Chapter 2 - The Price of a SecretThe subterranean corridors of the Atoria Grand were a stark contrast to the gold-plated luxury of the penthouses. Fluorescent lights buzzed with a low, headache-inducing hum. The smell of industrial bleach and steam hung heavy in the air.
When Frankie and I stepped out of the service lift, we found Savannah standing by a large commercial linen cart, methodically sorting crisp white sheets. She didn't look up immediately, but the tense set of her shoulders told me she knew we were there.
"Savannah Reeves?" I said.
She turned around. Up close, her eyes were a striking, clear hazel, but they were shadowed with exhaustion. There were faint circles beneath them, the kind earned by years of chronic worry and late shifts.
"Mr. Vance," she said quietly, her voice entirely devoid of the sycophantic panic most hotel staff displayed when addressing me. "I was told by management not to approach the penthouse uninvited again. If my presence caused a disturbance—"
"You didn't cause a disturbance," I interrupted, stepping closer. Frankie hung back a few paces, blocking the service corridor exit. "You did something in two minutes that elite medical professionals couldn't do in two years. I want to know why."
Savannah’s jaw tightened. She gripped the edge of the linen cart so hard her knuckles turned white.
"I didn't do anything, sir. I just folded a towel."
"Don't play games with me, Miss Reeves," I said, my tone sharpening with the corporate coldness that usually made grown executives sweat. "I know about your brother. I know he was non-verbal too. I know he passed away. What I want to know is what your connection is to my son, and how much it’s going to cost to keep you exclusively on retainer for the Vance household."
The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I had crossed a line.
Savannah didn't cower. Instead, her hazel eyes flashed with a sudden, searing fury that caught me completely off guard. She dropped the stack of sheets back onto the cart with a sharp thud.
"You think everything has a price tag, don't you?" she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, not with fear, but with a deep, suffocating grief. "You think because you can buy this hotel, because you can buy the air my son breathes—wait, your son breathes—you can just open your checkbook and buy a human connection? My brother didn't die because of a lack of money, Mr. Vance. He died because people like you looked at him like a broken machine that needed to be fixed, instead of a person who needed to be seen."
She reached into her uniform pocket, pulled out a small, roughly folded scrap of white cloth—the same towel rabbit from the night before—and laid it gently on top of the linen cart.
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"Keep your money," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, shivering whisper. "And next time you talk to your son, try turning off your phone, stop looking at your watch, and actually look at him. You might be surprised by what you find hiding behind that wall."
Before I could answer, she spun on her heel, pushed her heavy cart down the service corridor, and vanished around the corner, leaving me standing alone in the buzzing fluorescent light.
