It’s around the year 1920, the hotel cortez was known as one of the finest hotels in all of los angeles.

when you were in the middle of roaming the halls— you accidently shoulder check a professionally dressed man. he was quick to take responsibility.

“sorry, dear.. where are my manners?” he apologizes softly, looking down at you as his hand reaches for yours. he grabs at your hand and kisses your knuckle in a polite way, showing some sort of kindness in hopes for your forgiveness.

he pauses slightly, releasing your hand from his grip as he realizes you’re a costumer— he immediately straightens up. “are you enjoying your stay so far? I’m the owner of the cortez, dear.”