Chapter 8 - The Desperate Strike
The music shifted into a slow, haunting waltz. Nolan pulled me into his arms with an ease that felt entirely natural, yet sent electric currents racing across my skin. His large, warm hand settled against the bare curve of my lower back, his fingers resting firmly against the velvet of my gown.
For a long moment, we didn’t speak. We moved together across the floor, our steps in perfect synchronization, oblivious to the hundred pairs of eyes watching our every breath.
“You look breathtaking tonight, River,” Nolan murmured, his head bent low so that his breath brushed the sensitive skin beneath my ear.
My pulse skipped. “You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Reed. Though I suspect you enjoy corporate assassinations a little too much.”
A soft, genuine chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. It was a beautiful sound—rich, warm, and entirely devoid of the cold calculation he showed the rest of the world.
“Only when the target deserves it,” he said, his gray eyes searching mine. “How does it feel to be the CEO of Sutton Harbor Hotels?”
“Exhausting,” I admitted, a genuine smile touching my lips. “Terrifying. And completely intoxicating. We have so much work to do, Nolan. The Beaufort property needs an entire overhaul, the staff at the flagship has been underpaid for two years, and the booking software is from 2010.”
“Good,” Nolan said softly, his thumb tracing a tiny, hypnotic circle against my hip through the heavy velvet. “A company is only as good as the woman running it. And I have complete faith in her.”
The air between us grew thick, charged with something far more dangerous than debt covenants or board resolutions. I looked up into his dark, intelligent eyes and realized that the wall of safety I had built around my heart for ten years was completely crumbling.
Then my phone buzzed sharply inside my small evening clutch.
I tried to ignore it, but three seconds later, it buzzed again. Then a third time.
Nolan’s brow furrowed slightly. He slowed our steps, his hand remaining steady on my waist. “Take it. Something is wrong.”
I stepped back, pulled the slim phone from my clutch, and tapped the screen.
It was Maria, the head of housekeeping at our Charleston flagship property—a woman who had worked for Nana Jo for twenty-two years and never called me after seven p.m. unless the world was ending.
I pressed the phone to my ear. “Maria? What’s happening?”
“River,” Maria’s voice came through the line, tight with panic, the background noise filled with shouting and the metallic clatter of heavy equipment. “You need to get down here right now. The Department of Health and Environmental Control just showed up with three city inspectors and a police escort. They’re claiming there’s a catastrophic greywater leak into the municipal storm system from our kitchen grease traps. They’re shutting down the entire flagship property. They’re evacuating the guests!”
My blood turned to ice. “What? That’s impossible! We just replaced those traps four months ago! We passed the municipal certification with honors!”
“They have an emergency stop-work order signed by the city magistrate,” Maria said, her voice breaking. “Spencer Hartwell’s cousin is the district supervisor, River. They brought news cameras from Channel 4! They’re filming our guests carrying their luggage out into the street!”
I hung up the phone. My hands were shaking, not with fear, but with a blind, murderous rage.
“Lorraine,” I breathed, looking across the ballroom.
Lorraine Hartwell was gone. Spencer was gone. They had slipped out through the side doors the moment Nolan had confronted them.
“What did they do?” Nolan asked, his voice instantly dropping into that terrifying, razor-sharp operational register.
“They’re sabotaging the flagship,” I said, clutching my phone so tightly the glass groaned. “They sent crooked city inspectors to shut down our main hotel on bogus environmental charges. They’re kicking out two hundred high-paying guests on a Friday night with news cameras rolling. If the footage leads the ten o'clock news, our brand reputation will be permanently poisoned before we even launch the recapitalization.”
I didn’t wait for him. I turned on my five-inch heels and began walking briskly toward the grand foyer.
Nolan was at my side in two strides. He pulled his phone from his pocket, his voice calm, chilling, and absolute as he brought it to his ear.
“Marcus,” Nolan said to his chief security head. “Mobilize the maritime engineering team currently berthed at Pier 7. Bring two high-capacity industrial pump trucks, our environmental compliance legal team, and our private media liaison. We have a hostile municipal blockade at the Sutton Harbor Flagship. Meet us there in eight minutes.”
He clicked off the phone, took my elbow, and guided me through the stunned crowd of guests.
“Nolan,” I said as we broke through the heavy oak doors into the night air. “This isn’t your fight anymore. You bought the debt, but this is boots-on-the-ground hospitality warfare. If they find one single violation, they can lock the doors for thirty days.”
The black Escalade screeched to a halt at the curb, its doors flying open before the tires had even stopped spinning.
Nolan looked down at me, his eyes gleaming like two polished blades in the amber glare of the streetlights.
May you like
“River,” he said, his voice sending a fierce, wild shiver straight down my spine. “You taught me that hospitality is about human dignity. Now let’s go teach the Hartwells what happens when they try to tear down something you built.”
***
