Chapter 2 - The Forged Signature in the Midnight Envelope
Dela stayed on her knees on the cold linoleum for five minutes, the air whistling through her teeth.
The paper lay face-up beneath the yellow bulb.
Refusal of Post-Mortem Examination.
Beneath the legal boilerplate sat a signature: a clean, flowing cursive that mimicked the swoop of her D and the sharp cross of her T.
It was an exquisite forgery. The kind of forgery that required access to legal transcripts, bar registration forms, or university records.
Someone hadn't just murdered Elias.
Someone had scrubbed the crime scene clean using her own name as the broom.
She picked up the index card. The paper stock was heavy, eight-ply cotton with a watermark visible only when held against the bulb: a watermark of a falcon holding an anchor.
The private stationery of the Vandermir Maritime Consortium.
Dela sat back on her heels, her heart thumping against her ribcage. The room felt suddenly tiny, the walls pressing inward.
Was Augustine Vandermir watching her?
Had he known who she was from the moment she submitted her fake resume with the forged references to the Meridian’s human resources office?
Or was someone inside the Vandermir tower using her as a pawn in a larger, bloodier game?
At 5:00 AM, she was back on the fortieth floor.
Her eyes burned with exhaustion. Her legs felt heavy as lead. Every muscle in her lower back screamed for rest, but she pulled the wide service apron over her head, tied the black ribbon in a double knot behind her spine, and checked her reflection in the prep room mirror.
Pale cheeks. Dark shadows beneath hollow eyes.
She pinched her cheeks until blood rose to the skin, smoothed down her collar, and picked up her tray.
“You didn’t sleep,” Teddy said, setting down a metal bowl of polished silver spoons.
“I slept enough.”
“You lie like a politician, Dela. Your hands are shaking.”
“Low blood sugar,” Dela whispered, grabbing a cloth. “I’m taking the south dining room today.”
“Margot Sinclair is having breakfast in private booth three,” Teddy warned, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “She specifically requested the server with the ‘interesting shoes.’ Dela, take the pantry shift instead. Let Marcus take the booth.”
“No.” Dela’s jaw set into stone. “I need the floor tips. And I need to see who comes to her table.”
“She’s looking for blood, girl. Rich girls like that don’t ask for waitresses by their shoes unless they plan on stepping on their necks.”
“Let her try,” Dela murmured.
When Dela walked into the south dining room carrying a silver pot of Darjeeling tea, Margot Sinclair was already seated.
She wore a cream-colored cashmere turtleneck that screamed wealth, her three-carat diamond ring catching the early sun. Sitting beside her was her brother, Julian Sinclair—junior vice president of Sinclair Logistics, a man known in the papers for wrecking sports cars and settling out of court.
“Water,” Margot said without looking up from her phone. “Room temperature. Lemon wedge, sliced paper-thin. If there are seeds in the glass, you’re taking it back.”
“Of course, Ms. Sinclair,” Dela said smoothly.
She set down the linen coaster, positioned the crystal glass, and poured the water with surgical precision.
Julian leaned back in his leather banquette, his eyes raking Dela from her collar down to her oversized jacket. A smirk touched the corner of his thin mouth.
“A bit clumsy on your feet yesterday, weren't you?” Julian sneered, tossing a silver pen onto the table. “Gus thought you were going to drop the entire roast on his lap.”
“I apologize if my service was inadequate, sir,” Dela replied, keeping her voice completely devoid of emotion. “It won't happen again.”
“Look at her,” Margot said, laughing softly as she turned to her brother. “She speaks like a schoolmarm. Tell me, server... what is your name again?”
“Dela, ma’am.”
“Just Dela? No last name?”
“Just Dela on the schedule, ma’am.”
Margot leaned forward, resting her chin on her manicured hand. Her eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating.
“My fiancé looked at you yesterday, Dela. Augustine doesn't look at staff. He doesn't look at people who make twenty dollars an hour. So I’m curious... what makes you think you can walk around his dining room looking like a vagrant with taped shoes?”
The air in the booth grew thin.
Dela did not flinch. She kept her spine rigid, her tray held level against her hip.
“The floor tiles are slick in the winter, ma’am. The rubber grip provides traction. I apologize if the appearance offended you.”
“Offended me?” Margot laughed, a high, brittle sound that drew the eyes of two nearby busboys. “Darling, you don’t offend me. Dirt doesn't offend the broom. It just gets swept out.”
Margot reached out with her index finger and deliberately tipped over her glass of ice water.
The cold liquid cascaded over the edge of the mahogany table, soaking straight through the front of Dela’s uniform apron, drenching the fabric across her swollen stomach.
Dela didn't move. She didn't gasp.
The freezing water soaked through to her skin, sending a violent chill down her spine.
“Oops,” Margot smiled, her eyes cold as ice. “Clumsy me. Clean it up, Dela. Use your apron. That’s what it’s for, isn't it?”
Julian chuckled, pulling out his phone to record.
Dela stood there for two full seconds.
Inside her mind, seven years of legal training, twelve semesters of constitutional law, and the memory of Elias’s laugh echoed all at once. She could have dismantled Margot Sinclair in three sentences. She could have quoted the municipal labor code, the city’s civil liability statutes, and the exact terms of the Meridian’s guest code of conduct.
Instead, she took a slow, deep breath.
Not yet, she told herself. Not until I find out who signed the paper.
Dela pulled a dry white service cloth from her pocket, knelt down slowly on the marble floor—protecting her abdomen with one arm—and began wiping the puddle off the polished stone.
Above her, the heavy glass doors of the private dining room swung open.
A pair of bespoke Italian leather oxford shoes stopped two feet from Dela’s kneeling form.
The temperature in the room plummeted.
Julian’s smirk vanished instantly. Margot’s hand froze over her purse.
May you like
Dela looked up from the floor.
Augustine Vandermir stood above them, his tailored charcoal overcoat unbuttoned, his jaw set like an iron vice, his cold, gray eyes staring straight down at the water soaking through Dela’s uniform.
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