𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥

Chapter 1: Mark's last Days

The tinny ring of her phone startled Wren awake. Bleary eyed and only semiconscious she answered the call.

"Hello?" She groggily croaked.

"We're going to need you to come in this morning. There was a scheduling error at the front desk and we're short staffed." It was Stephanie, the front desk assistant manager.

Wren let out a belabored sigh before she answered "Ok. I'll be down..." her words were swallowed up by a sudden yawn "... soon."

"Great! Thank you. I'll see you soon. Bye."
Wren hung up the receiver and laid in bed for a moment to collect her thoughts. She looked at the alarm clock on her nightstand. 6:23 was displayed in bright red. She rolled onto her back an groaned.
This was supposed to be her day off.

She took a quick cold shower, washed her face, moisturized, but skipped applying foundation, eyeliner, and curling her lashes for time's sake.
She stared at herself in the mirror as she fashioned her red curls into a quick and tidy bun. She couldn't help but mentally point out every flaw on her face. Dark circles around her eyes made her hazel eyes look sunken and small, she could see a zit forming just below her bottom lip, she looked far more freckled than usual and she hated her freckles, and worst of all; the long scar that ran diagonally from the left side of her forehead, over the bridge of her nose, and across her right cheek.

Normally, with the proper amount of time, Wren was able to make the scar appear to be nothing more than a barely noticed path that could be mistaken for a strange birthmark instead of the fleshy pink trench it truly was. She wanted to take the time to conceal the scar but fought the impulse to for the sake of time.
The uniform for the The Grand Pelletier was garish, at least in Wren's opinion. The plain white blouse, burnt orange blazer, slate grey pants, paired with brown dress shoes weren't garish in themselves, loud and obnoxious maybe, but not garish. The thing that pushed the outfit over the edge for her was the ascot. It was a orangish colored thing with a loud paisley pattern with flecks of blues, turquoises, greens, and reds incorporated throughout. It was so loud and obnoxious that no one would reasonably be willingly to wear the thing unless it was required, unless they had some sort of traumatic brain injury. It was equally as hard to look at as it was hard to miss, perfect for highlighting staff.

Wren swung open her front door, closed and locked it behind her, and power walked down the hall towards the main stairs. As soon as the front lobby came into view it became clear why they had called her. Fifteen, maybe seventeen, people crowded around the front desk. Mark, the lone receptionist, was alone, the only saving grace being the heavy wooden desk that kept the impatient crowd at arms length.

Wren stood there, at the top of the staircase, staring at the scene as it played out before her. She watched as Mark frantically flipped through the leather bound ledger as he scanned for unoccupied rooms as an entitled man in a suit huffed and puffed orders at him. She could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. She could hear the how the men talked down at him like he was some sort of subhuman servant. She wanted to help him, she wanted to grab him, walk out the front door, and to never look back. But she didn't do any of that. She just stood there with her feet rooted in place.

"Wren!?" The sound of Devin boomed from across the lobby.

Devin, Wren's manager, had spotted her from across the lobby. He didn't have to say anything for Wren to know what he was thinking, it was written all over his face; Get your ass down here or there will be consequences.

That was all the motivation Wren needed to get to work.

"Where the hell have you been?" Devin growled as he met Wren at the foot of the staircase "Six o'clock means six o'clock."