Million Dollar Devil

22.

"We've arrived," the driver announces, slipping out of the car with practiced speed. In a swift motion, he opens my door and lifts my bags from the trunk with effortless grace.

I step out and take in my surroundings. The city is exactly as I imagined, vibrant and alive with energy. I'm whirled into the hotel's golden revolving doors and swept into another world, my breath temporarily leaving my body. Inside, the ceiling soars above me, adorned with chandeliers that glimmer like frozen rain, each crystal catching the light as if the stars themselves were hanging overhead.Every square inch radiates elegance. The sharp click of high heels echoes across the marble floors as statuesque women glide through the lobby, their arms draped with Valentino shopping bags, eyes veiled behind oversized Chanel shades.

The woman at the front counter feigns her most vivacious customer service smile as I approach the desk. I can't help but wonder how she gets her teeth so perfectly white.

"Hi I'm checking in."

"Name?" She looks at me expectantly.

"I believe it would be under Leo Hayes."

One of her meticulously drawn-on eyebrows arches with sudden interest. For the first time, she meets my gaze.

"Mrs. Hayes, yes of course."

"No, uh–" before I can correct her, she slides a heavy metallic gold keycard across the marble desk.

"Oscar," she snaps her fingers feverishly at the bellman across the room, "Please show Mrs. Hayes to her room immediately."

"Mrs. Hayes," Oscar bows his head in greeting before swooping my bags into his hands.

He leads the way with quiet precision, gliding past the grand piano and towering floral arrangements. I trail behind, my steps muffled by the thick velvet carpet.

We step into the elevator. The doors close with a whisper. For a second, silence wraps around us like static.

"Long trip, Mrs. Hayes?" he asks politely, eyes fixed ahead, his face unreadable in the reflection of the mirrored walls.

I consider correcting him. Again. But something in the way he says it—Mrs. Hayes—like it carries weight, like it means something so I let it hang there.

"Something like that," I say instead with a polite smile.

The elevator dings softly, and the doors glide open to a private hallway wrapped in gold accents and hushed lighting.  Two doors wait at the end of the hallway Presidential Suite written on a gold plaque above each.

Oscar walks me there, stops, and unlocks it with a second key he produces from his breast pocket. He opens the door but doesn't step inside.

"Enjoy your stay," he says, offering a kind nod.

I step into the suite. Walls of glass revealing a skyline soaked in amber light, champagne already chilling in a silver bucket. I collapse onto the impossibly comfortable couch, my fingers running over the  luxurious fabric. My mind whirling, and my pulse skips as my eyes take in the room.

There are three gentle knocks on the door. I jump up from my place on the couch.

Mr. Hayes stands there, tall and impossibly still, the hallway light casting shadows beneath his cheekbones. He's ditched the tie altogether, collar slightly undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

"Hey," he says, voice low. His eyes meet mine for a second too long before flicking behind me, scanning the suite. "Just wanted to make sure the room was okay."

"It's... a palace," I say, stepping aside to peer in, my eyes still full of wonder.

"I didn't want you stuck next to the ice machine," he replies, barely a shrug in his tone. A smile tugs at my lips as I roll my eyes at his nonchalance.

"I'm meeting with some investors downstairs tonight," he adds. "Just downstairs at the hotel bar."

I nod once, still standing near the door, the air between us thick as usual.

"You'll come," he says. It's not an invitation, not a command. Just a fact, stated like he's already pictured me there beside him.

"I'll be there," I say softly.

He holds my gaze for a second longer, like he wants to say something else—like he's on the edge of it.

But all I get is, "Good." He nods once, crisp and final, and turns to go.

I shut the door and press my palms to my cheeks, try to cool the flush that's already rising. I know better than to read into things.

I  kick off my shoes, and wander toward my suitcase. I unzip it slowly, sorting through the clothes I packed with the efficiency of someone who hadn't expected to be in a five-star suite or seated next to Leo Hayes at a table full of power brokers.

My fingers hover over a few options before landing on a simple black dress. Clean lines. Understated. Just enough.

By the time I'm dressed, the sun is starting to dip beyond the skyline, washing the room in a soft amber glow. I slip on a pair of heels, dab on a bit of lipstick, and catch my reflection in the mirror.