Chapter 5 - The Desk's Dark Secret
The second receptionist, a young woman with trembling hands and a pale complexion, broke first. The air in the lobby seemed to thicken, heavy with the weight of Adrian’s desperation and Vanessa’s simmering rage.
"She's in 1412," the second receptionist whispered, the words rushing out like a confession she’d been holding onto for hours. "She checked in this morning."
Vanessa spun around, her face a mask of fury, her hand raised to strike the air. "Shut your mouth! You don't know what you're saying!"
But Adrian didn't wait for the storm to break. He moved with a sudden, fluid efficiency that surprised even himself. He shifted Lila from his shoulder to the arms of the security guard, a man who had been watching them with wary, tired eyes. "Watch her," Adrian said, his voice low but commanding. "I won't be long."
He turned on his heel, the leather duffel bag slapping against his thigh, and marched toward the elevators. The guard instinctively reached out, but the second receptionist grabbed his arm, her eyes wide with a silent, desperate warning: Don't let her take him.
Vanessa didn't scream. Instead, she picked up her phone with a speed that suggested she had been waiting for this exact moment. She pressed a button, her thumb hovering over the screen, her gaze fixed on Adrian’s retreating back.
"He's here," she hissed into the receiver. "Get the car. Now."
Adrian stepped into the elevator as the doors slid shut, sealing him off from the hostility in the lobby. He clutched the red roses to his chest, the thorns pressing into his palm, grounding him in a reality that felt increasingly fragile. The digital display above the door flickered: 14. He pressed the button. The elevator groaned, a heavy metal beast ascending to the penthouse levels, but it stopped on the fourteenth floor.
The doors opened with a soft chime, revealing a long, carpeted hallway lined with heavy mahogany doors. The lighting here was softer, more seductive, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts on the walls. Adrian walked with a heavy heart, the silence of the corridor amplifying the sound of his own breathing.
1412. The number burned into his memory.
He stopped in front of the door. It was a heavy oak slab, adorned with a brass knocker shaped like a lion. Adrian took a breath, straightened his jacket, and raised his hand to knock.
*Knock. Knock.*
There was a long pause. The sound of shuffling feet inside. Then, the lock clicked.
The door swung open.
Adrian’s breath hitched in his throat. He expected to see Emily. He expected to see his wife, looking tired but alive, maybe holding a glass of wine. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with a stranger.
She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, dressed in a silk robe that hung loosely off one shoulder. Her hair was wet, dripping onto the carpet, and she held a towel in her other hand. Her eyes were wide with annoyance, her face flushed with the heat of a shower.
"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice sharp and accusatory. She didn't look scared. She looked annoyed. "This is a private room."
Adrian stared at her, his mind scrambling to find words, to find Emily, to find a reason why this wasn't a nightmare. He leaned forward, trying to peer past her into the darkness of the room.
"Is Emily here?" he asked, his voice cracking. "I'm looking for my wife."
The woman’s eyes narrowed. She looked past him, down the hallway, as if she expected someone else to be standing there. Then, she looked back at him, and the annoyance on her face hardened into something colder.
"Emily?" she repeated, testing the name like a foreign word. "I don't know anyone named Emily. This is my room."
Before Adrian could process the lie—or the truth—she slammed the door.
May you like
The impact rattled the doorframe. Adrian stood frozen in the hallway, the roses still clutched to his chest. He looked at the door, then down at the number plate. 1412.
He looked back at the door, but it was silent now. Inside, he heard the faint, distinct sound of a man’s suitcase being zipped shut. He smelled it before he saw it: the sharp, cloying scent of expensive perfume mixed with the acrid tang of stale cigar smoke.
