He walked into the high-rise lobby as if the world still recognized him as its rightful heir. On his arm was Kayla, radiant and overconfident, already behaving like the new woman of the house. Their matching designer luggage rolled behind them across the polished floor.
Ethan swiped his fob at the private elevator.
Denied.
He tried again.
Denied.
Annoyance flashed across his face. He muttered something about the system malfunctioning.
That was when the head concierge, a dignified older man named Walter, approached him—not with deference, but with visible discomfort.
“Mr. Cole,” Walter said carefully, “I’m sorry, but I can’t restore your access. It was permanently revoked by the new owner.”
Ethan laughed.
“The new owner?” he said. “Walter, I own the penthouse.”
Walter held his ground. “No, sir. The property transferred last week. You are no longer listed as a resident.”
Color surged into Ethan’s face. Kayla’s smile faltered.
Without waiting, he dragged her and the luggage toward the service elevator, furious, humiliated, determined to force his way upstairs and restore the natural order of things.
The elevator climbed slowly.
At the penthouse door, he jammed his backup key into the lock.