Chapter 113
Chapter 113:
She dressed quickly. She needed her armor — the high heels, the blazer, the office. She needed to be Jocelyn Wolfe, CEO, not Jocelyn Collins, the confused wife who didn’t know the rules of her own arrangement anymore.
She slipped past Mrs. Higgins’ knowing smile in the kitchen without a word and practically ran to the elevator.
As the doors slid shut, she caught her reflection in the polished metal. Her lips were swollen. There was a faint bruise on her neck.
“Stupid soup,” she muttered, pressing the button for the lobby.
The lobby of the Wolfe Hotel was quiet, the morning rush just beginning to stir. Jocelyn walked in, her heels striking a sharp, steady rhythm against the marble floors. She needed ice water. She needed to cool down the burning sensation that still lingered beneath her skin.
She was heading toward the executive floor when she stopped near the breakroom. The door was slightly ajar, and voices drifted out — high-pitched, mocking laughter that grated against her nerves.
“Did you see her shoes yesterday? Last season’s Prada. Embarrassing,” a woman’s voice said.
Jocelyn froze. She recognized that voice. Sloane, the Guest Relations Manager — the woman who looked at Jocelyn with barely concealed disdain every time they crossed paths.
𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘯
“She thinks she’s the boss, but we all know she’s just a placeholder,” Sloane continued. “Uncle Vincent is letting her play house until the board realizes she’s incompetent p>
“I heard she slept her way into the Collins deal,” another voice added. A junior receptionist.
“Please. She has no real skills,” Sloane said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. The coffee machine whirred into the pause. “Unlike me. I know how to handle the management p>
Jocelyn gripped her water bottle until the plastic crinkled under her fingers. Rage — cold and clarifying — washed over her. It wasn’t the insult about the shoes. It was the insult to her work.
She didn’t storm in. She didn’t raise her voice. She walked away in silence, her steps quiet and purposeful.
She went straight to Harvey’s desk outside her office.
“Harvey,” she said, her voice stripped of all emotion. “Pull Sloane’s personnel file. And her expense reports for the last year p>
Harvey looked up, immediately sensing the shift in the air. He didn’t ask questions. “On it, boss p>
Ten minutes later, the files were spread across her desk.
Jocelyn worked through them methodically. Sloane earned $120,000 a year. Her job description was vague — “client retention,” “liaison.” Her performance reviews were devoid of any measurable metrics, yet each one had been signed off with glowing remarks by one name: V. Wolfe.
Uncle Vincent.
“She has zero bookings attributed to her,” Jocelyn said, tapping the page. “Not a single room night p>
She opened the expense reports. It was a catalog of indulgence — jewelry stores, lingerie boutiques on Madison Avenue, dinners for two at Le Bernardin. Every line item approved by Vincent.
“She’s not an employee,” Jocelyn realized, her stomach turning. “She’s a mistress on the payroll p>
Embezzlement. Nepotism. The precise rot she had promised to clean out.
She called Harvey back in. “I need the security footage from the fourth-floor hallway. Last month p>