Chapter 6 - The Presidential Trap
The presidential suite spanned the entire top floor of the east wing. Accessible only by a private elevator, it was a fortress of luxury designed for visiting royalty and billionaires. Tonight, it housed the architects of my father's murder.
I didn't storm the front door. Instead, Vance and I utilized the service elevators, accessing the hidden mechanical crawlspaces above the suite's ornate ceiling.
Looking through the ventilation grates, I saw them. Five men and women in immaculate evening wear, sipping expensive scotch, entirely unaware that the hotel lockdown had trapped them. They thought the storm had simply disrupted the security grid.
"Arthur is late," an older man with silver hair complained, checking his Rolex. I recognized him instantly: Marcus Vance, a notorious hedge fund manager—no relation to my security chief, but a man synonymous with corporate ruthlessness.
"Arthur is dealing with the cleanup," a woman in a silk dress replied coldly. "The girl’s car went off the cliff. He’s ensuring the police declare it a tragic accident. Just like her father."
They raised their glasses in a toast. The sheer arrogance made me sick to my stomach.
I pulled out my smartphone and connected it to the suite's internal smart-system. With a few taps, I killed the classical music playing softly in their room.
I synced my microphone to the room's surround sound speakers.
"I wouldn't drink to that just yet," my voice boomed from the ceiling, echoing off the marble floors.
The glasses shattered. The five conspirators jumped, looking around in frantic terror.
"Who is that?!" Marcus yelled.
May you like
I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I triggered the room’s smart-glass windows, turning them opaque, effectively blinding them from the outside world. Then, I locked the heavy mahogany doors electronically.
"My name is Victoria Rose Kaelen," my voice filled the room, cold and absolute. "And you are currently trespassing in my home."
