Patricia stared at the secondary reservation screen as if it had accused her aloud.
The private elevator opened behind her with a soft chime, but she did not turn.
Her eyes remained fixed on the small designation beneath my reservation.
It was not visible to the guests standing several feet away.
Even Karla had to lean over the counter to read it.
Her smirk disappeared.
“Executive principal,” she whispered.
That designation was deliberately vague.
It was used for owners, board members, and a handful of senior officers whose identities were protected during unannounced visits.
It did not tell Patricia exactly who I was.
But it told her that I was someone she should never have dismissed.
I adjusted Lily against my shoulder.
She made a soft sound and curled one hand into the collar of my jacket.
“Is the reservation confirmed?” I asked.
Patricia swallowed.
“Yes, sir.
Suite 904.”
“Then please check us in.”
Her hands moved quickly now.
The same keyboard she had touched with bored indifference suddenly demanded her full attention.
Karla stepped back from the desk.
Lupita remained beside us, still holding the towels.
She did not look triumphant.
She looked relieved that Lily would finally have a bed.
That mattered to me.
Patricia prepared a key card and forced another smile.
“I apologize for the confusion, Mr.
Vance.
The system can be difficult on gala nights.”
“The system worked,” I said.
“You chose the wrong one after I told you where to look.”
Her smile tightened.
The man with the champagne glass lowered his eyes.
The guests behind me suddenly became interested in their phones.
People often disliked cruelty until they realized they had been silent witnesses to it.
Patricia placed the key card on the counter.
“Would you like someone to assist with your luggage?”
I looked at the backpack hanging from my shoulder.
“No.
But I would like Lupita to show us to the suite, if she is allowed to leave her floor for a few minutes.”
Patricia glanced toward Karla.
“Of course.”
Lupita set the towels on a service table and approached carefully.
“I can carry the flowers,” she offered.
I handed her the roses.
She held them as though they were not bruised airport flowers but something precious.
We entered the elevator without another word.
As the doors closed, I saw Patricia reach for the telephone beneath the counter.
Suite 904 occupied a quiet corner overlooking the river.
It had been reserved through my office two weeks earlier, though the staff had not been told why I was coming.
The moment we entered, I carried Lily into the bedroom and lowered her onto the mattress.
Her eyes opened halfway.
“Are we home?”
“Not yet, sweetheart.”
She touched the stuffed rabbit tucked beneath her arm.
“Did we lose Mommy’s roses?”
