CHAPTER 158: CHAPTER 158

I snatched my backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and bolted. Out of the bedroom, past frozen Nala and the maid. Down the hall, carpet muffling my steps. Stairwell door—shouldered open. Down. Down. Down. My knees screamed, lungs raw, but I didn’t slow. Floor fifteen. Ten. Five. Lobby. Side exit.

I burst into the sunlight, legs trembling, and staggered behind the oak tree. Yanked off the gloves, stuffed them deep in my pocket. Collapsed onto the bench, chest heaving, sweat pouring.

Time resumed.

Birds chirped. Traffic roared. Heat slammed back like a fist.

I exhaled, long and shaky, hands still trembling. "Alright..." I muttered, pulling out my phone. "Now, calling Anotta."

I thumbed Anotta’s contact and hit call. One ring. Two.

"It’s done," I said the second she picked up. "Call your people."

"On it," she replied, crisp and calm. "Stay put."

I hung up, pocketed the phone, and leaned against the tree, wiping sweat from my neck. The heat was relentless, but adrenaline kept me sharp.

Minutes ticked by, five, maybe seven, then sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder.

A black-and-white cruiser screeched to the curb in front of the hotel, lights flashing red and blue across the facade. Another vehicle pulled up behind it: a matte-black Jeep Wrangler, tinted windows, engine rumbling like a beast. Anotta stepped out first, sleek in a fitted blue dress that hugged her curves, heels clicking on the pavement. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, sunglasses perched on her nose despite the glare.

From the cruiser, a woman emerged—mid-thirties, athletic build, hair tied in a tight ponytail that swung with each step. Her uniform was pressed sharp, badge glinting on her chest. She adjusted her duty belt as she approached Anotta.

I pushed off the tree, slinging my backpack higher, and crossed the street. The heat baked up from the asphalt, but I barely felt it.

Anotta spotted me, nodded once, and crossed her arms. "Are you done, Evan?"

I nodded. "Let’s go."

"Mm." She turned to the officer. "This is Milen. Chief of Detectives."

"Nice to meet you, ma’am," I said, extending a hand.

Milen shook it firmly, her grip like iron. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Marlowe. Anotta’s said a lot."

"I hope only the good parts," I said with a half-smile.

Two more cruisers rolled up, tires crunching gravel. Doors opened; five officers piled out—three men, two women—all in tactical vests, radios crackling. They fell in behind Milen without a word, a tight unit.

We moved as one toward the lobby. The doorman held the door, eyes wide at the uniforms. Inside, the air-conditioning hit like a slap—cool, scented with lemon polish. Guests parted like the Red Sea, whispers rippling.

Elevator bank. Milen pressed the call button; doors slid open immediately. We crammed in—eight bodies, tension thick. Milen hit the penthouse button. The ride was silent except for the soft ding of passing floors and the occasional crackle of a radio.

"Here it goes," I muttered as the elevator dinged open.

Milen approached the penthouse door, knocked three times. She reached to her chest, flipped on her body cam with a soft beep. The red light blinked steady.

The door opened a crack. The maid again, face pale. "Yes?"

From deeper inside: Guy’s voice, muffled. "Who is it?"

Milen pushed the door wider. "Police, ma’am. Step aside."

Guy appeared in the background, fresh from a shower—hair damp and tousled, white t-shirt clinging slightly, black lounge pants. He froze mid-towel-dry of his neck.

Milen stepped forward, badge raised. "Mr. Nolin, we’ve received multiple reports of a strong marijuana odor emanating from this suite. Hotel management has granted consent for a search under their policy for suspected illegal activity on premises. We’re here to conduct a welfare check and investigation."

Guy’s face twisted—confusion, then anger. "What? That’s bullshit. You can’t just—"

"I can, sir," Milen cut in, voice steel. "You do not have the right to refuse a consensual search authorized by property management for suspected narcotics. Step back and allow us entry, or we’ll obtain a warrant. Your choice."

The officers fanned out behind her, hands resting near holsters. The maid shrank against the wall.

Guy’s jaw worked, eyes flicking to Anotta, then me. Recognition dawned—slow, poisonous. "You," he snarled.

I met his glare. "Yep. Me."

The search kicked off like a well-oiled machine. Officers fanned out across the penthouse, gloved hands opening drawers, lifting cushions, peering behind sculptures. The maid hovered near the kitchen island, wringing her hands. Guy paced the living room like a caged animal, barking protests that Milen ignored with cool precision.

Nala stood near the grand piano, arms wrapped around herself. Our eyes met across the marble expanse. I gave her a quick, subtle thumbs-up—It’s working. She exhaled, a tiny nod, color returning to her cheeks.

Milen disappeared into the bedroom first. A minute later, her voice carried out, calm but edged. "Clear in here—wait. What the hell is this?"

She emerged holding the seascape painting at arm’s length, revealing the wall recess. The safe sat flush, matte-black and damning.

Guy stormed in behind her, face draining of color. "That... that safe shouldn’t be there." His voice cracked. "What is this? Did you plant that?"

Milen set the painting against the bed, bodycam red light steady. "I have everything recorded, Mr. Nolin. Calm down. Open the safe."

"No!" He stepped forward, fists clenched.

Milen whistled—sharp, two notes. The other officers filed in. "Everyone out. Wait in the hall."

They nodded, exiting without a word, doors clicking shut behind them.

Milen turned back, voice like flint. "Open it, Mr. Nolin. Or we cuff you and do this downtown."

Guy’s jaw worked. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "You’ll regret this." He yanked his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering over the biometric scanner. A soft beep. The safe clicked open.

There it was, the USB I planted inside.

Milen plucked it out with gloved fingers. "Now what do we have here?"

"That’s not mine!"

"Tablet!" she called.

An officer re-entered the bedroom, boots thudding softly on the marble, and handed Milen a department-issued tablet without a word. He vanished just as quickly, the door clicking shut behind him. Milen took the device, gloved fingers slotting the USB into the port. The screen flickered to life, files loading one by one—thumbnails popping up in a grid that made the air in the room thicken.

The first image hit like a sledgehammer.

A grainy still: a child, no older than twelve, in a pose that turned my blood to ice. Timestamps stretched back years. I leaned in despite the bile rising in my throat, and immediately regretted it. Videos. Dozens. Explicit. Unforgivable. The kind of content that scarred you for life. My stomach lurched violently; I swallowed hard, fists clenching at my sides.

’Sick, you fucking lunatic. What the hell did you give me? How dare you hand me something this unhinged?’

Milen’s jaw tightened, her ponytail swaying as she clicked through a few more files, each one worse than the last. Her bodycam whirred softly, red light blinking, capturing every horrific detail for the record. The room’s opulence suddenly felt suffocating—the silk sheets, the gilded frames, all tainted now. Anotta stood off to the side, arms crossed. Nala hovered near the door, one hand over her mouth, eyes wide with a mix of horror and vindication.

Guy, still damp from his shower, pushed past an officer to peer at the screen. His face drained of color in seconds—first confusion, then dawning terror. "What... what is that?" he stammered, voice pitching higher. He reached out as if to grab the tablet, but Milen pulled it back smoothly.

"Step away, Mr. Nolin," she ordered, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. "This is evidence now."

"That safe isn’t mine!" Guy roared, veins bulging in his neck, spit flying as he whirled on us. "It was planted! You can’t... someone set this up! Check the timestamps, the metadata—anything! This is a frame job!"

Anotta stepped forward then, cool as ice, her heels echoing in the heavy silence. "I think a deal should be made here."

Guy spun on her, wild-eyed, sweat beading on his forehead despite the air-conditioning. "Stay out of this! You’re part of it, aren’t you? This is your doing!"

Anotta shrugged, a faint, predatory smile curling her perfect lips. "It’s all business, darling. Nothing personal."

I didn’t miss a beat, stepping into the center of the room, the weight of the moment settling on my shoulders like a crown. "Guy. Listen up. I’ll cut you a deal. Accept it, and this evidence never gets logged. It vanishes. Poof. Gone forever."

His head snapped toward Anotta again—the only one with the real power to make evidence disappear in this city. "You... you orchestrated this?"

Behind me, Nala’s breath caught audibly, I felt her eyes burning into my back, a mix of shock and hope.

"Step down from the company," I said, voice steady, gesturing grandly at the penthouse like it was already mine. "The new CEO will be your sister, Nala."

"WHAT?!" Guy exploded, face purpling, fists balling at his sides. He took a step forward, trembling with rage. "You can’t—Nala? She’s nothing! A nobody!"

Nala flinched but held her ground, chin lifting defiantly.

"And this penthouse," I continued, undeterred, "belongs to me now. You can crash at my old place—the one you so excitedly bought out from under me. Accept, and this whole thing sinks under the water. No headlines. No prison. No one ever sees what’s on that drive."

The room went dead silent. Milen paused her scrolling, tablet held low. Anotta watched with amused detachment. The officers stood ready, hands near cuffs.

Guy lunged then, fingers clawing for my throat, a guttural snarl escaping him. I didn’t flinch. My eyes stayed locked on his—cold, unyielding, daring him.

"Or don’t," I said, voice dropping to a deadly whisper as he closed in. "And the world learns you’re a dirty pedophile. Your life ends tonight. Every ounce of power you lord over people? Gone. You’ll be a joke. A clown in a cage."

I drove my fist into his gut. Air whooshed from his lungs in a pathetic wheeze; he doubled over, knees buckling, collapsing to the marble with a wet, undignified thud. The impact echoed, his damp hair flopping forward.

I crouched beside him, leaning in close enough to smell his fear-sweat. Pointed at the king bed with its pristine silk sheets. "I’m going to fuck your sister on that bed, Guy," I whispered, venom dripping from every word. "She’ll be screaming my name. Over and over. I’ll even fuck her with her cosplay on, how does that sound?"

He roared like a wounded animal, swinging wildly from the floor. His fist grazed my jaw—sharp pain, but nothing more. Milen was on him in a flash, arm hooking his, slamming him face-down, knee digging into his back. Cuffs ratcheted on with a metallic snick.

"Choose, Guy," I said, standing tall, a low chuckle rumbling in my chest. "Your life? Or your pride?"

He writhed under Milen, gasping, face pressed to the cold floor. Miserable. Utterly broken. The fight leaked out of him like air from a punctured balloon.

His eyes lifted to Nala, pleading, desperate. "Nala, do something. They’re—"

She stepped forward, hawked loudly, and spat on him. The glob landed square on his cheek, sliding slowly down like a tear he didn’t deserve.

I sighed, rising to my full height. "Guess you’re the useless one now, Guy."