Page 51 of The Royal Art of Revenge

Executive lift?

Jesus Christ, did he have to book the fucking King Christian Suite?

He’s a prince. Of course he did, idiot.

“No, I’ll be fine with my bags. But thank you.” I follow her down the hall and to a locked door.

“Tap your card here,” she instructs, pointing to a reader like the ones on the doors.

I do as she says.

It beeps, and she pushes it open, holding it for me. I wheel my suitcase through and down a dimly lit hallway to where a lone lift is waiting.

“Just here. You’ll be fine from here—this lift will take you directly outside your room and won’t stop at any other floors.” She smiles. “Please let us know if you need anything. There’s a dedicated line to concierge for this room.”

“I will. Thank you very much.” I tap the card against the reader, and the doors instantly whir open. The woman sees me safely onto the lift and bows her head goodbye, and the doors slide closed between us.

The lift carries me smoothly up to the eighteenth floor where I step out into a small, private lobby. There’s another door with a sign for the stairs, but I quickly peek outside, and it requires the same card access as the lift did.

Nice.

This place is fancy.

I check my watch. It’s six-forty, so I’m late. I waste no time in letting myself into the suite, but I’m greeted only by stillness.

Have I fallen into some kind of trap? Is this a joke? Is he not coming?

If I’ve come all the way here only to get an answer to my proposal by being stood up, I’m going to lose my shit.

I put the keycard into the little holder on the wall, and the lights turn on, illuminating the previously dim corners. This place is fucking huge, and there are large windows that look out over the bay. Golden rays of light from the earliest stages of the sunset filter in through the glass, and I wheel my case further into the room.

This is more of a penthouse than a suite. There’s a bedroom and a just-visible en-suite bathroom to my left, and I leave my stuff in the middle of the room as I walk past the small kitchen to the other side. There’s another bedroom here, plus a second room with a desk and bookshelves and another bathroom.

I live in wealth, but this place feels so out of my league I can barely stand it.

I want to run and hide, to crawl away to a regular hotel room where I can see all four walls from the bed. Where there’s a shower-bath combo and tiny desk that barely fits my laptop and a mildly uncomfortable armchair angled by the windows.

Not this… vastness.

Although, there is something to be said for the huge, freestanding bathtub in the en-suite of the master bedroom.

Now that is a display of fanciness I can get on board with.

I walk back into the living area and get my phone from my bag. There’s an unread message from the number that contacted me earlier, and I open it.

UNKNOWN: There’s been a delay. Give me a couple more hours.

I raise my eyebrows. That’s awfully bossy.

ME: You have until midnight.

ME: And I’m ordering room service and charging it to the room, so your card better be on file.

What? I deserve payment for my time. A hot bath and room service is the least His Royal Highness can do for me.

FINLEY: Order whatever you’d like.

FINLEY: I’ll be there, I promise.