Chapter 3 - The Social Media Firestorm
By eight o’clock the following morning, the front steps of the Ashcroft Grand were surrounded by a wall of television news vans, paparazzi, and an angry mob of social media influencers holding hastily scrawled cardboard signs.
*“BOYCOTT ASHCROFT!”* they chanted. *“WOMEN AGAINST VIOLENCE!”*
Inside the executive boardroom, the tension was thick enough to choke on. The massive mahogany conference table was surrounded by the seven members of the Ashcroft Hospitality board of directors. Half of them were pacing; the other half were frantically barking into their cell phones.
On the large wall-mounted flat screen, Blythe Vance’s face filled the broadcast of *Good Morning Chicago*.
*“I was just standing there waiting for my fiancé, Conrad Ellis, who has heroically managed that hotel for over a year,”* Blythe sobbed on live television, dabbing her eyes with a pristine white handkerchief. *“When this woman, Nina Ashcroft, approached me. She was incoherent. She smelled of alcohol. She screamed that she owned the city, shoved me against the marble pillar, and threw dirty mop water over my couture gown. When Conrad tried to protect me, she fired him on the spot and threatened our lives. Her security guards physically dragged me out into the cold rain!”*
The morning show host looked into the camera with grave solemnity. *“Calls to Nina Ashcroft’s representatives have gone unanswered. Vance Holdings has officially filed a fifty-million-dollar civil lawsuit for assault, defamation, and intentional infliction of emotional distress.”*
“Turn that garbage off!” shouted Arthur Sterling, the vice chairman of the board.
Arthur was a sixty-two-year-old corporate vulture with silver-slicked hair and cold, predatory blue eyes. He had held a twenty-two percent minority stake in the Ashcroft Hospitality Group since my father’s passing, and he had spent the last five years trying to seize total control of the company.
With a click of the remote, the television screen went black. Arthur slammed his leather-bound portfolio onto the table and glared at me.
I was seated at the head of the table, dressed in a sharp, tailored navy blue Saint Laurent suit, my dark hair pulled back into an immaculate chignon. Next to me sat Julian Mercer, his laptop open, completely unbothered by the chaos.
“Have you lost your absolute mind, Nina?” Arthur roared, slamming his fist onto the table. “Our stock is down seven percent in pre-market trading! The International Medical Conference, which booked three hundred rooms for next week, just sent an inquiry demanding an explanation! The Mayor’s charity gala scheduled for Saturday is threatening to pull out and move to the Drake! And you’re sitting there sipping Earl Grey tea like we aren't burning to the ground!”
“Lower your voice, Arthur,” I said evenly. “This is a boardroom, not an auction barn.”
“Don’t tell me to lower my voice!” Arthur spat, his face flushing crimson. “You assaulted Richard Vance’s daughter in our own lobby! You fired our award-winning general manager without consulting the board! Richard Vance is one of the most powerful financiers in the Midwest. Do you know what kind of damage he can do to our credit ratings?”
“Conrad Ellis didn't get fired for protecting a guest, Arthur,” I replied calmly. “He was suspended because he embezzled fourteen point six million dollars from our capital improvement and reserve funds.”
A stunned silence fell over the room. The other board members gasped, exchanging panicked glances.
Arthur, however, barely blinked. His eyes flickered with a sudden, imperceptible twitch of irritation before he masked it with outrage.
“Embezzlement? That’s absurd! Conrad is a consummate professional! Where is your proof? Did you call the auditors? Or are you fabricating excuses to cover up your uncontrolled temper tantrum in front of dozens of high-paying guests?”
“The proof is currently sitting on the desks of the United States Attorney and the chief field agent of the SEC, Arthur,” Julian Mercer spoke up, his voice smooth, authoritative, and deadly. “Conrad Ellis walked into the federal building downtown forty-five minutes ago accompanied by my senior litigation partner. He has signed a sworn confession detailing how Richard Vance extorted and coerced him into siphoning fourteen point six million dollars directly into offshore accounts controlled by Vance Holdings.”
Arthur’s face shifted from angry red to a sickly, grayish white. “Conrad… confessed?”
“Completely,” Julian replied, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “He turned over twelve months of wire receipts, encrypted communications, and blackmail recordings. Vance Holdings is currently the subject of an active federal criminal seizure warrant. And Conrad named every single individual who assisted in facilitating those unauthorized transfers.”
Julian paused, his sharp eyes locking directly onto Arthur Sterling.
“Every single one, Arthur.”
Arthur swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He adjusted his silk tie with fingers that had suddenly begun to tremble. “Well… if that’s true, then Conrad is a criminal. But that doesn't change the PR catastrophe! Look outside! The public believes Blythe! The internet is roasting us alive! Even if Vance is dirty, the Ashcroft brand will be destroyed before the trial ever reaches a courtroom!”
“The public only believes Blythe because she spoke first,” I said, standing up from my chair. The board members fell silent, watching me command the room. “She manufactured a narrative relying on the fact that I value my privacy. She assumed I would cower in a boardroom, write a massive settlement check, and let her walk away a hero while her father looted my family’s legacy.”
I walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the swarming press below.
“Blythe forgot the most fundamental rule of luxury hospitality,” I murmured.
“And what is that?” Arthur asked nervously.
I turned around to face them, a cold, unyielding fire in my eyes. “We never miss a thing. Every inch of that lobby is covered by high-definition, multi-angle security cameras with broadcast-quality optical lenses. And more importantly, Blythe Vance made the fatal mistake of underestimating the very people she considered invisible.”
I pressed the intercom button on the wall.
May you like
“Marcus,” I said. “Bring Rosa in.”
***