Shadows on the Eighth Floor

The cold night air bit sharp at Duke Cedric Fleming’s cheeks as the sleek black helicopter touched down on the rooftop helipad of the Aurora Crown Hotel. Wind from the blades whipped his coat and tousled his hair, but he was already unbuckling and jumping out before the pilot fully powered down. There was no time to waste.

He pulled out the secured fire escape passkey, known as the emergency stairwell access, and sprinted down the steel staircase, boots thudding softly against concrete. He had memorized the layout of this hotel during a past acquisition bid. His gut clenched tighter with every step, haunted by the warning his sources had given him: Seth isn’t throwing this engagement party just for show. Something’s planned, something sick.

On the 9th floor landing, Duke came to an abrupt halt. There were voices. Rough, low, and reeking of smoke and ill intent. “…I’m telling you, bro, it’s a dream job! We get paid and we get to have some fun. First go’s mine.” “Bullsh*t! It’s my vial that got her drugged, my share, my girl.”

“You greedy bastard! Let’s just take turns, she won’t even remember. That rich prick said no bruises on the face, but anything else is fair game.” Their vulgar laughter grated on Duke’s nerves like nails on glass. His jaw clenched. His blood boiled. Bastards.

He stepped into the hallway silently, like a shadow peeling off the wall. The moment one of the thugs turned, it was too late. A flash of silver, a stun baton to the neck. A roundhouse kick to the second thug’s temple, he dropped like a sack of rocks.

The third reached into his coat, fumbling for a switchblade. Duke flicked his wrist, sent a pen-sized dart straight into the man’s neck. The thug’s eyes rolled back. All three were down in less than twelve seconds. Not even a sound escaped the hallway.

Duke exhaled, steadying his breath, and pulled out his earpiece. “Alec,” he said in a low voice, “clean-up on the ninth floor. Three scumbags, unconscious. Bag them and make sure there’s no trace. Quietly.” “Yes, Your Grace.” He picked up the dropped room key card, Room 809. His face darkened. She was meant to be brought here.

Without hesitation, Duke unlocked the door and slipped inside, leaving the lights off. He surveyed the room, king-sized bed, chilled champagne, scattered rose petals, hidden camera lens barely peeking from the air vent. Sick. He hid himself in the dark corner near the walk-in closet, body tense. You’re safe now, Arla, he vowed silently. They’ll have to go through me first.

Downstairs, the celebration still glowed bright with music and cheer. Arla-Rosa swayed slightly as she set her glass down. Her cheeks were flushed, but her skin had grown clammy. A strange warmth tingled at the base of her spine and a haze blurred the chandelier lights above.

She blinked. Once. Twice. “Seth…” she murmured, reaching for his arm. “I don’t feel right. I feel dizzy… and my heart’s racing.” Seth placed a hand on her lower back, expression full of faux concern. “You’ve been working too hard lately, sweetheart. This party’s a lot for anyone. Why don’t you head up and rest?”

“But I..” He waved off a concerned guest. “She’s fine, just a little overwhelmed. We’ll make sure she rests.” Then he pulled out a key card from his jacket and pressed it into her hand. “Room 809. It’s private. Quiet. I had it arranged in case you needed a break.” Arla-Rosa frowned, still dazed. “Will you come with me?”

Seth smiled. “In a bit. Let me finish seeing off our guests. Go lie down. I’ll be right behind you.” She nodded slowly, her limbs too sluggish to argue. Her skin buzzed. A strange heat coiled in her belly, unfamiliar and unsettling. She didn’t notice the way Seth’s gaze followed her like a predator watching its prey. She didn’t see the subtle smirk he exchanged with Aretha, who stood sipping champagne by the exit. The elevator doors closed behind her with a soft ding.