Chapter 2 - The Penthouse Intruder
Chapter 2 - The Penthouse Intruder
I didn't take the standard room key from Marcus. Instead, I gave the trembling concierge a sympathetic nod, turned my back on my uncle Thomas, and walked straight toward the private executive elevator. I could hear Thomas barking orders behind me, but the heavy mahogany doors slid shut, sealing me in the quiet hum of the ascending car.
My grandfather, Arthur Sterling, had been a paranoid man in his final years. He didn’t just trust digital keycards. Around my neck, hidden beneath my ruined cashmere sweater, hung a heavy, antique brass key on a silver chain. It was the physical override for the penthouse suite—my suite.
When the elevator doors opened to the top floor, the scent of expensive cedar and aged scotch filled the air. The lights were dimmed, casting a warm amber glow over the sprawling living room. Sitting in my grandfather’s favorite leather armchair by the roaring fireplace was a man. He was not my uncle.
He looked up from his tablet, a crystal glass of amber liquid in his hand. He was dangerously handsome, with sharp, aristocratic features, dark hair slightly mussed, and eyes the color of a stormy sea. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a glimpse of a scarred collarbone.
"You must be the maid," he said, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. He glanced at the red stain on my sweater. "Though you seem to have had a run-in with a Merlot."
"I am Elena Sterling," I said, my voice cutting through the warmth of the room like ice. "And you are trespassing in my private residence. Who are you, and how did you get past my security?"
The man didn't flinch. Instead, a slow, predatory smile spread across his face. He set his glass down and stood up. He was at least six-foot-three, towering over me with an intimidating physical presence. "Elena Sterling. The absentee heiress. Your uncle Thomas warned me you were prone to theatrics." He walked toward me, his steps entirely silent on the plush carpet. "I am Alexander Vance. And I didn't trespass. I bought this penthouse, along with fifty-one percent of the Alpine Lodge’s holding company, three days ago."
My blood ran cold. Vance. The corporate raider. He was known on Wall Street as the 'Undertaker'—a man who bought distressed family businesses, stripped them of their assets, and sold the scraps.
"That's impossible," I fired back, standing my ground despite the urge to step away from his overwhelming proximity. "My grandfather left his controlling shares in an irrevocable trust. They cannot be sold without my signature."
Alexander Vance stopped inches from me. He looked down into my eyes, searching for a crack in my composure. "Then I suggest you ask your dear uncle what he signed on your behalf, Miss Sterling. Because as of tomorrow morning’s board meeting, I own this mountain." He gestured to the door. "Now, unless you want to sleep on the sofa, I suggest you find another room."
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"I’m not going anywhere," I said, lifting my chin. "This is my house. If you want me out, you’ll have to call the police. But we both know the press would love a headline about Alexander Vance throwing Arthur Sterling’s granddaughter into the snow."
Alexander’s eyes flashed with a sudden, unexpected spark of amusement. He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. "I think we’re going to have a very interesting winter, Elena."
