She simply stood there, adjusting Lily’s limp form against her chest, her dark eyes locking onto Karl’s with an intensity that made the man involuntarily straighten his posture.
“What is your full name?” Clara asked, her voice dangerously calm.
Karl blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”
“Your name,” she repeated, her tone entirely unhurried. “And yours,” she added, glancing at Patrick.
Patrick swallowed hard, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his lapel.
The name tag on his chest read Patrick Thorne, while Karl’s read Karl Vance—a ironic twist of fate that Clara noted with a cold, silent satisfaction.
“Karl Vance,” the agent muttered, trying to maintain his dismissive sneer. “Not that it matters. If you have a complaint about the wait time, you can fill out an online survey like everyone else.”
Clara pulled out her personal phone—the secondary device she kept in her jacket pocket, fully charged—and dialed a three-digit extension from memory.
She placed the phone on speaker and set it on the marble counter right between the two men.
The line rang twice before a deep, authoritative voice answered.
“Arthur Sterling, General Manager.”
Patrick and Karl exchanged a nervous, confused look.
Arthur Sterling was the formidable, notoriously strict regional vice president who oversaw all seven flagship properties in the Midwest.
He was currently on-site, overseeing the high-stakes corporate gala in the grand ballroom.
“Arthur,” Clara said into the phone, her voice echoing clearly across the marble lobby. “It’s Clara Vance.”
A heavy silence hung on the line for one second, two seconds—and then the sound of a chair violently scraping against a hardwood floor erupted through the speaker.
“Mrs… Mrs. Vance?!” Arthur stammered, his usual polished demeanor completely collapsing. “Ma’am! I had no idea you had arrived! Your private car was supposed to pick you up at O’Hare—”
“The flight was delayed, Arthur, so I took a taxi,” Clara said smoothly. “I am currently standing in the main lobby.”
“I am coming down immediately!” Arthur gasped, audible panic surging through his voice. “I will be there in thirty seconds!”
The line went dead.
Patrick’s face turned the color of chalk.
Karl dropped the keycard he was holding, watching it slide across the counter and fall onto the floor with a plastic click.
“Mrs… Vance?” Patrick whispered, his voice cracking. “As in… Vance Hospitality Group?”
Clara didn’t answer.
She didn’t need to.
Thirty seconds later, the double doors leading to the grand ballroom burst open.
Arthur Sterling—wearing a tuxedo, his hair slightly disheveled from running—came sprinting across the polished marble floor.
He stopped in front of Clara, breathless, bowing his head in deep respect.
“Mrs. Vance,” Arthur breathed, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Welcome to the Grand Regent. Please, allow me to take your bag. We have the Presidential Suite fully prepared—”
“The Presidential Suite isn’t necessary, Arthur,” Clara interrupted quietly, gesturing toward her sleeping daughter. “Suite 904 is perfectly fine. But before I go upstairs, we have a structural issue on the ground floor that requires your immediate attention.”
Arthur’s eyes darted from Clara’s faded leather jacket to the white-faced receptionists standing behind the desk. “A structural issue, ma’am?”
“Yes,” Clara said, her voice cutting through the quiet lobby like a diamond blade. “When I arrived ten minutes ago with a sleeping six-year-old child and a bouquet of flowers for my late husband’s memorial, Mr. Thorne suggested I find a ‘cheaper motel down the road.’ Mr. Vance over here informed me that luxury suites don’t ‘magically open up’ for people who push hard enough.”
Arthur turned slowly toward the two men behind the desk.
The air in the lobby instantly turned arctic.
“Is this true?” Arthur asked, his voice shaking with pure, unadulterated rage.
Patrick couldn’t speak.
He looked like he was about to pass out on the spot.
