Chapter 3 - The Trap ClosesMeredith pushed her squeaking cart down the long, carpeted hallway of the second-floor gallery. Her shift was almost over, and her feet throbbed inside her worn sneakers. She just needed to finish wiping down the brass railings near the grand ballroom entrance before she could clock out, catch the subway, and bring some groceries home.
She rounded the corner, her mop bucket trailing behind her.
Suddenly, two heavy hands grabbed her shoulders from behind, spinning her around with brutal force.
Meredith gasped, dropping her cleaning cloth as she was shoved hard against the wood-paneled wall. Her cart tipped sideways, spilling soapy water across the pristine carpet.
“Well, well, well,” a smooth, mocking voice purred.
Standing before her was Ridge Harlan. He was flanked by two massive bodyguards whose dark suits strained against their muscular frames. The sweet, sickly scent of bourbon rolled off Ridge’s breath as he leaned in close, inspecting her gray janitor’s uniform with unconcealed disgust.
“So this is the great treasure of the Vale empire,” Ridge sneered, reaching out and grabbing a fistful of her gray collar. “A woman who scrubs toilets for minimum wage while her husband sits on a throne of blood money.”
Meredith’s heart hammered against her ribs, but her eyes remained ice-cold. She didn't flinch. She didn't beg. She simply stared up at him with a quiet, unyielding defiance that infuriated him instantly.
“Let go of me,” Meredith said, her voice steady and clear.
“Oh, I’ll let go,” Ridge laughed softly, glancing back toward the open double doors of the grand ballroom, where three hundred wealthy guests had suddenly quieted, turning their heads to watch the spectacle in the hallway. “I just want to make sure you remember your place before I do.”
He raised his right hand.
Meredith braced herself, her jaw tightening.
Crack.
The sound echoed sharply down the long, luxurious hallway. The blow sent Meredith stumbling sideways, her shoulder slamming into the wall before she slid down onto the polished floor. A thin line of crimson warmth traced the corner of her mouth where her lip had split against her teeth.
Silence fell over the hallway.
Absolute, suffocating silence.
Inside the grand ballroom, three hundred people watched the man slap Meredith Quinn across the face. But the most terrifying sound that night was not the sharp crack of his hand against her skin.
It was the sudden, dead silence that followed.
No one stood.
No one called security.
No one even dared to whisper.
Meredith sat on the polished floor, wiping the blood from her lip with the back of her hand. Her gray uniform was damp at the knees. A white cleaning cloth lay beside her hand, stained dark red with spilled wine from a glass that had shattered during the scuffle.
Across from her, Ridge Harlan remained seated on the arm of a velvet settee, smiling.
That smile told Meredith the absolute truth before anyone else in the room understood it. Ridge had never come to the Ashford Grand Hotel tonight to humiliate an ordinary hotel janitor.
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He had come to draw out the beast.
He had come to make August Vale destroy himself in public, tearing down his own empire in a fit of blind, bloody rage.
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