That fucker died sticking his dick in number eleven. As if it isn’t humiliating enough that he slept with more people in the two years of our marriage than I have in my entire life, he has to go out this way? It will be the talk of the town. I won’t be able to go anywhere without hearing people whispering behind my back.
“Number eleven?”
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
What was her real name? Natalie… Nancy… fuck it. “The bitch. The woman. Where the hell is she now?”
“I’m afraid she was distraught. The paramedics transported her to the hospital to be checked out, which I actually encouraged.” Our eyes meet as he finishes saying, “This way any guests who were disturbed by the commotion may believe that the ambulance was called for the lady.”
Mr. Jenkins went over and above. Not just taking care of the details but protecting my dignity as much as he could.
My brain races with all the scandalous implications of what the head of security has told me.
“Why are the police here? Surely they don’t suspect foul play.”
“Of course not. It’s routine in these matters, but… he was only in his forties and otherwise healthy, so they need to validate that he died of natural causes.”
“So, the coroner… is he…?” I can’t finish the sentence.
“Yes, unfortunately, he’s in route. The detective is staying with… the body… until the coroner claims it for the autopsy.”
Autopsies. Detectives. Ambulances. Death. All things hoteliers never want associated with their property.
“With your permission, ma’am, I’d like to get back downstairs so I can be in the lobby when he arrives. Who can I call to be here with you? I don’t want to leave you alone.”
That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? I have a thousand people in this city I would call a friend, most in my contact list on my phone, but none of them—not one—can I trust with this mess.
How sad.
“Katja!”
I hear my name called from the living room. Tears finally come to my eyes as I realize I’d been wrong. There is one person I can trust to be here with me tonight. He’s been here many times before in my hour of need.
The second Gordon, the doorman, steps into my bedroom, the dam holding back my emotions breaks, releasing tears over a man that has infuriated me at times, but somehow I know I’ll miss.
Being in a loveless marriage has been better than being completely alone.
Like a grandfather, the man who has been in my life since I took my first breath—who stood by me through every up and down in my life—sits down and pulls me into his arms. Gordon doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. It’s enough that he’s here, holding me as I let my new reality sink in.
“There, there, my Katja. Everything is going to be alright.”
Emotionally, I know he’s right. But financially….
“What the hell are you doing here and how did you get in the penthouse?” Gordon’s fury lashes out at someone behind me.
He never speaks like that to anyone… except… shit. Only one person brought out that much anger in Gordon Snyder.
“You need to change clothes. I’ll pick out what you should wear.” Words from the devil himself.
I have to be dreaming. Tristan dying is outrageous enough, but Dex Cohen barging into my private suite in the middle of the night… this has to be a nightmare.
I barely catch a glimpse of Dex as he marches through the lounge and into my bedroom. If it wasn’t for the tiny whiff of his scent hitting my nose, I’d swear it never happened.
Gordon lets go of my hand and stands. “Let me take care of this, Miss Katja.” Off he stomps like the guardian he’s been all my life.
I have the start of a headache by the time raised voices come from my room. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but a few seconds later, Dex emerges with an angry Gordon trailing him.
“Here, change into this black pantsuit. Then go wash your face, brush your hair, and put on just a little bit of make-up. Not too much… just enough to look presentable in the photos.” He throws the clothes into my lap.