He had bought the roses at the airport.
Tomorrow marked exactly three years since Sarah, his wife, had passed away. Every anniversary, Ethan would place fresh flowers in the living room, and Lily would choose the vase. It was a small, stubborn tradition—one of those routines that survive because grief needs something simple and tangible to rest upon.
“I have a reservation,” Ethan said, keeping his voice strictly at a whisper. “Under Ethan Vance.”
The receptionist—a blonde woman with flawlessly styled hair and a gold nametag that read Patricia—scanned him from head to toe before reluctantly tapping on her computer. Beside her, Karla, another front-desk agent wearing a crisp beige blazer, crossed her arms with a cold smile.
Patricia typed for a few seconds. “Nothing is coming up.”
“It should have been booked directly through the corporate office,” Ethan explained calmly. “Could you check the executive block?”
Patricia let out a heavy sigh. “Sir, we are completely booked tonight. There is a massive corporate gala in the grand ballroom, and we have zero vacancies.”
