From the silent, climate-controlled sanctuary of the Elysian’s penthouse suite—known to the hotel staff as “The Vance Residence”—I observed my kingdom. My desk was a command center of quiet efficiency, with two monitors displaying a discreet, multi-camera feed of the hotel’s public spaces. I was not a guest; I was a ghost, an invisible force, the Chairwoman of the board, conducting my own deep, anonymous audit. My family had built this empire, and I was its sworn protector. My quarry tonight was the new Night Manager, Michael Peterson. I had been watching him for two nights, and my assessment was grim. He was a predator who masqueraded as a manager, preying on the young, the inexperienced, and anyone he perceived as weaker than himself.
I watched him on screen as he berated a young busboy for a barely-perceptible smudge on a water glass, his voice a low, venomous hiss that, even without audio, was evident in the boy’s terrified posture. He was a liability. A cancer.
My eyes drifted to another screen, a feed from the main kitchen entrance. I saw my daughter, Chloe, her face flushed with the heat of the kitchen, her movements quick and efficient as she balanced a heavy tray. A surge of fierce, maternal pride washed over me, immediately followed by a pang of anxiety. She had insisted on this job, on earning her own way through her culinary arts degree. “I don’t want to be the owner’s daughter, Mom,” she had argued. “I want to…