Chapter 4 - The Ticking Clock
The silence in the side alcove became suffocating.
Mercer’s tongue seemed to swell in his mouth. He looked frantically between Arthur’s icy posture and Clara’s composed, unreadable expression.
“Mrs... Mrs. Vance?” Mercer croaked, his voice pitching an octave higher. “I... I had no idea you were in the building! My staff... we were informed your flight was delayed in Denver!”
“It was delayed,” Clara said smoothly, her fingers gently stroking Lily’s soft hair. “By three hours. I arrived twenty minutes ago.”
Mercer turned toward the reception desk, his face twisting into a mask of pure terror. “Patrick! Karl! Get over here right now!”
Patrick and Karl, sensing that something had gone catastrophically wrong, hurried around the mahogany counter. Karl was still holding a gold pen, a smirk hovering at the edge of his mouth until he saw the terrifying expression on Arthur Pendelton’s face.
“Mr. Mercer?” Patrick asked nervously. “Is there a problem with this woman?”
“Shut your mouth!” Mercer hissed, sweat breaking out across his forehead. “This is Mrs. Clara Vance! Founder and Chairwoman of the Vance Hospitality Group!”
Patrick’s knees literally buckled. He grabbed the edge of a nearby display table to steady himself. Karl’s face drained of every drop of color, his smirk evaporating instantly into sheer, unadulterated horror.
“Mrs... Vance?” Karl whispered, his eyes wide with shock. “She... she said her name was...”
“I told you my name three times, Karl,” Clara said quietly, her voice remaining entirely devoid of anger, which made it ten times more terrifying. “And I asked your colleague to check the executive holding block.”
Patrick swallowed hard, his hands trembling violently. “I... I checked the main software tab, ma’am... I thought... you didn't look like—”
“I didn't look like someone who belonged in my own hotel?” Clara finished the sentence for him, her eyes locking onto Patrick’s.
Lupita sat on the bench beside Clara, her mouth slightly open in absolute shock. She looked at the gentle mother she had just brought water to, then at the terror-stricken managers cowering in front of her.
“Lupita,” Clara turned her head, her expression softening into a warm, genuine smile. “Thank you for the water and the blanket. You have been extraordinarily kind.”
“Mrs. Vance...” Lupita whispered, her hands clutching her apron. “I... I didn't know...”
“You didn't need to know,” Clara said gently. “You saw a mother and a child in need of help, and you offered it. That is what hospitality means. That is what my husband built this company to be.”
Clara turned her attention back to Arthur, who was standing like a executioner beside Mercer.
“Arthur,” Clara said calmly. “Where is the annual board meeting scheduled tonight?”
“In the Grand Ballroom, ma’am, in forty-five minutes,” Arthur replied promptly. “All regional directors, major shareholders, and press representatives are already in attendance.”
“Good,” Clara said. “Mr. Mercer, Patrick, and Karl will be joining us on stage.”
Mercer gasped. “Mrs. Vance, please! It was a simple miscommunication at the desk! We were dealing with hundreds of incoming gala guests! If I had known it was you—”
“If you had known it was me, you would have treated me like a human being,” Clara cut him off, her tone cold and sharp. “Which means you believe ordinary people don't deserve basic human courtesy in this building.”
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Clara slowly stood up, cradling the sleeping Lily in her right arm, while using her left to pick up the crushed bouquet of red roses.
“Arthur, please have Suite 904 opened immediately. I am going to put my daughter to bed.” Clara looked at Mercer. “You have thirty minutes to prepare your operational report for the board, Mr. Mercer. Make sure page forty-three of the reservation manual is included.”
