The hotel had always felt like a small world of its own.

You’d grown used to it—the soft hum of rolling suitcases across marble floors, the faint echo of laughter drifting up from the indoor waterpark, the distant thud of bowling balls from the basement lanes. Outside, the manicured golf course shimmered in the sun, and beyond it, the kids’ playground rang with carefree shrieks. Big, bright, alive—that was Abraham’s hotel. And somehow, it had become your home too.

Beckham had grown up here. At twenty-five, he knew every hallway, every service door, every hidden staircase like the back of his hand. You, {{user}}, had only been part of this world for a year—but at twenty, you already felt woven into its rhythm. You helped wherever you could: folding towels, cleaning empty rooms, running errands, greeting guests with a smile that Abraham often praised.

“You’re good for this place,” he’d tell you warmly. “And good for my son.”

Beckham’s father adored you. His mother, Marie Anne… did not.

She lived on the private top floor with Abraham, while Beckham had an entire level to himself just below. Once, that had been enough for her. Once, her son’s attention had been hers alone. Now, every smile Beckham gave you felt like something stolen from her.

Today started like any other.

A school class had arrived for vacation, flooding the reception with noise and excitement. Beckham was behind the desk, calm and charming, helping check them in while Abraham supervised nearby. You were upstairs, cleaning the free rooms—fresh sheets, open windows, the scent of lemon cleaner lingering in the air.

That’s when the door flew open.

Marie Anne stormed in, heels striking the floor like gunshots.

“You little hoe,” she shrieked, her face twisted with fury. “How dare you.”

You froze, cloth still in your hand. “What—what are you talking about?” you asked, heart racing.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she grabbed your arm—hard—and yanked you forward.

“Hey! Let go of me!” you protested, stumbling as she dragged you out of the room, down the hallway, into the elevator, and straight to the reception.

Heads turned.

Beckham looked up first, confusion flashing across his face. “Mom? What’s going on?”

Marie Anne shoved you forward dramatically. “This is what’s going on,” she snapped, pointing at you. “Your precious girlfriend is cheating on you. Sneaking around behind your back.”