Chapter 116
Alexander
+25 BONUS
I glanced around the hallway, half expecting to see someone peering at us through a cracked door. The place reeked of cheap air freshener and something I couldn’t quite identify–possibly last
week’s takeout.
“Let me ask someone,” Leo said, already moving toward the neighboring apartment. “These walls look thin enough that someone must’ve heard something.”
“Be my guest.” I leaned against the wall, immediately regretting it when I felt something sticky against my shoulder. “Jesus Christ.”
Leo knocked on 3C’s door with more enthusiasm than the situation warranted. After a moment, the door creaked open to reveal a middle–aged woman in a bathrobe, a cigarette dangling from her lips.
“Yeah?” She eyed us suspiciously, not bothering to remove the cigarette.
Leo flashed his most charming smile. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. We’re looking for Tyler Phillips? He lives next door.”
She snorted, ash falling to the floor. “Good luck with that. Tyler’s barely here.”
“Do you know when he might be back?” Leo pressed.
“That man?” She took a long drag. “Shows up maybe twice, three times a month. Always drunk off his ass, usually with some hookers in tow.”
I straightened up, suddenly more interested. “Hookers?”
“Yeah. Last time he was here, he had two of ‘em. Woke up the whole damn floor with their activities. “She made air quotes with nicotine–stained fingers.
“When was that?” I asked.
“Week and a half ago? Hard to keep track.” She shrugged. “Look, you want me to call you if he shows up? Five hundred bucks, and I’ll let you know the second he walks in.
I pulled out my wallet, extracted five crisp hundreds, and handed them over. “Make it the millisecond.”
She pocketed the cash with practiced speed. “Deal. Number?”
Leo handed her his card. “Call this number anytime, day or night.”
“Will do.” She looked at the card, then back at us. “You cops?”
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“Private investigators,” Leo lied smoothly.
“Right.” She clearly didn’t believe him but didn’t care enough to press. “I’ll call.”
She began closing the door when Leo stuck his foot out, preventing it from shutting completely.
“One second,” he said, pulling out his phone and swiping through it. “Is this him?”
The woman squinted at the screen, cigarette dangling precariously from her bottom lip. “Yeah, that’s Tyler. Where’d you get that?”
“Just making sure we’re talking about the same guy,” Leo said smoothly.
After she closed the door, he turned the screen toward me, showing a photo of a man in his thirties with slicked–back hair and a practiced smile. He wore a crisp white shirt, black vest, and bow tie- the uniform of high–end bartenders at exclusive events. That was definitely the same bartender from the event.
The polished appearance in the picture contrasted sharply with the dingy apartment we stood outside of. Something wasn’t adding up.
We headed back down the grimy stairwell, the smell of mildew following us out to the street. The fresh air hit like a blessing after the stale hallway.
“Where’d you get that photo?” I asked once we were safely back by our cars.
Leo grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Bribed some other bartenders who worked with him. Cost me a pair of front–row concert tickets.”
“You’re an asshole. Send me that photo,” I said, pulling out my phone.
“Already on it,” Leo said, tapping on his phone.
My phone pinged with the incoming photo.
I studied it closely; the clean–cut appearance, polished smile, and eyes that seemed a bit too calculating for someone who just poured drinks for a living.
“I’ll search online and see if we can find his social media. Everyone has digital footprints these days.”
Leo nodded, “I’ll check too. Between the two of us, we’ll find this bastard.”
“Send me everything you get. I want to know who he is, who he works for, and why the hell he was at that event.” I pocketed my phone and headed toward my car. “And Leo? Make this priority one.”
“Already on it.” He shot me a mock salute before climbing into his own vehicle.
The drive back to my penthouse gave me time to think. Someone had deliberately targeted me, and I
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needed to know why. Was it corporate sabotage? A personal vendetta? Or something else entirely?
Back at my penthouse, I spent an hour combing through social media platforms. Tyler Phillips existed online, but barely. His I*******m showed carefully curated photos of exotic cocktails and glimpses of high–end events–nothing personal, no friends, no family. Just the professional facade of a bartender who worked for exclusive parties. His F******k was equally sparse. The whole thing felt staged, like a cover identity rather than a real person.
Evening rolled around, and I found myself checking my watch repeatedly. Madison should have been here by now. I’d made it clear she was to come to my penthouse tonight, yet hours had passed with no sign of her. No call, no text, nothing.
I thought about calling her, my finger hovering over her contact information. But no. If she believed she could simply disregard our arrangement without facing any consequences, she was sorely
mistaken.
“Looks like someone needs a lesson in following instructions,” I muttered, tossing my phone onto
the couch.
I poured myself another whiskey, savoring the burn as I gazed out at the Manhattan skyline. Tomorrow would be interesting. Very interesting indeed.
***
I checked my watch as I buttoned up my navy dress shirt, pairing it with dark jeans. The casual outfit was perfect for the evening I had planned – dinner at that new Italian place in SoHo, followed by bringing Madison back here. No driver tonight. I wanted the privacy of driving her myself, watching her squirm in the passenger seat, knowing she wasn’t wearing underwear.
My lips curved into a smile, thinking about the instructions I’d given her. No underwear. The thought of her sitting across from me at dinner, completely bare beneath her dress, had me adjusting my jeans. The punishment for yesterday’s no–show would be deliciously drawn out.
I grabbed my keys and wallet, checking my reflection one last time, when my phone rang. Leo’s name flashed on the screen.
“Seriously?” I muttered, contemplating letting it go to voicemail. But Leo never called unless it was important. With a sigh, I answered. “I’m busy, Leo.”
“Aren’t you coming to Senator Williams‘ fundraiser event?”
“No. Why would I be?” I frowned, checking my watch again. “I’ve got plans.”
“Tyler Phillips is here.”
Those three words changed everything. The bartender who’d disappeared was suddenly within reach.
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“I’ll be there now,” I said, hanging up without another word.
I stood frozen for a moment, my mind racing. The fundraiser was on a superyacht, so I’d have to
cancel on Madison.
Then it hit me – I didn’t have to choose. I could bring her with me.
I stripped off my casual clothes and yanked open my closet, pulling out my tuxedo.
Lucia Morh is a passionate storyteller who brings emotions to life through her words. When she’s not writing, she finds peace nurturing her garden.
