Chapter 8 - The Midnight Storm
A torrential Dallas thunderstorm broke over the city, sheets of heavy rain lashing against the windshield of Charles's luxury sedan as he sped down the highway toward the Grandview Hotel.
His mind raced through 18 years of memories. He remembered Emily staying up all night when Noah had pneumonia. He remembered her sewing Ethan’s prom suit when it ripped hours before the dance. He remembered the quiet, steady grace with which she managed the household after Margaret died, never asking for praise, never complaining about his long hours at the office.
And how had he repaid her? By screaming at her in the foyer, calling her a thief, and casting her out like garbage based on the lies of a manipulative stranger.
He pulled up in front of the Grandview Hotel, threw the car into park, and ran through the rain into the grand lobby, water dripping from his tailored suit.
He rushed up to the front desk. "Emily Carter. What room is she in?"
The night clerk looked up, startled by the soaking wet, frantic billionaire. "Sir, I can't give out guest information—"
"I am Charles Whitman! This is my hotel!" he shouted, slamming his hand on the marble counter. "What room is she in?"
"Penthouse Suite 1202," the clerk stammered, typing furiously. "Mr. Ethan Whitman booked it under his corporate account."
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Charles didn't wait for the elevator; he sprinted toward the service stairs, taking them two at a time, his chest burning, his heart hammering against his ribs.
When he reached the twelfth floor, he rushed down the hallway and slammed his fist against the door of Suite 1202.
