Chapter Five
LEXI
Iopen the bathroom door half an inch and peek out. No sign of Tristan. I pad down the short corridor to my room, pulse wild, wanting to strangle my brother. He knew. I asked him point blank last night when Tristan would be here, and he said he didn’t know!
When I opened the bathroom door, I was expecting Evan. He’s so sweaty after his run that he takes a quick shower in this bathroom before he dives into the pool, and he usually only strips off his shirt. Those triathlon shorts he wears are made for swimming and he keeps them on in the shower. Not for a second did I think I’ll bust in there and catch my brother naked.
I honestly thought Evan had left the faucet running when the slow dribble of water didn’t stop. At least Tristan was only shaving and mostly covered. It could have been worse.Oh God. I groan. So. Much. Worse.
But Holy Mother of God, the visual of Tristan in a towel was enough to rip me out of my sleepy haze. In the years I haven’t seen him, he has matured. I sensed it from his Instagram photos, but I didn’t truly see it, not like now. A picture may be worth athousand words. The real thing, on the other hand… I snatch a breath as I close my bedroom door and crawl under the covers. I want to hide. That stupid blush was so uncalled for. It took me right back to?—
Ah, buzz off.I push the memories away and reach for my phone to distract my mind.
There are several notifications. Some are messages from Tessa. Now that she’s in LA, she sends them late at night when I’m already in bed. I smile as I scroll. She’s hooked up with old friends from New York and seems to have landed on her feet. At least one of us has.
A new message pops up. It’s from Sheila. She’s checked in several times since I left New York and has kept me quietly informed on developments at St Chalamet. So far, there’ve been none.
Sheila
We have a new problem.
She continues typing, those three dots dancing their jig as my heart sinks.
Shit.
Me
What now?
Sheila
Are you up yet? Better to chat.
No. This sounds even worse. My heartbeat rockets as if on a mission to Mars.
Me
Yes.
My phone vibrates seconds later, and I answer. “Hey, why does this sound so?—”
“Shit, Lexi. We would’ve let you know yesterday, but we had to make sure?—”
“What?” I sit up and toss the covers to the side, suddenly too hot.
“The hackers have figured out your identity from the video.”
“What?” The words hang like arrows in the air, paused midflight, giving their target a moment to register Sheila’s meaning before they hit. “How?” A fresh chill cruises down my spine to settle in the pit of my stomach, where it seems to morph into bile.
I’ve seen the clip. Several times. It lives rent-free in my mind. Once I told management about walking in on Mia Reed, the security team scoured all video footage around the date and time for proof, because you know, it’s a St Chalamet hotel. And it’s Mia Reed. And they’ve been hacked. Up until my confession, nobody knew, or suspected, that there was a hackers’ gold mine in old security footage from a small banquet room at the back end of the hotel’s fortieth floor.
The video shows me full length as I open the door, step in, sliding my jacket off one arm as my hand reaches to my chest—to my blouse’s top button to get a head start on the business of stripping—then I freeze for two solid seconds midstride, my faceapicture. Then I slowly, quietly back out of the banquet room, not blinking once, my hands held up in defense. By pure luck, taking off my jacket had hidden my name badge and the hotel’s crest. Not that it helped much, as they’ve still managed to figure out who I am.
“We don’t know, probably from employee photos,” Sheila says, distress clear in her voice. “It could be anything. Face recognition, AI, who knows. The hackers have all the advantage here, Lexi.”
I keep my emotions in check with pure brutal force by digging my teeth into my bottom lip. “How do you know?” I ask when Sheila says nothing more. “How can you be sure?”
“Because they’re demanding a million dollars from the hotel group to keep your name—consequently St Chalamet’s name—out of it.”
