CHAPTER 5

 

They always talked behind my back.

"How dare they say that! You're the Perez family's only daughter, and the daughter of the first wife, the one and only legitimate heiress. Are they out of their minds?" Sabrina fumed beside me, her hands clenched into fists.

I sighed, barely looking up from the glass of wine I had been swirling absentmindedly. "Come on. That mindset is old-fashioned. Who cares about whether I’m the first wife's daughter? I don’t care, so why should you bother?"

Sabrina blinked at me, her cheeks puffing slightly with frustration, which only made her look cuter. Unable to resist, I reached out and pinched her face gently. Her skin was soft beneath my fingers, and immediately, her face flushed a deep red.

"Demi!" Brent groaned from across the room, shaking his head. "You're the future president of Hermosa Group. Can you at least act with dignity? Stop teasing Sabrina."

I chuckled, releasing my secretary. "What’s the matter? Big bosses are allowed to tease their secretaries. Why can't a female boss touch her cute secretary’s face?" I tilted my head and smirked. "Besides, it’s her honor to be touched by me."

Sabrina made a strangled sound at the back of her throat while Brent merely sighed, his eyes filled with nothing but exasperated fondness.

Moments later, we were guided by a group of executives through the towering glass doors of the hotel. Charlie Jackson, one of the VPs, gestured towards the VIP elevator.

"Ms. Perez, this way."

"No," I said abruptly. "I want to check out the restaurant first."

Charlie hesitated before nodding frantically. "Of course, of course! Right this way."

The moment we stepped inside the buffet restaurant, a wave of dissatisfaction washed over me. It wasn’t lunchtime yet, so there weren’t many guests, just a few employees setting up. I walked slowly, letting my gaze sweep over the food. Everything looked fine at first glance—until I reached the seafood section.

Rolling up my sleeve, I plunged my hand into the glass aquarium without hesitation. My fingers closed around a lifeless shrimp, limp and cold.

I held it up, watching as the water dripped from its lifeless body. "Explain."

Charlie paled. "T-This isn’t dead yet—"

"Then you eat it." My voice was calm, but I knew my expression was anything but.

His eyes darted around nervously. "M-Ms. Demi, as you can see, there are hundreds of shrimp in there. It’s normal for one to suffocate to death—"

"It’s normal to find one dead. But do you think it’s normal for a guest to get food poisoning because of it?" I let my voice drop into a chilling whisper.

The entire restaurant had gone silent.

"There are 356 shrimp in this tank," I continued. "I took a rough look, and five are dead. Another thirty are on the verge of death."

I tossed the shrimp onto a tray, wiping my hands on a napkin. "I’m not sure what the guests who pay $300 to eat here would think, but if it were me, I would blacklist this hotel forever. Handle the seafood properly and change the supplier. If I see another dead shrimp at lunch tomorrow, I'll let you have a taste of it."

Charlie looked ready to faint. The other executives stood frozen in horror.

Only Brent and Sabrina remained calm. They had seen me do far worse.

Next, we inspected the guest rooms. I ran a white handkerchief over a picture frame, holding it up so everyone could see the dust that clung to the fabric.

"Redo the cleaning."

Some executives exchanged glances but said nothing. I chuckled, shaking my head. "I know you all think I’m excessive and nitpicky. But do you know what else is excessive? Losing a century-old reputation over something as small as cleanliness."

They looked sufficiently chastised. Good.

I moved into the room, running my fingers over the mattress before sitting down. The moment I did, a frown tugged at my lips. Hard. Uncomfortable. The kind of mattress that made a five-star hotel feel like a cheap roadside inn.

"Replace all the bedding and furniture," I said simply. "By tomorrow."

The executives nearly choked, but I was already heading toward my office, Brent trailing behind.

Once inside, he chuckled. "So, what do you think after that tour?"

I collapsed onto the sofa, groaning. "This place is a disaster. Is Dad trying to train me or punish me? How is this dump even owned by the Perez family?"

Brent leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "Demi, Grandpa started this hotel. Back then, we wanted to expand into the hospitality industry and worked hard to build it. That’s how Hermosa Financial Group became what it is today. But… we got too busy. The hotel was neglected."

I sighed, rubbing my temples. "I have to clean up everyone’s mess, don’t I?"

Brent smiled softly, then nodded toward the corner of the room. "I had that placed here for you."

I followed his gaze—and felt my breath hitch.

A piano.

Black and elegant, sitting quietly in the dim lighting of my office.

"I know you like playing when you're stressed," Brent murmured. "And I know you can’t visit the horse track as often now. I thought this might help."

Something inside me twisted painfully. I swallowed hard, but the lump in my throat refused to go away.

"Brent… I haven’t played in a long time."

He frowned. "Why not?"

I flexed my fingers absently, feeling the familiar dull ache. "I injured my hand. Saving a soldier during a medical mission. The ligament in my little finger tore. It’s not broken, but I can’t stretch my fingers properly anymore. Playing the piano is… impossible now."

Brent’s expression darkened. "Because of Jeff Ortega?"

The name sent a stab of pain through my chest, but I forced a smile. "Yes and no. It was for world peace. And for my family’s honor."

But deep down, I knew the truth.

Five years ago, I had found Jeff again after years apart. He was a reservist. I was a field doctor. He fought for peace, and I nearly lost my hand bringing him back to safety.

Once, I had thought it was an honor.

Now, it just hurt.

A knock at the door snapped me back to the present. Sabrina entered, looking slightly nervous.

"Ms. Perez, I found our hotel's bedding and furniture supplier. Most of it comes from Parisian Home. Mr. Jackson is responsible for contacting them."

My lips curled into a sneer. "Them again."

"What’s wrong with them?" Brent asked lazily.

"Parisian Home is owned by the brother of Jeff’s first love."

Brent and Sabrina shared a knowing look.

"Oh," they said in unison. "Revenge."

"It’s not revenge," I huffed. "They’ve been supplying us with inferior products. I have to punish them."

Besides, that mattress had been awful. No wonder the hotel had terrible reviews.

Before I could say more, Sabrina hesitated. "There's one more thing. You asked me to keep an eye on the Ortegas. Adam Ortega had another stroke. He’s in the hospital. One of ours."

I shot up from my seat. "He’s hospitalized?"

Brent's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then smirked.

"Demi, it’s Jeff Ortega."

My heart clenched—but my face remained unreadable.

"Let it ring," I said coldly.

Let him wait.

Just like he made me wait for him all those years ago.