Page 19 of Beautiful Revenge

She’s in all black. Her gown dips so far between her tits, I have no idea how it stayed where it was supposed to. In spiked heels, her legs look like they go on forever as opposed to the way I left her in the suite on bare feet and cut-off shorts. They were attending a charity event among the rich and famous and don’t look much different from Hollywood stars on the red carpet posing for the paparazzi.

The event is dated thirteen months ago.

Patrick doesn’t look old and certainly not sickly.

I click through more pics and find an interview he did with a business magazine nine months ago. The picture looks like a headshot, but the article is long. Unless someone was covering for him, there’s no way he could give that kind of story comatose.

There are plenty more pictures of Harlow doing her thing for her foundation—unloading cases of water and boxes of food and playing with kids in an orphanage—but nothing else about her old man.

The first story leaking that he was hospitalized was seven months ago. Stonebridge played it down. A statement was made through the Stonebridge public relations department a few months ago that he’s been in and out of the most prestigious hospital in New York City but working from home most of the time. What it does not say is that he’s comatose.

I’m sure with his money, he has a team of private doctors and nurses twenty-four-seven.

I’m about to click on an article about the Effie Madison Foundation, but my cell vibrates. This day will never end. When I see who it is, I brace before answering the call.

“What fire do I need to put out now?”

Felicity is more flustered than she was earlier. “People are checking out in droves, Mr. Donnelly. There is a line!”

“Good. I know you’ll take care of them. The rooms are paid for, so it doesn’t matter.” I lean back in my chair and swivel to gaze at the wall-to-wall bookcases that surround me from floor to ceiling. “One step closer to this place getting back to normal.”

“Yes, yes,” she chants in a whispered hiss. “But there’s sort of, ah ... well, a scene. It’s the groom. He’s demanding I give him access to Ms. Madison’s suite. He won’t take no for an answer!”

I push to my feet and head out the door, locking my office behind me. “I’m on my way. I’ll take care of Albert Humphries.”

I move hiring a general manager to the top of my to do list. I need another layer between me and everyone else.

There’s so much security on the premises from the wedding, I might have to assign someone to stand outside Harlow’s door if people don’t leave her the hell alone.

When I get to the front desk and atrium, I have to give credit to Felicity. For once, she’s not exaggerating. The line to check out is at least ten deep, but everyone is giving the jilted groom at the desk a wide berth.

Albert has changed clothes. He looks like he’s dressed for a day on the yacht instead of celebrating his nuptials. I don’t know where he’s been, but he’s rearing his ugly mug like a champ.

“You deactivated my keycard, dammit. Harlow is my fiancée, and my family paid for half of this fiasco. She can’t hide and refuse to speak to me. I’m not leaving until I see her. I demand access to her suite.”

I don’t give Felicity a chance to deal with him any longer, but I do give Albert another chance for me to deliver his next blow in private rather than putting on another show for his wedding guests. “Mr. Humphries, maybe we should step inside the conference room to discuss this.”

“You bet your ass, we should,” Albert mutters.

I hold out my arm for him to go first. He marches past me toward the door off the atrium. I nod to the onlookers who are probably as curious as the rest of us about why the wedding was called off.

I barely cross the threshold before Albert turns a fuming expression on me. “What the fuck did she say to you when she handed you that damned note?”

I close the door behind me and casually slide my hands into my trouser pockets. “Let’s get one thing straight—I do not owe you an explanation for anything. I’m protective of my employees. They’re too good at what they do and work too hard to be treated with anything other than the utmost respect. The Manor at Winslet followed through on its contract. The ceremony, the food, the service. Just because your family and the Madisons rented the entire place doesn’t give you carte blanche to raise your voice to any of my employees. If that happens again during your time here, I don’t care who you are—I’ll remove you from the premises myself. Got it?”

His eyes narrow and he takes a step toward me as he seethes, “Got it? My fiancée humiliated me in front of hundreds of the richest and most powerful people in this country, and you’re chastising me for the way I spoke to the old hag at the desk?”

I close the distance between us another step. “That is my front desk manager. Keep it up, Bert, you’ll be looking for a place to stay tonight. Good luck with that. The choices are slim. You’ll be at the motel on the outskirts of town.”

He proves he doesn’t give a shit about anyone overhearing and thunders, “No one calls me Bert.”

I keep my tone even and controlled. “No one calls Ms. Fahnestock a hag.”

“Fuck.” He drags a hand through his light brown hair. “Let me see Harlow, dammit.”

“Ms. Madison doesn’t want to see you. If she changes her mind, I’m sure you’ll be the first to know. Until then, consider yourself warned. If you so much as blink wrong at any of my staff again or try to contact Harlow, you’re gone.”

“You’ll pay for this,” he warns.