Chapter 20 Lena #2
I scrolled down. The article speculated wildly about my relationship with Raphael Antonov, described as a “secretive Russian businessman with alleged underworld connections.” There were quotes from anonymous sources about the hotel’s financial troubles.
About my father’s recent health issues. About how I’d dropped out of college to “take care of family business.”
But it was the last paragraph that made my throat close.
Sources close to the hotel report that Miss Hughes has been spending most nights at the Antonov estate, raising questions about the true nature of their arrangement. “It’s like she sold herself to save the family business,” one insider revealed. “Everyone’s talking about it.”
Everyone’s talking about it.
An insider.
I thought about the dead corgi on my doorstep. The heating sabotage that had nearly frozen a hundred guests. The hang-up calls. The break-in at Marjorie’s apartment just hours ago.
Four incidents now. All of them personal. All of them targeted. And escalating. The corgi had been cruel. The sabotage had been dangerous. But breaking into the home of an elderly woman while she slept?
That was violence. That was a promise of worse to come.
And now this, the photographs leaked to the press.
“Thank you, Jessica.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “I’ll handle it from here.”
I walked back to my office on numb legs. Closed the door. Leaned against it until the wood pressed hard into my spine.
Someone was watching me. Not just the hotel. Me.
The photographs had been taken from positions that required knowledge.
The angle from the garden meant someone knew which window was my room.
The timing of the driveway shots meant someone knew my schedule, knew when I came and went, knew which nights I stayed late at the manor and which nights I fled early.
This wasn’t random. This wasn’t the media digging into a story. This was someone with access. Someone who’d been building a file on me for weeks, maybe longer, waiting for the right moment to use it.
My phone buzzed. Sophie, probably, asking about the articles. Or Clara, having seen the news. Or Raphael, demanding to know what the hell was going on.
I looked at the screen.
Michael: Just saw the news. Are you okay? I’m on my way.
I stared at the message. Michael. Steady, reliable Michael, who’d been holding the hotel together while I learned to walk in shoes that were still too big for me.
Who always seemed to know the right thing to say, who brought me coffee without being asked and remembered that I liked my spreadsheets color-coded by quarter.
Twenty minutes later, he walked into my office without knocking. His expression was tight with concern, his usual easy smile nowhere in sight. He was wearing that blue button-down I’d complimented once, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he looked like he’d run here from wherever he’d been.
“I came as soon as I could.” He crossed to my desk and set down two cups of coffee, same as always, except this time he didn’t sit.
He paced. “You should contact your lawyers about cease and desist options. The photographs were clearly taken on private property without consent. We might have grounds for invasion of privacy, and if we can prove malicious intent—”
“Thank you.” The words felt hollow.
“Lena.” He stopped pacing and looked at me. Really looked, in that way he had that always made me feel seen. “Who would do this to you?”
The question undid me. I’d been holding myself together with paperclips and spite since I’d seen those headlines, and suddenly I couldn’t anymore.
“I don’t know.” My voice broke on the word. “The corgi. The heating system. The break-in at Marjorie’s this morning. And now this. Someone wants me scared, Michael. Someone wants me to fail.”
He was around the desk before I could process the movement, pulling me into a hug that smelled like clean laundry and the hotel’s signature cologne and something underneath that was just him.
I stiffened at first, surprised by the contact.
But he held on, solid and warm, and after a moment I let myself lean into it.
“You’re not going to fail.” His voice was fierce against my hair. “I won’t let that happen. This hotel, this family, you. I won’t let anyone destroy what your father built.”
“My father built this on lies.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. The debt he’d hidden from me. The affairs Maya had hinted at. The way he’d kept me sheltered and ignorant while the foundation crumbled beneath us.
Michael pulled back enough to look at my face. His eyes were soft with understanding.
“Maybe he did. But you’re not your father, Lena. What you’ve done in the past month, holding this place together through the crisis, managing the staff, keeping the guests happy even when everything was falling apart. That’s all you.” He squeezed my arms gently. “That’s who you really are.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe I was more than a pawn in a game I didn’t understand, more than a possession in a contract I’d signed out of desperation.
I pulled away, scrubbing at my eyes with the heel of my hand. “If this scandal affects our spring bookings—”
“It won’t.” Michael’s jaw was set, determined. “I’ll handle the media. I’ll contact our PR firm, get ahead of this before it spirals. You focus on the hotel. That’s what you’re good at.”
“I should be handling the PR. It’s about me.”
“Exactly why you shouldn’t.” He squeezed my shoulder, his touch warm even through my blouse. You can’t be objective about something this personal. Let me take care of it.
The words landed somewhere soft and bruised inside me. My mind drifted to Raphael’s possessive hands, his way of wanting without truly protecting. The dark intensity that left me feeling desired but never safe.
Michael was the opposite of that. Easy warmth instead of dark intensity. Uncomplicated kindness instead of games within games.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said.
“I want to. I’ve worked here for so long that the hotel, you, you’re like my family.” His smile was back now, gentler than before. “You don’t deserve this, Lena. Any of it. The debt, the pressure, whoever the hell is doing this to you. You deserve someone who makes your life easier, not harder.”
I nodded because I didn’t trust my voice. After he left, promising to have a PR plan by end of day, I sat at my desk and stared at the photographs still displayed on my computer.
Someone with insider access. Someone who knew my schedule.
The staff layoffs I’d been putting off suddenly felt more urgent.
The afternoon was brutal.
Five employees, all long-term, all loyal to my father. I sat across from each of them in the office and explained that the hotel’s financial situation required difficult decisions. Watched their faces cycle through shock, anger, grief.
The third one, a maintenance worker named Dennis who’d been with the hotel since before I was born, leaned across the table with red-rimmed eyes.
“Your father would never have done this.”
“My father put us in this position.” The words came out harsher than I intended. “The debt he took on, the business decisions he made behind closed doors. I’m trying to save what’s left.”
“Save it for who? For yourself?” His laugh was bitter, ugly. “We all heard about you and that Russian. Selling the hotel piece by piece while you spread your legs for a billionaire.”
“Dennis—”
“You’re no better than he was. Worse, maybe. At least Richard pretended to care about the people who worked here.”
Security escorted him out. I sat alone in the office afterward, his words echoing off the walls.
You’re no better than he was.
Was I?
The fourth employee, a woman from housekeeping, simply nodded when I delivered the news. Her face stayed blank, unreadable. At the door, she paused.
“I know things.” Her voice was quiet, almost pleasant. “Things about this hotel that would surprise you. Things that might explain why someone’s trying to destroy you.”
“What things?”
But she just smiled, thin and hard. “Good luck, Miss Hughes. You’re going to need it.”
The door clicked shut behind her. I stared at it for a long moment, trying to decide if that had been a threat or a warning.
By five o’clock, I was running on fumes. The PR firm had sent preliminary statements. The lawyers had sent cease and desist letters. Michael had coordinated everything like the professional he was, checking in every hour with updates and encouragement.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about Raphael.
Three times I’d pulled up his contact information.
Three times I’d put my phone away without calling.
What would I even say? Someone leaked photos of me at your house, the house I’m contractually obligated to stay at, and now the whole town thinks I’m your mistress which technically I am but not in the way they’re imagining?
He probably already knew. His people tracked everything. They’d tracked me from the moment the contract was signed, probably before. He likely had the photographs analyzed, the source identified, the threat assessed and cataloged and filed away in some security report.
He’d texted this morning, but nothing since. No follow-up. No check-in after the photos leaked. Just that cold we’ll discuss this tonight hanging over my head like an executioner’s blade.
The silence felt deliberate. Calculated. Like he was letting me stew in my own fear, letting me wonder what “discuss” meant in his vocabulary.
That stung more than I wanted to admit.
I gathered my things as the sky turned dark. The parking garage was quiet at this hour, most of the day staff already gone. As I walked toward my car, every shadow felt darker than it should have.
Someone is watching you.
I walked faster. My keys were already in my hand, thumb on the unlock button. The sound of my own breathing seemed too loud in the empty space.
Footsteps behind me.