A widowed father was turned away at his own hotel with his sleeping daughter in his arms… but by the time the staff realized who he truly was, it was already too late.

Ethan frowned, stepping quietly away from the bed. He pulled the bedroom door almost shut, leaving only a sliver open so he could hear Lily’s breathing, and stepped into the living area.

“Who is on this floor tonight, Lupita?” Ethan asked, his voice hardening. “The executive block on the ninth floor is reserved exclusively for headquarters guests and international diplomats.”

Lupita hesitated, her fingers nervously pleating the hem of her apron. “Mr. Vance... Mr. Croft, the General Manager, has been hosting a private party in Suite 901 across the hall since nine o'clock.”

“Julian Croft?”

“Yes, sir,” Lupita whispered cautiously. “He told the front desk that the entire ninth floor was blacked out for a private corporate delegation from New York. But... there are no delegates. It is Mr. Croft, several city building inspectors, and his personal social circle.”

Ethan’s jaw clenched.

He remembered the quarterly reports Julian Croft had submitted to the corporate board in Denver over the past six months. Croft had repeatedly complained about budget shortfalls, slashing the frontline housekeeping hours by fifteen percent while citing "rising operational overhead in downtown hospitality."

Now, loud electronic dance music vibrated through the reinforced walls, accompanied by the clatter of catering carts.

Ethan walked to the suite's front door and cracked it open.

Directly across the wide, carpeted corridor, the double doors of Suite 901 were pinned wide open with heavy brass doorstops. Inside, a dozen men and women in evening wear were laughing around an ice sculpture overflowing with jumbo shrimp and bottles of vintage Dom Pérignon.

Standing near the bar was Julian Croft—thirty-eight years old, wearing an unbuttoned tuxedo with an arrogant smirk, holding a crystal tumbler of scotch.

Beside him stood Patricia, the blonde receptionist from the lobby, who had abandoned her post downstairs to deliver an urgent message.

“Julian, you don't understand!” Patricia’s frantic whisper carried across the hallway. “The man downstairs... he’s in Suite 904 right now!”

Croft took a slow sip of his drink and laughed dismissively. “Patricia, you panic over everything. Who cares if some mid-level regional auditor booked the room? I told you to tell him we were full.”