Chapter 3 - THE PENTHOUSE OFFICE ABOVE THE GRAND BALLROOM
The private elevator rose silently through the core of the Aurelia Grand, whisking them away from the glittering ballroom into the quiet, insulated sanctuary of the top-floor penthouse.
The office was vast.
Walls of dark mahogany, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rain-slicked Chicago skyline, and a massive glass desk covered in architectural blueprints and corporate acquisitions.
Ava stood near the fireplace, still wrapped in Niko’s heavy cashmere coat.
Her hands were tucked deep into the pockets, her fingers curling around the fabric to steady her trembling frame.
Niko closed the heavy oak door behind them, turned the deadbolt, and walked over to a small mahogany bar in the corner.
He poured two fingers of amber bourbon into a heavy crystal glass, ignored it, and poured a second glass of sparkling water, walking over to hand it to Ava.
"Drink this," he commanded gently.
Ava took the glass with trembling fingers, taking a small sip. The cool water steadied her racing pulse.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice sounding small in the cavernous room. "For the coat. And for... not letting them throw me out."
"I don't throw people out of my hotel unless they deserve it," Niko said, leaning back against the edge of his glass desk, his arms crossed over his chest. "And Richard Whitmore's family has owed me an explanation for a very long time."
Ava looked up, her brow furrowing in confusion. "What do you mean? What does my family have to do with Moretti Holdings?"
Niko reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the tiny gold key with the black rose stamped into its bow.
He set it down on the glass desk with a soft clink.
"Ten years ago," Niko said, his eyes darkening as old memories surfaced, "a master designer named Eleanor Monroe vanished from the fashion district just days before she was scheduled to unveil her independent autumn collection. The police ruled it an accidental fire at her studio on the south side. They said she died in the flames."
Ava’s breath hitched. Her chest tightened so painfully she could barely draw air.
"My mother didn't die in an accident," Ava whispered, tears finally breaking free and spilling down her cheeks. "She escaped the fire. But she died six months later in a charity ward from smoke inhalation and a broken heart... after Richard Whitmore stole every single pattern, notebook, and design she owned."
Niko pushed off the desk, walking slowly toward her until he stood two feet away.
"I know," Niko said softly. "Because Eleanor Monroe was the only designer in this city who ever had the courage to turn down a partnership contract with my father."
He pointed down at the gold key on the desk.
"That key opens the security deposit box at the Commonwealth Bank," Niko continued. "Inside that box is the original patent registration for the emerald gown you wore tonight... registered under Eleanor Monroe’s name in 2014. Along with a notarized document proving that Richard Whitmore forged her signature after her death to transfer the intellectual property rights to Whitmore Enterprises."
Ava stared at him, her vision blurring. "How... how do you have that?"
"Because your mother was a proud woman, Ava," Niko said, his voice dropping into a low, rough register. "When she realized Richard Whitmore was planning to steal her work, she came to my father for protection. She left that key with him for safekeeping, asking him to give it to her daughter when she came of age."
Niko stepped closer, his warm gaze holding hers with absolute intensity.
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"My father died before he could return it," Niko murmured. "And I have spent the last five years searching every fashion house in New York and Milan trying to find the girl with the black rose."
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