Chapter Six

* Lawrence *

The Magnolia's private wing was the kind of luxury most people only saw on glossy magazine pages or high-end real estate ads they'd never afford. The kind of place where time slowed, and even the silence had polish. The floors were imported marble, white with thin veins of gold like nature had tried its hand at elegance. The walls held original artwork commissioned by painters who wouldn't take calls from museums unless they offered seven digits. And the windows, the windows, they stretched from floor to ceiling, swallowing the sun, the sea, and sometimes, if you weren't careful, your sense of perspective.

My parents never stayed anywhere else. Every time they returned to St. Canningvale from Magnolia Manor, it was to this penthouse suite, this shrine of power carved into glass and stone. To them, it wasn't just a place to sleep. It was a statement. A reminder to the island and everyone on it that the Dankworths were not just rich. We were inevitable.

I had just come back after a few days away. My place in the city was quiet, modern, and far less gilded. I only returned to the resort because my mother had called me. And when Julliane Dankworth called in a tone that quivered between command and panic, you listened. Because she never panicked. Not when the market dipped. Not when the board revolted. So when I heard that tremble in her voice, I knew something was wrong.

I found them in the master lounge, a room so perfectly curated it might as well have been frozen in a high-end catalog. But beneath the surface shimmer, tension was coiled tight like a spring.

My father, Lance Dankworth, stood near the window with a scotch in hand. His posture was casual, but the way he clenched the glass told a different story. He stared out toward the horizon, where the ocean met the clouds like they were in some silent, eternal negotiation. My mother, perched like a queen on the edge of a chaise lounge upholstered in some fabric that cost more than most people's mortgages, looked up the moment I walked in.

"There you are," she said, sharp and impatient. "Finally."

I raised a brow. "What happened?"

She held up her left hand. Bare. The fingers, usually adorned with at least one antique ring or designer band, were naked. Her voice dropped to something like disbelief.

"It's gone. My ring."

I blinked. "Which ring?"

"The pink diamond, Lawrence. The one your father gave me when we got engaged. The Argyle diamond. Do you think I'd misplace that?"

She gestured toward the vanity across the room, where a marble tray was supposed to sit beside the mirror. But it wasn't there. Just perfectly aligned cologne bottles and towels so tightly rolled it looked like they had never been touched.

"I took it off before my shower," she continued, breath clipped. "I left it on that tray, like I always do. I saw it this morning, just before I went for my massage. And when I came back..."

Her hand curled into a fist. "It was gone."

I turned to my father. "Anyone else come into the suite?"

He didn't answer right away. Just kept watching the ocean, then gave a slow shake of his head.

My mother chimed in, "Turndown service. Just one cleaner. Your staff said they're short-handed today."

My jaw tightened. Something about that detail scratched at my nerves. "Who was it?"

Before either of them could respond, a knock came at the door. One of the resort's managers stepped in, clearly nervous, hands clasped, lips tight, eyes darting from my father to me.

"Mr. Dankworth," he said, addressing me. "We've reviewed the logs. Only one employee entered the suite during the window your mother described."

My spine stiffened. "Who?"

He cleared his throat. "Amanda Kramer. Clocked in at 1:12 PM. Out at 2:03 PM."

The name landed in my chest like a stone in water.

Amanda Kramer. Of course.

Heat prickled under my collar. My voice was level, but it carried a weight that shifted the room.

"Bring her here."

"Sir, she's already finished her shift—"

"Then call her back," I said, sharper this time. "Tell her the owner wants to see her. Now."

The manager didn't argue. He turned and walked out as quickly as politeness allowed.

My father finally spoke, low and even. "You think she took it?"

"I don't know," I said, though in my gut, something twisted with certainty.

My mother's lips thinned. "I don't care what her reason is. I want it back. That ring's worth more than most people's lives."

I didn't say anything. Because this wasn't just about theft.

Amanda Kramer wasn't a stranger. She was the name Dianne used with venom. The same woman she'd claimed had ruined her father, stolen him, shamed him, broken him. The same woman whose presence on this resort had always been a thorn Dianne picked at with disgust.

Now, this?

I walked to the window, mirroring my father's pose, but with far less detachment. The gardens below stretched into the distance, hedges manicured into labyrinths, fountains whispering over stone. But all I could see were the long shadows.

Something told me this wasn't just about a lost ring.

It was the tip of something buried.

After calming my mother, rosé in her hand, righteous fury in her tone, I left the suite and headed to the administration wing. My shoes echoed down the pristine corridor like a drumbeat of warning.

The HR files weren't digital. My father didn't trust databases or "cloud nonsense," as he called it. So, I went to the filing room, a temperature-controlled archive of secrets and second chances.

A keycard swipe opened the locked cabinet labeled Personnel, Authorized Access Only. I pulled out the folder marked KRAMER, AMANDA L. and laid it on the desk.

Inside, everything was neat. Resume. Clearance. References. Zero red flags. No write-ups. No missed shifts. Not even a whisper of drama.

And then my fingers stilled.

A dependent clearance form. Attached was a small photograph, ID-style. A girl.

Name: Jana Kramer.

Age: 16.

Dependent Status: Magnolia Summer Staff.

I stared at the name, the face, the defiance in her eyes barely masked by that neat corporate smile. She looked familiar, not in a vague, passing way, but in a visceral, spine-pricking way.

Dianne's voice echoed in my head.

"She's the woman who ruined my family. Amanda Kramer. Her daughter's the same girl I used to see hanging around before we left for college..."

It all clicked. Amanda Kramer hadn't just stolen a ring.

She had raised the girl I'd seen around the resort recently, the one who caught my attention in a way most don't. The one with mystery in her smile and sorrow in her posture. Jana.

I closed the folder with a snap and sat down behind the desk. My pulse thudded in my throat. This wasn't just a normal theft.

This was legacy. A buried history clawing its way back into daylight.

I opened my laptop and pulled up the request panel for internal surveillance. I flagged every camera on the penthouse floor. Then I reached for the desk phone.

"Get me Amanda Kramer. I want her in the office within the hour."

"And sir," the assistant asked hesitantly, "should I notify your father?"

I hesitated. My thumb tapped the wood desk once. Twice.

"No," I said. "Not yet. I'll handle it."

Because if I was right, if this ring was a diversion, a cover for something deeper, then Amanda Kramer wasn't just a suspect.

She was a storm I'd failed to notice on the horizon. And now, it was rolling in fast.

The Magnolia was mine to inherit next year. And if someone thought they could crack the foundation from beneath me before I even put the crown on, then they underestimated just how far I was willing to go to protect it.

This wasn't about a pink diamond anymore. This was about control. And I never lost that. Not without a fight.