Marcus stood in the doorway of the penthouse suite at 7:00 AM sharp. He held a tablet in one hand and a medical kit in the other. Behind him, two private security officers waited like statues.
"Mr. Cervantes?" Marcus called out.
The door was unlocked. That was the first bad sign.
Marcus stepped inside. The room smelled of sweat and something metallic. He scanned the area. The sculpture was knocked over. A bottle of Macallan sat unopened on the console table.
Kenan was sitting on the edge of the sofa. He was shirtless, his head in his hands.
"Sir?" Marcus approached cautiously.
Kenan looked up. He looked like he had gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight. His eyes were clearer than they had been in weeks, but there was a deep confusion in them.
"What happened?" Kenan asked. His voice was gravel.
"The system registered a lockdown at 11:42 PM," Marcus said, checking the tablet. "A bio-threat protocol you designed. It sealed the unit but blocked all external alerts, just as you programmed it to. It cleared at 4:15 AM."
Kenan rubbed his neck. He winced. "I remember... noise. Then silence. Someone was here."
He looked at his hands. He remembered holding on to something. Someone. He remembered a voice, sharp and commanding. Look at me. And he remembered a scent. Not perfume. Something clean. Like rain.
He looked at the sofa cushion. Wedged in the seam was a single, long strand of dark hair.
He picked it up.
"A woman," Kenan said. The memory was fragmented, hazy, like a dream recorded on a damaged tape. But the physical sensation of peace-that was real.
"A woman?" Marcus stiffened. "An assassin?"
"No," Kenan said. "She... fixed me." He dropped the hair. His face hardened. "Find her. Pay her. Silence her."
He couldn't afford a scandal. Not with the board breathing down his neck. If word got out that he had a breakdown and some random woman saw it, the IPO would tank.
"Understood," Marcus said. He turned on his heel.
Marcus walked out into the hallway. He pulled up the security feed on his tablet. Corrupted. The loop from last night was static. The storm in Kenan's brain had interfered with the local electronics. The elevator logs showed a temporary service keycard override, but no name was attached.
"Damn it," Marcus muttered.
He walked toward the elevator. As he turned the corner, he saw movement.
A girl in a black uniform was skulking near the service elevator. She was holding a trash bag, but she was looking at the penthouse door with wide, greedy eyes.
It was Tiffany. She had come up to scavenge empty bottles to return for the deposit, a petty theft she committed regularly.
Marcus stopped. He looked at her. Same uniform. Same height. Dark hair. She was on the floor where she shouldn't be. He knew, logically, it probably wasn't her. The woman Kenan described sounded competent, calm. This girl looked like a scavenger. But right now, he didn't need the truth. He needed a solution. A neat, controllable narrative to close this security breach before the board got wind of it.
"You," Marcus said.
Tiffany jumped. She dropped the bag. Glass clinked. "I... I was just cleaning, sir."
Marcus walked up to her. He loomed over her. "You were in the suite last night."
It wasn't a question.
Tiffany blinked. Her mind raced. She saw the expensive suit. She saw the serious expression. She knew she was in trouble for stealing bottles. "I..."
"Mr. Cervantes is very grateful for your... assistance," Marcus said, his voice devoid of emotion. He tapped his tablet. "But discretion is paramount."
He turned the screen to her. It was a digital Non-Disclosure Agreement. And a payment authorization form.
Tiffany looked at the number at the bottom.
$200,000.
Her breath hitched. That was more money than she would make in five years.
"Sign it," Marcus said. "This closes the loop. It makes the problem go away. For both of us. And never speak of what happened. To anyone."
Tiffany didn't know what happened. She hadn't been there. But she looked at the money. She looked at Marcus, who clearly wanted this problem solved instantly.
If she said no, she got fired for stealing bottles. If she said yes...
She reached out with a trembling finger. She signed Tiffany Miller.
"Good," Marcus said. He tapped a button. "Funds are transferred. If you approach Mr. Cervantes, or the press, we will destroy you. Legally and financially."
"I won't," Tiffany squeaked. "I promise."
Marcus walked away, satisfied. Problem solved. A cheap, convenient lie to cauterize a dangerous wound.
Inside the suite, Kenan stood under the scalding spray of the shower. He scrubbed his skin, trying to remember. The tactile memory of the woman was fading, replaced by the cold logic of survival.
Marcus had messaged him: Handled. Waitress. Paid off.
Kenan closed his eyes. A waitress. Just a greedy employee who saw a rich man vulnerable. The peace he had felt was probably just a chemical reaction, a side effect of the crash.
He turned the water off. He stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist. He looked in the mirror. The man looking back was the CEO again. Cold. Efficient. Alone.
