My father stepped toward him. “Who has access to that room?”
“No one,” Garrett said too quickly. “Melissa and I—”
He stopped.
Too late.
The words had already fallen between us.
Melissa and I.
Not a mistake. Not confusion. Not a single drunken night.
A routine.
A secret life with room service and champagne while Ethan died calling for him.
My knees weakened, but I refused to fall. If grief had not killed me tonight, Garrett would not get the pleasure of watching me break.
My phone buzzed again.
Another message.
Ask Garrett what Melissa was promised. Ask him why she was in Chicago at all. Ask him who paid for the suite.
My father’s hand extended. “Give me your phone.”
This time, it was not Garrett he asked.
I handed it to him because I no longer trusted my hands not to tremble.
William Sterling stared at the message, then lifted his gaze slowly.
“Garrett,” he said, voice velvet-soft, “what did you promise her?”
Garrett swallowed. “Nothing.”
My father smiled without warmth. “Wrong answer.”
He turned to his security chief, who had appeared at the end of the hallway like a shadow in a black coat. I had not even seen him arrive.
“Find the number. Trace the hotel. Pull the footage.”
Garrett’s eyes widened. “You can’t just—”
“My grandson is dead,” my father said. “Do not confuse my restraint for mercy.”
A nurse approached quietly, her face wet from tears she had tried to hide. “Mrs. Vale? The funeral home is asking—”
The word funeral split me open.
