Chapter 4 - The Hotel Room Sanctuary
I didn't let Elena or Julian step foot near the mansion.
I carried Julian in my arms, held Elena tightly against my side, and guided them down the dark edge of the estate to the main road. I flagged down a passing yellow cab, threw my duffel bag into the trunk, and gave the driver the address of the most expensive luxury hotel in downtown Chicago—The Grand Carlton.
During the twenty-minute drive, Julian fell asleep instantly against his mother’s lap, his small hand still clutching my thumb with an iron grip. Elena stared out the window at the flashing streetlights, her eyes wide with a strange, shell-shocked detachment, as if she expected the cab to vanish and wake up back on the cold concrete floor.
When we arrived at the Carlton, I paid the concierge extra in cash to bypass the front desk fuss. I checked us into a sweeping penthouse suite on the top floor.
The moment the bellhop closed the door behind us, I picked up the room phone and dialed room service.
“I need three steaks, medium well,” I told the attendant. “Roasted potatoes, buttered vegetables, chicken noodle soup, fresh fruit, warm bread, three orders of chocolate cake, and a pitcher of milk. Send it up immediately.”
Within twenty minutes, two waiters pushed a silver cart loaded with steaming food into the suite.
When the door closed again, Julian woke up to the smell. He stared at the silver trays, his eyes round as saucers, but he didn't move. He looked up at me timidly, then at his mother, as if asking for permission to breathe.
“Go on, sweetie,” I said gently, pulling a chair out for him and setting him down. “It’s all yours. Eat whatever you want.”
What followed was a sight that tore my heart to pieces. Julian didn't eat like a normal child; he shoved food into his mouth with both hands, chewing frantically, his eyes darting toward the door as if expecting someone to snatch the plate away. Elena ate slowly, weeping silently into her soup, her body fighting to digest real food for the first time in God knows how long.
While they ate, I sat at the mahogany desk near the window, my laptop open, and dialed a number I had memorized five years ago.
It rang twice before a deep, authoritative voice answered.
“Hale & Associates. This is Marcus.”
“Marcus,” I said quietly. “It’s Daniel Hayes.”
There was a sudden, sharp pause on the other end of the line. “Daniel? Where are you? Your mother told me last month that your contract was extended until the winter.”
“My mother lied to you,” I replied, my voice devoid of emotion. “I’m in Chicago. I need you at the Grand Carlton Penthouse 4B right now. Bring every financial file, title deed, and corporate registry connected to my name.”
Marcus Hale had been my personal corporate attorney and my late father’s closest friend for twenty years. He was an absolute shark in commercial real estate and asset protection.
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“Daniel... what’s going on?” Marcus asked, his tone shifting instantly from professional to deeply concerned.
“My mother spent five years starving my wife and child in a lawnmower shed behind my house,” I said smoothly. “I need you to bring the axe.”
