Chapter 2 - The Fire in the Service Hall
The moment Rosalie broke away from Edmund and pushed through the double swinging doors into the service corridor, the air turned freezing cold. The scent of roasted prime rib and heavy perfumes gave way to the sharp, industrial odors of bleach, dishwashing steam, and crushed ice.
Rosalie leaned her back against the metal prep counter, pressing her palms against her overheated cheeks.
*What did I just do?*
The doors banged open. Julian Sterling, the Grand Marlow’s general manager, marched down the linoleum hallway, his bow tie slightly askew, his face flushed a dangerous shade of crimson.
“Bennett!” Julian hissed, keeping his voice down only because three prep cooks were scraping plates ten feet away. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?”
Rosalie straightened up instinctively, the years of workplace subservience kicking in. “Mr. Sterling, I can explain—”
“Explain what? That you decided to make a mockery of my five-star establishment by throwing yourself at Edmund Hawthorne on the main ballroom floor?” Julian stepped into her personal space, pointing a shaking, manicured finger at her face. “You are an independent vendor! A contractor! You are here to place hydrangeas and make sure the napkins are folded into swans! Do you have any idea who that man is?”
“I know who he is,” Rosalie said quietly, though her heart was slamming against her ribs.
“He is a sociopath with an offshore portfolio!” Julian snarled, his spit speckling her cheek. “The Hawthorne Syndicate has owned the city council since before you were born! If he decides to call health inspectors down on this property because some chubby, desperate florist annoyed him, this hotel is finished! Pack your toolboxes. You’re done here. I’m voiding your company’s contract immediately.”
The words hit her like a bucket of ice water. *Chubby. Desperate.*
The echoes of Daniel. The echoes of every audition, every high school dance, every job interview where thin, blonde women in silk blouses had been handed promotions while Rosalie worked seventy-hour weeks in the storage closet.
The humiliation stung, hot and bitter at the back of her throat. Rosalie reached for the clipboard on the counter, her fingers trembling. “Julian, please. I have four corporate galas booked here through November. That’s eighty percent of my yearly income. I have a mortgage on Ruth’s house—”
“I don't give a damn about your mortgage,” Julian snapped, reaching over and snatching the clipboard out of her hands, tossing it into the stainless steel trash can. “Get your gear and get out through the loading dock. If I see your face in this ballroom again, I’ll have hotel security drag you out into the alley.”
“Julian.”
The voice didn't rise above a low, gravelly baritone. It wasn't shouted. It didn't carry an exclamation mark.
Yet the entire kitchen stopped moving.
The sound of clattering cutlery ceased instantly. The prep cooks froze, water running over dirty plates in the sink.
Julian Sterling whipped around, and the blood drained from his face so fast he stumbled backward, bumping against a rolling tray of bread rolls.
Edmund Hawthorne stood in the doorway of the service kitchen.
He had removed his tuxedo jacket, folding it neatly over one arm. His sleeves were rolled up two turns, revealing thick, veined forearms marked by the faint silver line of an old knife scar near his wrist. Behind him, standing silently like an obelisk in the hallway, was Michael—Edmund’s primary driver and head of personal security, a six-foot-four wall of muscle with a dead-eyed stare.
“Mr... Mr. Hawthorne,” Julian choked out, tugging frantically at his collar. “I was... I was just disciplining the staff. Miss Bennett was out of line earlier, taking liberties with our guests, and—”
Edmund took three measured steps forward. His dress shoes made no sound against the tile.
He didn't look at Julian. He looked directly at Rosalie, his gaze sweeping over her pale face, noting the sheen of tears she was fighting to swallow. When he finally turned his head toward the hotel manager, the room’s temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
“Pick it up,” Edmund said.
Julian blinked, utterly bewildered. “What?”
“The clipboard,” Edmund replied, pointing a finger toward the industrial trash bin. “Pick it up. Clean it. And hand it back to Miss Bennett.”
“Mr. Hawthorne, she is an outside contractor, she broke protocol—”
Michael stepped forward. The giant didn't draw a weapon; he simply unbuttoned the middle button of his jacket, revealing the black leather shoulder holster beneath. Julian’s jaw locked shut.
“Julian,” Edmund said softly, leaning in until he was inches from the manager’s ear. “I purchased the mezzanine mortgage notes on this hotel three months ago. By Tuesday morning, I can replace your board of directors. By Wednesday, I can ensure you never work in hospitality on this continent again. Do you understand what that means?”
Julian trembled violently. “Yes, sir.”
“Now. Pick up her clipboard.”
Swallowing hard, his knees shaking, the general manager of the most prestigious hotel in the state bent down, plunged his hands into the trash bin, and fished out Rosalie’s battered plastic clipboard. With a cloth from his pocket, he frantically wiped away a smear of chocolate mousse from the plastic and turned toward Rosalie, his eyes wide with terrified humiliation.
“Here,” Julian squeaked. “Miss Bennett. I... I apologize.”
Rosalie stared at the clipboard. For the first time in her life, someone had stood between her and the cruel, casual cruelty of small men with little power.
She reached out and took the board. “Thank you, Julian.”
Edmund didn't give the manager another look. He stepped over to Rosalie, took her elbow in his firm grip, and guided her toward the rear exit.
May you like
“Come along, Rosalie,” Edmund said gently, as if they were leaving a quiet tea party. “Your shift is officially over.”
***
