Chapter 157
Footsteps sounded behind them. Uncle Vincent rounded the corner, wearing a trench coat and moving with the barely contained panic of a man who understood exactly what was about to happen.
“Jocelyn!” he called, closing the distance quickly. “You cannot accept unauthorized footage. It’s a privacy violation. Our lawyers will have a fit!”
Jocelyn didn’t look at him. “Kyle, send it to me now.”
“Don’t do it!” Vincent lunged for Kyle’s phone.
Jocelyn stepped between them and shoved Vincent back, one firm hand against his chest.
“Touch him, and I’ll have you arrested for assault,” she said.
Vincent went still. His face had turned a deep, mottled purple. “You’re ruining the family name! You’re exposing us to lawsuits!”
“You ruined it when you sabotaged my hotel,” she said. “When you pulled Harvey from his post so your accomplice could reach the vault.”
𝘋o𝗻’𝘁 𝘮i𝗌s 𝗇𝖾𝘄 𝗿еl𝖾a𝘴𝖾𝘀 о𝘯 𝘨𝗮𝘭nо𝘷elѕ.𝗰о𝗺
“I didn’t—”
“You’re fired, Vincent,” she said. “Not just from the hotel. From this family. Pack whatever you have left here. For real, this time.”
“You can’t fire me! I have shares!”
“Non-voting shares,” she corrected. She caught the eye of the two security guards who had followed her from the lobby. “Remove him.”
Vincent thrashed and shouted as they took hold of him. “I’m your uncle! You ungrateful witch!”
The staff in the corridor stood in silence, watching. No one moved.
Kyle looked at Jocelyn with wide eyes. “Intense family.”
“You have no idea,” she said. “Airdrop it.”
Kyle tapped his screen. Ping.
Jocelyn was back at her desk in minutes. She opened the file and pressed play.
The footage was a high-angle shot looking down at the service stairwell door. The time stamp read 8:20 PM — five minutes after the reported theft.
The door opened.
Zack stepped out, holding the black violin case. He glanced in both directions, visibly nervous.
Then a woman emerged from the shadows near the fire exit. She was dressed in a maid’s uniform, her face obscured by a cap pulled low.
Jocelyn paused the video and zoomed in.
The face was hidden. But the posture was not. The way the woman shifted her weight onto her left hip, the slight, characteristic tilt of her shoulders — it was Sloane. Sloane had a distinctive way of carrying herself, a consequence of a collegiate riding accident she had never stopped complaining about. She believed it made her look regal. To Jocelyn, who had watched her walk across an office floor for two years, it was as good as a fingerprint.
“Got you,” Jocelyn whispered.
On screen, Zack handed the case to the woman. She passed him a thick brown envelope in return. Zack went back through the stairwell door. The woman pushed through the fire exit.
Jocelyn picked up her phone and called Detective Miller.
“I have the smoking gun,” she said.
“Is it admissible?” Miller asked, sounding cautious.
“It puts the violin in his hands after the reported theft time and shows the handoff. And Miller — I know who the accomplice is. Her name is Sloane Prescott. Aspen Schneider’s personal assistant. Former manager of this hotel.”
There was a brief pause on the line. “Sloane Prescott?” Miller chuckled. “Amateurs.”