The Husband They Threw Away Runs This Town Now

CHAPTER 8 — Before Storm

By late afternoon, Erick was back at the Laurent estate. He entered through the side gate wearing a tailored black suit. The staff gave him curious glances — they weren’t used to seeing him dressed like this.

Mrs. Hollis met him in the hallway, her voice low. “They’ve been setting things up all day. I think they’re planning to humiliate you again tonight.”

Erick nodded. “I know.”

He went to his room and checked his messages. Aria had sent an update:

[Victor and Martin are coordinating. They’ll use the gala to declare you dead and push the narrative.]

Erick typed back: [Let them start the show.]

The door opened without a knock. Dominique stepped in. She stopped when she saw him in the suit.

“You’re actually coming?” she asked, sounding surprised.

“I said I would.”

She studied him for a moment. “You clean up well.”

Erick adjusted his cuff. “It’s just a suit.”

Dominique crossed her arms. “Grandma wants to see you before the gala. She’s at The Pierre, room 401. Something about the divorce papers.”

Erick raised an eyebrow. “Why not here?”

“She said she didn’t want to do it at the house.” Dominique rubbed her temple, looking tired. “Just go, Erick. The gala starts soon.”

He watched her carefully. Something in her tone felt off.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll go.”

Dominique left quickly, almost relieved.

Erick stood in front of the mirror for a moment, thinking. The Pierre instead of the Plaza. Grandma is sending messages through Dominique. It didn’t add up.

He picked up his second phone and texted Aria.

[Check room 401 at The Pierre. Who’s actually registered?]

The reply came faster than expected.

[No reservation under any Laurent name. The suite is booked under Martin Clarke’s assistant.

Erick exhaled slowly. Of course.

He slipped the phone into his pocket and headed out the back way, avoiding the staff who were busy preparing for the gala.

Ivan was waiting in the black sedan behind the building. Erick got in the back seat.

“Change of plans?” Ivan asked.

“Not really,” Erick said. “Just another trap.”

Ivan started the car. “You still want to walk into it?”

Erick looked out at the passing city. “Yes. Let’s see how well they planned it.”

***

Rain had started falling by the time Erick’s car reached The Pierre. The hotel’s entrance glowed under the lights, polished and expensive in that quiet way that reminded people exactly where they stood.

Ivan pulled up to the curb. “You sure you don’t want me to come up?”

“No,” Erick said, smoothing the sleeves of his suit. “I’ll handle it.”

Ivan gave a short grunt. “That usually means someone’s getting hurt.”

“Only if they’re stupid.”

Ivan snorted. “Then it’s probably violence.”

Erick ignored the valet and walked through the revolving doors. The lobby smelled of wood polish and discreet wealth. A pianist played softly in the corner while a couple laughed over wine. Hotel staff moved around them like shadows.

He took the elevator up. In the mirrored walls, he caught sight of two men near the ice machine on his floor. They were trying too hard to look casual. One kept touching his jacket pocket. Amateurs.

Room 401. The door was slightly ajar, just as he expected.

He pushed it open.

“Mr. Gerard?” a nervous voice asked.

A young woman stood by the window in a silver silk dress, holding a champagne glass like it might break in her hand. She looked too young for the setting. Her smile was practiced, but her eyes gave her away.

“Wrong target,” Erick said calmly.

She frowned. “I… I don’t understand.”

Erick crossed the room to the bookshelf, spotted the hidden camera, and pulled it down. He dropped it on the floor and crushed it under his shoe. The woman gasped and stepped back.

“You were told I’d come in drunk,” he said. “Maybe passed out already.”

Her face went pale.

The bedroom door opened behind him. A large man in a poorly fitting hotel staff uniform stepped out.

“You were supposed to be unconscious,” the man growled.

Erick exhaled. “So that was the plan.”

The man lunged.

Erick moved inside the swing, drove his knee into the man’s ribs, and shoved him hard into the minibar. Bottles rattled and several fell, spilling whiskey across the marble. The man groaned, trying to get up. Erick grabbed him by the collar, slammed his head once against the edge of the marble table—hard enough to finish it—and let him drop.

The woman in the silver dress had her hands over her mouth, breathing fast.

Erick looked at her. She was staring at him now with something different in her eyes. Recognition.

“No…” she whispered. “That’s impossible.”

Erick said nothing.

“You’re him,” she said, voice shaking. “Quade.”

The man on the floor went very still.

Erick studied her carefully. “What’s your name?”

“Sienna.”

“How do you know that name?”

“Jacqueline,” she said hoarsely. “She used to carry your picture. She told me stories about you at Columbia. Said you were building something important.”

Ivan’s voice came through the earpiece, calm but urgent. “Hotel security is on the way up. Thirty seconds.”

Erick kept his eyes on the girl. “You haven’t seen me tonight, Sienna.”

She swallowed. “If Martin finds out the plan failed—”

“Martin is the least of your problems right now,” Erick said quietly.

He took out several folded bills and placed them on the table next to her bag.

“When they get here, tell them an intruder broke in, and you panicked. That’s all.”

Sienna stared at the money, hands still trembling. “You really are him… aren’t you?”

Erick adjusted his cuffs.

“No,” he said. “Quade is dead.”

He turned and left the room. Just before the elevator doors closed, he dropped a single silver cufflink onto the carpet near the broken glass. It made a small, metallic sound as it hit the floor.

***

Twenty minutes later, Martin Clarke burst into the suite.

The minibar was destroyed. Whiskey pooled across the marble. A broken camera lay on the floor. His bodyguard was unconscious, bleeding from the mouth.

Sienna was gone.

“What the hell happened?!” Martin shouted.

The bodyguard stirred weakly. “He… knew…”

Martin’s eyes landed on something shiny near the table. He picked it up.

A silver cufflink engraved with the letter Q.

His face went pale.

He stood there for a long moment, staring at the small piece of metal in his hand. The wrecked room. The blood. The missing girl.

For the first time that night, real fear settled over him.

The dead man wasn’t dead anymore.