The young man was, after all, the son of wealth and privilege—he wasn't easily intimidated. He let out a mocking laugh and pointed at Derek with a sneer. "You think you're so tough? Let me tell you this: my dad is one of the board members of the Aldridge Vantage Trust Consortium!"
Upon hearing that, Lila shot the young man a sideways glance.
"Aldridge Vantage Trust Consortium is one of the largest conglomerates in Cleveland," she whispered to Indie, covering her mouth. "They control countless assets and companies." Since her father owned a business himself, Lila had a general awareness of the city's major corporate players.
"Oh? Then I guess paying one million dollars won't be too hard for you," Derek said, nodding.
The young man nearly burst out laughing at Derek's naive remark. What kind of logic was that? If someone's father sat on the board of Aldridge Vantage Trust, any normal person would be petrified at the thought of owing the hotel manager a million dollars. Did Derek think he could bluff and bluster against the son of one of Cleveland's biggest financial powers? The Aldridge consortium invested in innumerable hotels every year!
"All right, Mr. Big Shot," the young man taunted, trying to sound nonchalant as he looked Derek in the eye. "Do you dare let me call my dad right now?"
"Go ahead and call him," Derek replied coolly.
"Fine, but you better not snatch my phone!" The young man thumbed at his phone with a self-satisfied smirk, then dialed his father's number. He flipped on speakerphone, exuding confidence as soon as the call connected.
"Hello, Dad," he said, his voice brimming with certainty.
"Son, calling so early—what's up? Need money already?" his father asked.
"Dad, come quickly!" the young man exclaimed. "I'm at some hotel, and I accidentally damaged a painting. They want a million from me, and they won't let me leave!"
"What? Which hotel would dare ask my son for money? A million dollars? They're trying to shut down the place, and they're holding you against your will? Give me the address. I'll be there with reinforcements. We'll shut that whole hotel down today!"
The son's face lit up with triumph. He turned back to Derek with a mocking grin. "What do you think of that, old man? Let's see how you handle my dad!"
"You haven't even told your dad the hotel's address yet," Derek said, unfazed.
"You don't know what real power is until you see it," the young man scoffed. He returned to his phone. "Dad, it's the Maple Creek Inn & Suites at 1842 Sycamore Ridge Drive. Hurry up and get here!"
"Maple Creek Inn & Suites?" His father's voice hesitated for a split second, then exploded into a string of curses so furious that the young man could hardly make out every word. Finally, his father roared, "You brat—how dare you go causing chaos at Maple Creek and wreck someone else's property. You ungrateful whelp! You should've been disciplined properly when you were younger. Now you've gone and made a big mistake, and you have the nerve to call me for help?"
The son's face went blank. Dumbfounded, he stood in stunned silence.
"The person demanding payment—was it one of the front-desk clerks?" his father pressed.
The young man's head snapped up. "Yes… no—"
"It wasn't a clerk?" his father's voice dripped with contempt. "Then who was it? Describe them to me, now!"
"A middle-aged man, over forty, clean-shaven face, a few sparse whiskers on his lip. He looked stern…."
There was a loud clatter—a rattling noise as if something had fallen. The young man's father had dropped the phone, then grabbed it again and thundered, "You little shit! That was Mr. Thompson! You owe him your apologies right now!"
The young man, utterly defeated, crumpled to his knees in front of Derek. "Uncle, I was wrong. I'm sorry. I'll pay whatever you ask!"
"Hand the phone to Mr. Thompson!" his father demanded.
Derek took the phone and cleared his throat. "Mr. Thompson," the young man's father began, his voice contrite, "I'm so sorry. I raised my son poorly. He disrespected you. Please, I beg you, don't press charges. He destroyed your painting—whatever it's worth, I'll reimburse you. One million dollars—consider it on its way."
"No, ten thousand dollars more," Derek said, after shaking his head and glancing down the hall at the injured young woman lying against the wall. "In my hotel, there is a strict rule: no fighting in the building. Every registered guest is my responsibility to keep safe and comfortable. Since your son assaulted another guest, I must fine him an additional ten thousand dollars. And that ten thousand isn't for me—give that to the guest he injured."
"All right, all right. No problem, no problem," the young man's father replied, practically in tears. It didn't matter whether it was one million or two million—he would pay.
Derek turned with a genial smile to Indie and Lila, who had watched the entire scene in stunned silence. "Good morning," he said kindly. "We serve breakfast here. Would you two like me to show you to the dining room?"
Though Grayson hadn't explicitly informed Derek of their connection, Derek was a seasoned judge of character. Last night, he'd already suspected that Grayson knew Lila and Indie. And since Young Master Grayson had helped them, Derek understood that these young ladies were important to the young master. In turn, Derek wanted to show respect to anyone Grayson cared about.
"Wha—what?" Indie and Lila remained in a daze. They could hardly believe what they'd just witnessed: the son of a board member at Aldridge Vantage Trust hanging up on his father, begging to repay a hotel manager—crushed under the weight of a mere ten-thousand-dollar fine after mocking his own privilege. And all because of the manager's imposing authority.
Even more puzzling: how had Grayson's offhand words last night persuaded Derek to forgive Lila's earlier damage and treat him with such deference? And this morning, the same arrogant young man was reduced to a trembling, whimpering child before Derek. What force had the manager tapped into?
At that moment, a deliveryman in a baseball cap walked through the lobby carrying a long, flat crate. "Mr. Thompson?" he asked, extending the box.
"That's me," Derek replied.
"This arrived from the Bath Art Gallery," the deliveryman explained, prying open the crate's lid. Inside was a gorgeous oil painting.
"Wow—it's stunning!" Derek's eyes lit up, almost like a child.
Lila and Indie exchanged amazed glances. From Derek's reaction, it seemed he really did love foreign paintings—yet last night, he'd suddenly insisted that Grayson's rationale was the reason to forgive Lila's debt. Now he had a brand-new work of art delivered to him. How did this make any sense? If Derek truly hated spending on foreign art, why had he just received this painting with such delight?
Just then, Jace and Grayson descended the stairs. Grayson ruffled his uncombed hair and yawned as he reached the bottom.
"Mr. Thompson?" Derek responded quickly—not calling out "Young Master Grayson"—and tossed the newly delivered painting back toward the deliveryman. "No thanks! As an American, I should be ashamed of spending so much on foreign art. I'd rather donate this money to underprivileged children. Let's be on our way."
The deliveryman stared in disbelief, shrugged, and carried the crate back out.
"Let's go—time to head back to campus," Jace said, falling in step beside Indie and Lila.
The four of them left Maple Creek Inn & Suites and hailed a cab bound for Hawthorne University. As for Ryan, nobody mentioned her again.
During the ride, Indie and Lila whispered conspiratorially.
"Lila, you saw what happened this morning, right?" Indie leaned close. "Mr. Thompson clearly loves foreign paintings—just look at how surprised he was when he saw his new delivery. But then, when Grayson appeared, he gave it right back to the courier. Why do you think that was?"
"I…I don't know!" Lila shook her head, still puzzled.
"It shows that last night, Derek's decision to waive our debt had nothing to do with Grayson's speech about 'foreign versus American' art. After all, that arrogant kid said the exact same thing this morning, and it didn't work at all. The real reason must be that Grayson quietly asked him not to hold us responsible—no argument, just a straight request."
"Really?" Lila's eyes widened. She found it hard to believe.
"It could be," Indie continued. "Let's not jump to conclusions. But no matter what, Grayson helped you out yesterday—make sure you thank him."
"Yeah, yeah." Lila nodded slowly. After everything she'd seen, she sensed there was more going on, but she didn't fully understand.
The car pulled up to campus. The four stepped out, and Grayson glanced at his phone, realizing he needed to find Jasmine. "Hey, I've got something to handle. I'm going ahead," he said, waving to the others.
Indie discreetly gave Lila a nudge, prompting her to say something. Realizing Lila owed Grayson a genuine thank-you—and feeling a pang of gratitude in her chest—Lila hurried after him. "Grayson, thank you for helping me yesterday. And…," she began earnestly.
But Grayson scarcely registered her words. Lost in thoughts of Jasmine, he cut her off with a quick, "Don't mention it. I need to go, guys, bye." He waved again and turned away.
Lila was left standing in stunned silence as she watched his retreating figure. Without quite knowing why, a sudden flutter of disappointment rose in her chest.