THE HEIR BEHIND THE CREST

Chapter 04: Echoes Beneath the Crest

Morning sunlight spread across the city, painting the skyline in gold. The Imperial Crest Hotel shimmered in the early light, its glass walls reflecting a perfection that only money could maintain. To the guests arriving that day, it was a sanctuary of elegance. To John Raymond, it had become a chessboard.

He arrived through the staff entrance before seven, wearing his bellhop uniform once more. The familiar scent of polish and detergent greeted him. Everything looked the same, yet every detail felt different. Each sound, every order barked by a supervisor, every whisper of gossip among the workers—he absorbed it all. For the first time, he saw not routine but structure: a living system of control, loyalty, and corruption.

Mr Harrison stood near the reception desk, inspecting the staff with his usual grim expression. He noticed John at once. “Raymond,” he said, voice cutting through the noise. “You are assigned to assist the finance office today. They are short-staffed for the upcoming audit. Do not make a fool of yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” John replied calmly.

The order was unexpected. Finance access was rare for someone at his level. But fate had started moving in quiet patterns he was beginning to recognise.

He crossed the lobby with the same measured pace he had always used. Rita was arranging files at the counter when she saw him. Her eyes flickered with unease before she regained her composure. “Good morning, John,” she said softly, the tone polite but distant.

“Morning,” he replied without breaking stride.

Her gaze lingered a moment longer, as if she sensed something had changed in him, though she could not tell what. Behind her, Jerry Martins stood laughing with a guest, his gold watch catching the light. John’s jaw tightened, but he kept walking.

The finance office occupied the mezzanine level, a space lined with glass partitions and humming printers. Miss Anabel, the assistant manager, greeted him briskly. “Mr Harrison says you are efficient. We will see. Start with these ledgers. File them according to the month.”

John nodded and began. Numbers had always made sense to him. Patterns revealed themselves easily, the rhythm of income and expenditure speaking its own language. As he worked, he noticed inconsistencies—payments that repeated across accounts, ghost suppliers billed for services that never appeared in the hotel’s inventory. Every irregularity became a thread he mentally marked.

By noon, he had already memorised half the department’s structure. He kept his expression blank, answering politely whenever spoken to. When Anabel handed him another stack of documents, she paused. “You are quick. Not bad for a bellhop.”

“I try my best,” John said evenly.

She studied him for a moment, then looked away. “Keep that attitude. Harrison appreciates obedience.”

Obedience, John thought. That was how men like Harrison thrived—by mistaking silence for submission.

At break time, he sat alone near the loading dock, watching delivery trucks come and go. His phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number appeared: “7 p.m. The usual place.” He knew who it was.

That evening, after work, the city’s lights shimmered under a pale moon. John reached the quiet café near the riverside where Mr Shack sat by the window, reading a newspaper. The older man looked up as John entered. “You handled your assignment well,” he said. “Access to finance so soon is useful.”

John sat opposite him. “There are discrepancies in the ledgers. Funds moved under ghost suppliers. Someone is draining money from the hotel.”

Shack nodded slowly. “Likely Harrison. He has been shifting profits for years through shell accounts tied to Mart-Dove. You are now in a position to trace them.”

“I can gather evidence,” John said. “But what then? If I confront him, he will bury me.”

Shack folded the newspaper neatly. “We do not confront. We collect. We observe. Power is not taken by shouting, it is taken by knowledge. Learn the rhythm of the empire before you strike.”

John’s reflection in the café window looked calmer than he felt. “And my grandfather?”

“He is pleased with your progress,” Shack said. “He wishes you to continue working until we secure enough leverage. The board meeting for the upcoming audit is your first opportunity. If you can gather the missing figures, you will expose years of theft.”

John nodded, understanding the path forming before him. He rose to leave, but Shack stopped him. “Be careful of those around you. Harrison has eyes everywhere. And the woman; Rita James, she is more connected than she appears.”

John’s expression darkened. “I know.”

Shack looked at him steadily. “Do not let anger drive you. Let it guide you. There is a difference.”

When John returned to his room that night, he placed the folder from Shack beneath the floorboard and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The sound of the rain returned, faint but familiar. He replayed every word, every glance, every insult he had endured. For years, he had lived beneath their notice. Now he would use their blindness to destroy them.

---

The next morning, the hotel hummed with the tension of preparation. The upcoming audit meant deadlines, documents, and sleepless nights. Harrison barked orders like a general before battle. Staff moved with nervous precision. John kept his head down and his ears open.

During lunch, he overheard two clerks whispering near the hallway.

“Mr Harrison approved another expense transfer last week,” one said. “It went to some consultancy in Boston, but nobody can find the file.”

The other replied, “If the auditors see it, we are finished.”

John’s pulse quickened. He returned to the finance office and discreetly copied a few transaction codes onto a slip of paper. He would verify them later.

By evening, Harrison summoned him to the lobby. “Raymond, a guest requested immediate luggage service on the top floor. Make it fast.”

“Yes, sir.”

When John reached the suite, he found Jerry Martins waiting, lounging in a chair with a drink in hand. Rita stood nearby, her smile strained.

“Ah, the famous Raymond,” Jerry said. “Still running errands, I see.”

John placed the bags neatly near the door. “Anything else, sir?”

Jerry smirked. “Yes. A piece of advice. Men like you should know their limits. Ambition can be dangerous when you do not belong.”

John met his gaze, calm and unreadable. “Thank you for the advice.”

Jerry chuckled, expecting anger. He did not find it. Instead, he saw something colder, and for a moment, his laughter faltered. John turned to leave.

Outside the door, Rita followed. “John,” she said quietly. “You should not provoke him.”

“I did not.”

She hesitated. “He does not like to be challenged.”

John faced her. “Then he should not mistake silence for weakness.”

Rita’s lips parted, but no words came. He walked away before she could respond.

That night, he returned to his room and opened the paper with the codes. Using an old laptop, he followed the trail online, cross-referencing supplier names. One led to a company registered only months after his parents’ deaths. Its listed address matched Mart-Dove’s subsidiary headquarters. Proof.

He leaned back, the glow of the screen reflecting in his eyes. Harrison and Jerry were not merely corrupt—they were part of the network that had stolen his family’s empire.

The next day, Shack called again. “You have done well,” he said. “But patience, John. Let the pieces fall into place. Your time will come when the audit begins.”

“I will be ready.”

“Good. One more thing. The old man wishes to meet you again soon. His health is fading, but his will remains iron.”

John’s voice softened. “Tell him I will not fail.”

---

Days passed, each one sharpening him further. He studied Harrison’s mannerisms, the way he manipulated the staff, how he flattered the rich and punished the weak. He memorised his routines, noting when he left the office and who he met. The Imperial Crest, once his cage, had become his classroom.

He also watched Rita from afar. She looked restless these days, less confident in her smiles. Jerry’s arrogance had grown; his temper flared easily. Once, John saw him grab her wrist in anger near the elevator. Their eyes met briefly before she pulled away, tears gathering. John wanted to look away, but something inside him refused. She had chosen her path, yet pity still flickered where love used to live.

That night, while the corridors quieted, John walked through the lobby alone. The lights dimmed to a soft glow. In the centre of the marble floor stood the great crest—a golden emblem of intertwined lions and crowns, embedded in the tiles. He stood before it, the symbol that had mocked him for years.

He crouched down and brushed his hand over the metal. The gold felt cold under his palm.

“This was ours,” he whispered.

Memories flooded him—his parents’ faces, the laughter he barely remembered, the warmth of belonging that life had stolen. He closed his eyes.

“I will take it back,” he said quietly. “Every inch, every wall, every name.”

Behind him, the echo of footsteps made him straighten. He turned to see Collins, holding a mop, his eyes wide. “John? What are you doing here at this hour?”

John smiled faintly. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About change.”

Collins laughed softly. “You sound like a man planning something big.”

“Maybe I am,” John replied.

Collins grinned. “Whatever it is, I hope it gets you out of this place someday.”

John looked at the crest once more, his reflection shimmering in the gold. “It will,” he said. “Sooner than anyone thinks.”

Collins shrugged and walked away, humming a tune. John stayed a moment longer, then turned toward the elevator. As the doors closed, his expression hardened.

The time of silence was ending.

The empire that had forgotten him was about to remember.

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