Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Ryder
I listen to the phone conversation again, grateful I recorded it. The audacity is insane.
“Mr. Hale,” the lawyer begins, his tone icy, “I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Vincent Lang, who represents himself as the legal claimant for services rendered to the Garland Rose Hotel.”
My hand curls into a fist. Red rage bubbles inside of me.
“As you’re aware, Mr. Lang was employed by the late Mrs. Evie Quinn to provide a range of consultancy services, including legal and operational guidance for the hotel.
These services were rendered over several years, yet the agreed-upon compensation was never fully paid.
According to Mr. Lang’s records, he’s entitled to a sum that remains outstanding. ”
“What are you…?”
I wish I weren’t so shocked on the call. But the lawyer really caught me off guard. There are so many things I wish I’d said instead.
“Now, we have documentation that clearly states the terms of payment. Mr. Lang’s contract stipulated a final settlement that was never made.
This is why we are pursuing legal action,” the lawyer presses on, unfaltering.
“We are requesting full compensation for the agreed amount, plus interest, and we intend to pursue a civil suit if necessary. We are allowing you to resolve this without further escalation, but time is of the essence.”
There’s no way I can let Sunny hear this. Not until I know what to do. I want to end this before it becomes an issue. I don’t want her stressed more.
“I’m sorry, but you’re telling me this is a legitimate claim? Vincent Lang, the same man who tried to run the hotel into the ground, now wants to sue for… what, unpaid consultancy? Are you kidding me?”
Of course, the lawyer pays no attention to my words.
“Mr. Hale,” he continues smoothly, “I understand your incredulity, but I assure you, the documentation is in order. Mr. Lang has been quite patient, but we can no longer afford to wait. If you’d prefer, I can have the contracts and invoices forwarded to your office directly.
Should you wish to avoid court proceedings, a settlement will need to be arranged swiftly. ”
Now I have more documents to go through. More financial mess.
Fuck.
The numbers blur together, a mess of figures that all seem to swim in the same ocean of uncertainty. I’m staring at the screen, hoping that if I stare long enough, something will click, something will make sense.
But right now, all I can see are the lies. The fingerprints of Vincent Lang, carved into every page, every entry.
I wasn’t planning on spending my morning this way, combing through the hotel’s financial records when there’s so much to do.
But here I am.
The gala’s coming up, and everyone’s running around with smiles plastered on their faces, pretending everything’s fine. But I know better.
And right now, I can’t focus on that. I can’t focus on anything, but the mess Lang has made of this place.
Especially when he’s trying his damn hardest to extract more.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my face, trying to clear the fog in my brain. I’ve already spent hours sifting through this mess, and so far, all I’ve found is more of the same. Invoices that don’t seem real.
But then, something catches my eye—a series of transactions that don’t belong. A trust fund hidden in the margins of the accounts, buried deep enough that it almost doesn’t seem to be part of the hotel’s finances at all.
I frown, leaning closer to the screen. This isn’t just a mismanagement of funds. This is planned. And it’s not small change, either.
The numbers are large enough to make anyone uncomfortable. There’s a flow of money here that’s been going on for years, hidden under layers of deceit. Whoever set this up knew exactly what they were doing.
A payment of $250,000 from the Garland Rose’s operational account into a restricted “Evie Quinn Legacy Fund” on March 12th last year. Another transfer of $350,000 six months later.
Both transactions were disguised as miscellaneous vendor fees in the general ledger.
“What the hell?” I mutter to myself. “What is this now?”
But then I see it. A notation attached to the second payment, the one made six months later. It reads: In case of sabotage.
I pause. Sabotage? I read it over again, my jaw tightening.
It’s a warning, a red flag. A sign that Evie knew something was off. Something she couldn’t name but could feel coming.
She really did know.
I push back in my chair, running a hand over my face. This changes everything. Evie wasn’t just trying to protect the hotel’s future; she was protecting Sunny’s. And she knew precisely who the threat was.
Vincent Lang. That bastard had been bleeding The Garland Rose dry, and Evie knew it. She was making sure that no matter what, Sunny would have a fallback, a reserve.
For the hotel. For her.
But the question now is… what the hell do I do with this?
Sunny needs this. She’ll love it.
But…
With Lang’s legal threats hanging in the air, he might come after Sunny harder. He bled Evie dry, or so he thought, and I’m sure he’ll want to do the same to Sunny.
He wanted The Garland Rose, for whatever reason, and I’m sure he still does.
No one can know about this money yet. Not even Sunny.
If Lang finds out that the hotel’s financial situation is better than he thinks, he’ll change his strategy. He’ll find a way to push harder, demand more, and I won’t let that happen.
Not while I’m still trying to sort this out.
I need to protect Sunny. I need to preserve everything Evie worked so hard for, but I can’t let anyone, especially Lang, know about the trust fund until I’ve got a stronger hold on things. I can’t risk it. Not yet.
The sharp buzz of my phone slices through the silence, a jolt to my already overworked mind. I glance at the screen, my heart racing for just a beat longer than it should.
Marco. Of course.
I swipe the screen and press it to my ear, though there’s a fire already burning in my chest. “Talk to me.”
“I’ve got something,” Marco says, his tone precise, almost too calm for the intensity of the situation. “I’ve been digging into Lang’s history, like you asked. This guy’s got a pattern.”
I lean forward, my fingers tightening around the edge of the desk. “What pattern?”
“Lang has done this before,” Marco continues, his words clicking into place in my mind.
“I’ve found a trail. Back in the early 2010s, he pulled the same stunt at a hotel in Providence.
The Crescent Harbor. It was a decent-sized boutique hotel, not unlike The Garland Rose.
They were struggling, operating at a loss for a few years, and then, it got a lot worse.
Nothing that looked too out of the ordinary on paper, but everything was smoke and mirrors.
I dug deeper, Ryder. He created a mess of unpaid debts, inflated expenses, and falsified service contracts.
He even set up fake vendors, funneled money to offshore accounts. ”
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to hold it together. This is textbook corporate sabotage.
“So, what happened?” I ask, more clipped than I intended.
“Lang essentially forced them into bankruptcy. The hotel was sold under duress for pennies on the dollar. He swooped in with a shell company he’d set up under a fake name, called it Harbor Investments, and purchased the property for a fraction of what it was worth.
And here’s the kicker: He didn’t even keep it as a hotel.
He converted it into luxury condos. Sold each unit for nearly three times what he’d paid for the whole building, and then he flipped the remaining space into high-end retail. Made a killing.”
I’m silent for a moment, processing the enormity of it all. Lang didn’t just want money. He tried to control assets. To own them. To bend entire industries to his will.
“That bastard,” I mutter under my breath, gripping the edge of my desk because it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
“I’m not done yet,” Marco presses on, and I brace myself.
“The most interesting part is how he timed it. The hotel had debts in the millions. Some of it was legitimate, but Lang’s shell companies inflated a lot.
There were contractor fees and vendor invoices.
Everything from landscaping to plumbing.
They were all real businesses, but Lang’s been using them to siphon cash out of these hotels for years.
He strings them along, gets them to keep doing work, then fails to pay or delays payment, forcing the business into the red.
Once he’s pushed them into financial collapse, he buys them out cheap. ”
I’m already calculating in my head. Providence is just one example, but if Lang has been doing this for years, there’s no telling how many properties he has lined his pockets with.
“How many more?” I ask.
“I’m still going through the records, but it’s looking like he’s been involved with at least five different properties in the last fifteen years. Same playbook every time. Pump up debts. Push for liquidation. Buy low, sell high.”
I take a deep breath, my mind now focused on the only thing that matters: how this ties to The Garland Rose.
“So, what does this mean for us?” I ask, the urgency in my gut rising. “What’s his next move?”
Marco hesitates. “I know you’ve been getting the legal threats from his attorneys—I saw your email this morning—but I’ve got intel that he’s about to escalate things.
His legal team. They’re a group of sharks, high-end corporate lawyers.
Fletcher and Bain. These guys are known for dragging things out for years.
Flooding the system with motions, discovery demands, the whole nine yards.
They’ll tie you up in litigation until the hotel crumbles under the weight of their legal fees. ”
I grit my teeth, leaning forward. “He’s going to try to bankrupt us.”
“Exactly,” Marco says, grimly. “He’s going to push harder now that he knows you’re standing your ground.
You’re not just dealing with Lang anymore.
You’re dealing with his network. These lawyers will make The Garland Rose’s survival look impossible.
You’ll be tied up in court, bogged down by endless legal battles.
And when it’s all over, he’ll pick up the pieces, buy the place cheap, and flip it. It’s his M.O.”
I swallow hard.
Shit.
“I need to meet you,” I say quickly. “Now. I don’t care where. Bring everything you’ve got. Every damn detail. The numbers, the connections, everything. We need to get ahead of this. Meet me at my place.”
“On my way,” Marco replies, already fading out as he hangs up.
I drop my phone onto the desk and look at the screen again. The numbers swirl in front of me, but they don’t seem as intimidating now.
This isn’t about bookkeeping. This is a war. Lang has made it personal from the moment he tried to destroy Evie’s legacy, and now, I’m going to burn his empire to the ground.
I grab my coat, throwing it over my shoulder as I head for the door.
“Whatever Lang’s got planned next, he’s going to regret it,” I mutter to myself.
I walk out of my office, my mind still racing through the new intel Marco just dropped on me. Lang isn’t just an obstacle anymore. He’s the storm, and I’m stuck in the middle of it, fighting to stay afloat.
But as I pass the hotel’s grand staircase, something pulls my attention away from the distraction brewing in my head.
Laughter. Bright, unrestrained laughter.
I glance over, and there’s Sunny, Marjorie, Pearl, and Dex gathered in the lobby, a whirlwind of activity. The three of them are messing around, setting up decorations for the gala, their movements so relaxed it seems they’ve forgotten the world outside.
Sunny is balancing a string of twinkling lights, her expression focused but amused as she struggles to untangle them. Marjorie’s in the middle of adjusting a wreath on the banister, talking a mile a minute as Dex holds it in place, clearly struggling to keep his composure.
“You know, you could at least pretend to be an adult, Dex,” Marjorie teases, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“I’m trying, okay? But this wreath has a mind of its own,” Dex grumbles.
I can’t help but smile despite myself. The scene is a warm flash of normalcy—something I desperately need right now.
But as I start to move past them, I feel Sunny’s gaze land on me. Her eyes catch mine, a flicker of something in them, concern or curiosity. It’s hard to tell from here.
She quickly sets the lights down, wiping her hands on her jeans and taking a couple of steps toward me.
“Hey, Ryder,” she says, light but with a hint of hesitation. “How’s everything going? You look… intense.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, glancing over at the others.
Dex and Marjorie are still playing around, clearly oblivious to whatever’s going on behind my eyes.
She raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “Right. Okay.”
There’s a slight pause as she steps closer, her presence somehow grounding amid the madness.
“You want a drink? We’ve got some spiked cider Andre is testing for the gala,” she offers, trying to ease the tension I’m sure she can feel radiating off me.
I shake my head, forcing a half-smile. “I’m good, Sunny. Thanks. I’m working on something right now and don’t have time.”
“Something I can help with?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. Thanks.”
It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with her, or that I don’t want to accept her offer. It’s just that my mind is already elsewhere, on Lang, on the mess, on the lies. I need to keep moving. I can’t afford to be distracted.
I need to figure everything out before I bring it to Sunny. I want to be sure. There’s no way I want to tell her about Vincent’s lawyer’s threats yet.
She looks at me for a beat longer, her smile faltering slightly, but she doesn’t press me.
“Alright. If you change your mind, you know where to find me,” she says with a shrug, but there’s something else in her voice—something I can’t quite place.
I nod, feeling a brief pang of regret, but I push it down.
I turn to head out, but I hear her again, this time softer, almost a whisper. “Be careful, Ryder.”
I give a quick, almost imperceptible nod and walk out, letting the door swing shut behind me. But even as I step into the cold, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s right.
Whatever’s coming next, it’s going to be far from easy, which is why I need to have everything figured out before I go to Sunny with any of it.
The last thing I want to do is add stress to her life.