the black-market shadows of D.C.
May you like
"Victor," Brooke spat into the phone. "Her name is Nova Reyes. Hotel maid at the Richmond. Find out who she is, where her family lives, and every disgusting secret she’s hiding. I don’t care what it costs. I’m going to destroy her."
***
