Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ryder
I’m supposed to be sorting through receipts. Something routine and straightforward. Just another box to check off in this endless list of tasks for the hotel.
But as I sit at my desk, papers scattered in front of me, the numbers start to blur together. My mind keeps drifting. There is a fog lingering over everything.
I’m not supposed to be here this late, but there’s this nagging feeling, this itch at the back of my mind that I can’t scratch. I told myself I’d deal with the hotel’s finances later, but the deeper I dig, the more I realize that’s just an excuse.
I’m avoiding something I don’t even want to face yet.
I pull the first receipt from the pile, trying to focus on the task at hand. But no matter how hard I try, my thoughts keep wandering.
To Sunny. To the conversation we had earlier.
I can still feel the warmth of her arms around me, her voice soft and steady, grounding me when I was unraveling.
I hate that she had to see me in that way. I hate how much I needed her, how much I still need her.
But that’s a different problem. One I don’t want to think about right now.
Wait…
A number jumps out at me.
Linens. That should be routine.
Except… eighteen thousand dollars for sheets? Even if they were imported from Italy and woven with gold thread, the hotel doesn’t go through this much fabric in a year. I flip the paper over, then back again.
No, it’s not a typo. It’s signed off and paid.
My pulse quickens. I grab another receipt, this one from a wine distributor. The invoice is for twenty-four cases. But Chef Andre’s handwritten note in the margin says twelve.
The twelve that actually showed up. The missing cases don’t exist.
My throat goes dry. I push the receipts into a new pile.
I check the vendor’s name: New England Hospitality Supply Co. I frown. I’ve never heard of them. I type it into my laptop. No website. No listing. Nothing.
A ghost company.
I flip to another file, this one tied to event bookings. A wedding block of forty rooms was booked last May and paid in full. Fifty thousand dollars.
But in the official ledger, only thirty-five thousand shows up as revenue. Fifteen thousand, gone, disappeared into thin air.
Except money doesn’t disappear, not by accident.
The same vendor keeps reappearing. The same gaps. Inflated invoices. Double payments. Revenue shaved off the top.
Dozens of little cuts, bleeding the hotel slowly, quietly, until the damage looks like natural decline.
My chest tightens. This isn’t sloppy accounting. This is fraud. Calculated. Years in the making.
I slam the receipt down, gripping the edge of the desk until my knuckles ache.
The numbers don’t lie. This is bad. Really bad.
I keep seeing these weird things, and I need to find a way to put them all together…
I freeze, my pulse suddenly too loud in the quiet of the office. The room feels smaller now, the walls closing in around me.
I quickly flip to the next page, trying to confirm if this is some mistake. But it’s not. I can feel the pit in my stomach grow deeper.
Whoever’s behind this knew exactly what they were doing.
I slam the receipt down, my hands gripping the edge of the desk. This could be huge.
I need to focus. I must figure out exactly where the money’s gone, who’s involved, and how deep this goes.
But before I can dive deeper into the mess, the door slams open with a flourish that makes me freeze mid-thought.
Fucking hell.
It’s my mother. She’s back.
Elaine’s voice ricochets through the building, announcing her arrival as if she’s a queen entering her court. Her bright smile is all for show, masking the sharpness beneath it.
The same smile she flashes every time she wants something, every time she needs to remind me of who’s supposed to be in charge.
“Ryder!” she calls loudly. “We’re on a schedule here. The photographer’s waiting. Hurry up, darling.”
She sweeps into the room with an air of authority that makes me want to hurl the nearest object at her perfectly styled head.
“Huh?” I stare at her in shock. “What are you talking about?”
“I messaged you,” she says with a sweeping laugh. “The photographer from Boston Heritage Monthly is here now.”
I feel the spike of irritation crawl up my spine. My pulse is still racing from what I’ve just discovered in the financials, the nagging feeling in my gut growing with every second I don’t address it.
I want to snap at her. I want to tell her to leave me alone, that this is important, that I can’t afford to deal with her nonsense right now.
But instead, I force a smile, masking the frustration boiling inside me. “Now?”
She doesn’t seem to notice. She’s already sweeping toward me with that gliding walk of hers, heels clicking in sync with every word she speaks.
“You’ve been so busy, darling,” she says, showing that for her this whole thing is just one big, glamorous show. “I told them you’d be thrilled to make time for the magazine. They want to showcase the revitalization of the hotel. Your brilliant leadership.”
She smiles happily, back in her element, in the spotlight.
She doesn’t wait for my response, dragging me toward the door with a hand that doesn’t allow room for protest.
“I swear, this woman…” I mutter under my breath as I stand and follow, my hand still clenching the papers on my desk.
But Elaine doesn’t hear it. She’s already too busy making her grand entrance, flicking her hair behind her shoulder.
We step out into the lobby, and the photographer immediately clicks his camera at the sight of us. Elaine is pose-perfect, a huge grin plastered on her face as she practically schmoozes the front desk staff.
“Ah, yes, this place,” she gushes loudly enough for anyone nearby to hear, “my son’s role in revitalizing such a historic hotel! It’s all thanks to his leadership, his vision!” She spins toward me, almost too brightly. “Ryder, darling, come say something about it, won’t you?”
I stand there, frozen for a second, watching her throw me into the spotlight as a puppet on a string. This hotel is my workplace. It’s all been turned into a show.
I hate it.
The whole thing. My stomach turns, but I force myself to smile, nod, and speak even though my skin is crawling with discomfort.
I offer the photographer another strained smile, mumbling about the hotel’s history and the work we’ve been doing to bring it back to life, but my mind is far from here.
It’s in that darkened office where the numbers don’t make sense, where something’s wrong…
I can’t let go of that, and nothing my mother does will distract me from what’s important.
And then, without warning, Elaine takes my arm, pulling me toward the back hallway, away from the cameras and the prying eyes.
I can’t even tell if she’s noticed how cold and tight my jaw has become, how my smile is no longer even a faint attempt at politeness.
Once we’re out of earshot, she drops my arm and spins around to face me. The smile disappears. Now, she’s all business.
But I know her too well. There’s more underneath the icy calm, something insidious that she’s about to lay on me.
“I don’t know how you can stand it,” she starts. “This whole charade. You’re playing their game. The press, the hotel’s PR… it’s just a last-ditch effort to make this place work, isn’t it?”
I stiffen. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She gives a knowing look, a glimmer of something sinister behind her sharp eyes. “Oh, don’t play dumb, Ryder. I’ve heard the rumors. The gala, the financials. I’ve heard what’s been happening behind the scenes here. Do you really think this hotel is going to survive on your vision alone?”
The accusation in her voice is as clear as the glass between us. She’s not offering concern. She’s trying to undermine me, and she knows damn well that I see it.
I feel the anger start to burn under my skin, but I keep my tone even, trying not to let her irritate me again.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, my words clipped. “This hotel is not some last-ditch effort, as you call it. It’s work. It’s my work. And it’s not for you to judge.”
She smirks, unfazed. “Is it? Because I’ve heard from very reliable sources that your work here is more about keeping the creditors at bay than celebrating your vision.”
She lets the words linger, knowing exactly how to dig in.
Her attempt at sabotage is damn near overwhelming. And I see right through it. It’s not a concern. It’s poison, disguised as worry, meant to plant doubt, to put a crack in everything I’m trying to build here.
I take a step closer, my jaw tight. “Stop. Just stop. You want to know what’s going on? Then maybe you should be a part of my life all the time, not just when it suits.”
She steps back, feigning surprise, her eyes narrowing. “Oh, now you want to act like you’re the grown-up here. What happened to the son I raised, the one who needed his mother’s help to succeed?”
I grit my teeth, the words catching in my throat. “You never helped me, Elaine. You’ve always been about yourself. You’ve never once cared about what I really needed. This hotel, this place, it’s not yours to take credit for, and I’m not your little puppet to parade around for your damn photo ops.”
The silence between us intensifies. It’s as if the air has been sucked out of the room. The anger, the hurt, it’s all rising to the surface, and I can’t hold it back anymore.
And then I realize something.
This isn’t a conversation anymore. It never has been. It’s just a performance, and I’m done with it. I’m done with her.
“Leave. Now,” I snap. “Leave this hotel. Leave my life. Again. I’m not doing this with you anymore.”
Her face falters for just a moment, something flashing behind her eyes. But just as quickly, the mask snaps back into place.
She lets out a soft laugh, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Elaine stands there for a second longer, her gaze cold, but I can feel the finality of it. She knows I’m done.
“Fine,” she cries out angrily. “You want to push me away? Fine. But remember, Ryder, I’ve always been the one who’s looked out for you. Don’t forget that when this place falls apart.”
With that, she turns, each step louder than the last as she storms toward the exit.
And I watch her go, feeling the moment settle in my chest. The silence after she leaves is almost unbearable, but it’s the kind of silence that’s necessary.
For once, the only thing I need is the truth. And it’s something I’m going to find on my own.