He’d nod in meetings and say things like, “Absolutely, Miss White, an inclusive environment is important.”
But then he’d turn around and bury Jordan under paperwork.
Every minor mistake became a report.
Every delayed check-in became an email.
Every guest complaint, even the ones clearly written by people who thought “service” meant “obedience,” got forwarded with a note:
Please address this immediately. We must maintain standards.
Standards.
That word again.
One evening, after a long shift that felt like walking through wet cement, Jordan stayed late to finish new training schedules.
The lobby had quieted to the soft hum of nighttime. A few late arrivals. A bellhop rolling luggage like a gentle thunder.
Jordan was in his small office behind the desk, staring at a spreadsheet that looked like it wanted to bite him, when the phone rang.
It was Harris.
“Jordan,” Harris said, voice too smooth. “Come to my office.”
Jordan checked the time. “Sir, it’s almost ten.”
“Yes,” Harris replied. “Come anyway.”
Jordan felt the old dread stir. He stood, straightened his tie out of habit, and walked to Harris’s office on the management floor.
Harris’s office smelled like expensive cologne and control.
Harris sat behind his desk like it belonged to him personally.
On the desk lay a printed receipt.
Jordan recognized it immediately.
The deposit note from the night he helped Emily.
Harris tapped it with one finger.
“Do you have any idea what this looks like,” Harris said, “from an auditing standpoint?”
Jordan kept his voice steady. “It looks like a staff member covered a guest’s short deposit.”
Harris’s smile was thin. “It looks like theft, Jordan.”
The word hit like a slap.
Jordan’s spine stiffened. “No, sir.”
Harris leaned back. “You don’t get to decide what it looks like. The system shows you applied an ‘internal discount’ without authorization and then you personally covered the remainder. That’s not procedure.”
Jordan breathed in carefully. “Amelia is aware. She reviewed the footage.”
Harris’s eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation.
“Yes,” Harris said. “Amelia.” He said her name like it was a sudden storm that had ruined his plans.
Then he smiled again, all teeth and politeness.
“Amelia may have found your… compassion charming,” Harris said. “But charm doesn’t keep businesses running. We have protocols. We have liability. We have reputations.”
Jordan’s hands curled, then relaxed. He forced himself not to clench. Not to give Harris the satisfaction.
“I understand protocols,” Jordan said. “But I also understand people.”
Harris’s smile vanished. “People do not pay our salaries. Guests do.”
Jordan held Harris’s gaze. “People are guests,” he said.
For a second, something ugly flickered in Harris’s eyes, the kind of thing that lived behind polished manners.
Then Harris stood, walked around the desk, and lowered his voice.
“Do you know what they say,” Harris murmured, “when you rise too fast?”
Jordan didn’t answer.
Harris’s voice became a soft threat wrapped in professionalism.
“They say you got lucky,” Harris continued. “They say you were a charity case. They say you were promoted because the CEO wanted to prove a point.”
Jordan’s jaw tightened.
Harris smiled again. “They’ll be watching you, Jordan. Waiting.”
He tapped the receipt again.
“And if you slip, even a little,” Harris said, “they will not be generous.”
Jordan left Harris’s office with his heart thudding.
In the elevator, he stared at his reflection again.
Same face.
Same tired eyes.
Now with a supervisor title and a target on his back.
A week later, the Aurora Crown hosted a charity gala.
It was the kind of event where people wore money like armor.
Crystal glasses, designer gowns, cufflinks that probably had their own insurance. Guests who said “We love giving back” while their assistants quietly handled the giving.
Amelia wanted the gala to launch something new: the Aurora Open Door Fund. Emergency support for guests in crisis. Training and hiring pathways for people who’d been locked out of “respectable” work.
Jordan had helped design it. He’d told Amelia what it felt like to walk into a nice place with need clinging to you like smoke.
Amelia had listened.
Now she wanted to make it real.
But the gala wasn’t just a fundraiser.
It was a stage.
And stages attract people who want to rewrite your story while you’re still standing in it.
The night of the gala, Jordan arrived early, supervising the front desk team, double-checking assignments, reminding staff to breathe and smile and treat every guest like they weren’t a burden.
Maya was with his neighbor, Mrs. Calloway, who had agreed to keep her for the evening.
Jordan missed her already.
He missed the way she made everything simple: either you were kind or you weren’t. No brand protection, no policies, no corporate language to hide behind.
At seven, the first wave arrived.
At eight, the lobby was full of perfume and power.
At eight-thirty, a guest stormed to the desk.
A woman in a red dress that looked like it had never met a wrinkle.
“Excuse me,” she snapped. “Someone touched my coat. Someone moved it.”
Jordan smiled, calm. “I’m sorry to hear that. Where was it?”
“On that chair,” she said, pointing like the chair had betrayed her. “And now it’s… over there.”
Jordan glanced.
The coat was now draped neatly over another chair, untouched.
“We can check the security footage,” Jordan offered.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have time for that. I want compensation.”
Jordan’s smile stayed polite. “We can certainly review what happened. If there was improper handling, we’ll address it.”
The woman leaned in, voice sharp. “Do you know who I am?”
Jordan had heard that question in a hundred different mouths.
He answered the same way every time.
“I know you’re a guest,” he said. “And I’m here to help.”
The woman stared, offended that he hadn’t bowed.
Then she turned, muttering something about “service these days.”
Jordan exhaled slowly.
Behind him, a younger staff member whispered, “You handled that like… like you were made for this.”
See more on the next page
Advertisement
