A maid knocked, then entered, pushing a cart piled with towels.
She was older, her hair streaked with gray, her hands moving with the efficiency of someone who’d done this for decades.
She glanced at Lysandra’s backpack, then at her face, and offered a small smile. “Long trip?”
she asked, her voice warm but cautious. Lysandra nodded, setting her glass down.
“Longer than most,” she said, her tone soft. The maid paused, then said: “You look like you’ve got a story.”
Lysandra’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Maybe I do,” she said, her eyes meeting the maid’s.
A flicker of understanding passing between them.
Elliot tried a different angle. He showed up at Lysandra’s hotel the next morning, all charm and apologies.
“Ms. Vale,” he said, standing in the lobby, his uniform crisp. “Let me make this right.
Come tour our new fleet. You’ll see we’re top tier.”
