Chapter 3
The walk down the second-floor corridor felt agonizingly long. Julian carried both of their heavy suitcases, the plastic handles digging into his palms, while Clara trailed behind him in her pristine white sundress, which now felt less like resort attire and more like a costume she desperately wanted to shed. The hallway carpet was a dull, industrial blue, smelling faintly of commercial carpet cleaner and damp sea air—a stark contrast to the fragrant, open-air elegance of the main lobby.
When Julian finally unlocked Room 214, the heavy wooden door swung open to reveal a cramped space dominated by a sagging queen-sized bed with a faded floral comforter. True to Margaret’s subtle retribution, a steady, rhythmic drip echoed from the bathroom sink: plink, plink, plink. Through the small, salt-stained window, the view offered nothing of the sparkling Atlantic, presenting instead a sprawling expanse of asphalt filled with parked sedans and rental cars under the glaring afternoon sun.
Clara dropped her designer handbag onto the scratchy armchair and let out a shuddering breath. “I can’t believe this. How did we let this happen? Who walks around a five-star hotel looking like a tourist in a cardigan?”
“Someone who owns the place, apparently,” Julian muttered, tossing the suitcases onto the luggage rack. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, feeling a dull ache in his lower back. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, the mattress springs groaning in protest. “Did you see the look on Elena’s face? We’re lucky they didn’t just throw us out onto the street. Do you know how hard it was to get this reservation comped through my firm?”
“Your firm didn’t do anything; your uncle did,” Clara corrected sharply, pacing the narrow strip of carpet between the bed and the desk. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “And now we’re stuck in a broom closet because I made a stupid comment about someone’s clothes. We have to fix this, Julian. We have to find her and apologize properly. Send flowers, or champagne, or whatever rich people accept when they’ve been deeply offended.”
Julian looked up at her, running a hand through his short dark hair. “And say what, Clara? ‘Dear General Manager, we are terribly sorry we assumed you were the hired help because you didn’t wear a designer label to the front desk’? That’s not going to fly. People at her level don’t care about superficial apologies. They care about character, and right now, our character is sitting somewhere around zero.”
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“Don’t lecture me,” Clara snapped, though her voice lacked its usual bite. She walked over to the window and pressed her forehead against the cool, salt-crusted glass, watching a family unload beach toys from a minivan down below. “I just hate feeling like a fool. I wanted this weekend to be perfect. We’ve been working sixty-hour weeks for six months, Julian. I wanted us to feel like we belonged in a place like this.”
“We do belong here, as paying guests,” Julian said quietly, standing up to join her by the window. He placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. “We just forgot the most basic rule of decency along the way. Maybe this is the reality check we both needed.”
