“Watch the desk,” Darren snapped at Trent, straightening his tailored charcoal jacket. “And get her out of my lobby.”
Darren marched into his office and picked up the red receiver. “Darren Vale, General Manager.”
On the other end of the line, the voice of Marcus Vance, the terrifyingly strict Vice President of Operations for Hearthstone Group, barked through the speaker.
“Darren, what the hell is going on in your lobby?” Marcus’s voice was trembling with panic.
Darren frowned, confused. “Marcus? Everything is fine. I’m just dealing with a crazy vagrant who wandered in off the street. I’m having her removed right now.”
A heavy, deathly silence fell over the line.
“A vagrant?” Marcus whispered, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute horror. “Darren... did you just kick Evelyn Mercer out into the snow?”
Darren’s stomach dropped, though he didn't recognize the name. “Who is Evelyn Mercer?”
“The owner of the entire goddamn hotel chain, you idiot!” Marcus screamed so loud the phone vibrated in Darren’s hand. “She is the sole proprietor of Hearthstone! She built it with her late husband! She just called the board and said her own General Manager charged her fourteen hundred dollars and told her to sleep in a truck!”
Darren’s face drained of all color. His heart slammed against his ribs like a hammer. He looked through the glass window of his office.
Out in the lobby, Evelyn was still standing there in her faded coat. Trent was mocking her, pointing at the door.
“Sir, there’s a mistake,” Darren stammered, sweat instantly breaking out on his forehead. “She’s wearing dirty jeans and old boots! She looks like she hasn’t bought a new coat in twenty years!”
“She dresses like that because she works on her ranch, you arrogant fool,” Marcus snarled. “She’s coming out of a five-year retirement to do surprise audits of our failing locations. And congratulations, Darren. You just became her first target.”
Darren’s hand shook violently.
“If she leaves that property, Darren, I will personally see to it that you never work in hospitality again,” Marcus threatened. “Fix this. Now.”
The line went dead.
Darren stood frozen, the dial tone buzzing in his ear. His career, his six-figure salary, his entire reputation—it was all suddenly dangling by a thread over a blazing fire.
He stumbled out of his office, completely forgetting his tailored, composed posture, only to see Trent pushing Evelyn toward the doors.
“Trent! Get your hands off her!”
Darren’s voice cracked violently as he sprinted across the lobby, nearly tripping over his own expensive leather shoes.
Trent turned around, blinking in surprise. His hand was still raised, hovering aggressively near Evelyn’s shoulder. “Sir? You said to get her out—”
“I said don’t touch her!” Darren shoved Trent backward, panting heavily.
He turned to Evelyn, his face pale, his entire demeanor flipping from a cruel dictator to a groveling servant. He forced a wide, desperate, and incredibly fake smile.
“Ma’am, I... I am so incredibly sorry for the misunderstanding,” Darren stammered, bowing his head slightly. “There’s been a terrible mix-up with our system. Let me get you a complimentary suite. The penthouse. No charge. Just please, let me make this right.”
Evelyn didn’t move. She didn’t accept his apology, nor did she acknowledge his sudden panic. She slowly reached into her pocket, pulled out a pair of silver reading glasses, and slid them onto her face.
“I don’t want the penthouse, Darren,” she said softly. “I want to know why a standard room on a Tuesday night costs fourteen hundred dollars.”
Trent scoffed from the side, oblivious to the danger. “Like I told you, lady, it’s a holiday surge rate.”