“Hollis Group. Table for four added under my name. Derek Lawson.”
I smiled the way you smile at a guest you have never met.
“Give me just a moment.”
I stepped behind the desk and checked the list.
Derek’s name was there.
One seat.
Not four.
He had added himself to a client event he apparently had no authority over and brought three additional people without authorization.
I came back.
“I’m showing one confirmed seat under your name for the Hollis Group event,” I said. “I don’t have the other three on the list. The rooftop is a private buyout tonight, so I’m not able to add walk-in guests without authorization from the host company.”
Derek’s jaw tightened.
“Can you just call up there and get it sorted?”
“I can reach out to the event coordinator,” I said. “But I want to be upfront that a full buyout means the host company controls the guest list entirely. It’s not something I can override.”
My father had been quiet for about forty-five seconds, which was longer than I expected.
Now he stepped forward.
“Maya,” he said, saying my name the way he always did when he thought I was being unnecessarily difficult. “We drove three hours. Your mother is tired, and we would like to sit down somewhere comfortable. Surely you can find a table for us in the restaurant while Derek handles the business thing upstairs.”
“Of course,” I said. “The dining room has availability. I can seat you right now.”
I thought that might be the end of it.
I had Celia show them to a table near the window, the second-best table in the room, because I was raised to be professional even when I had every reason not to be. I sent over a complimentary bread course. Then I went back to managing the rest of the evening.
Thirty minutes later, Celia found me in the hallway outside the kitchen.
She looked uncomfortable.
“They’re asking to see you again,” she said.
My father was sitting with his arms crossed when I came to the table. My mother was picking at a bread roll. Cassandra was studying her phone. Derek himself had apparently gone upstairs to the rooftop event, which told me everything I needed to know about why the family was really there.
“Sit down,” my father said.
I remained standing.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“You can help us by acting like a daughter instead of a hotel employee,” he said. “Sit down.”
“I’m working,” I said pleasantly. “If there’s an issue with your table or service, I’m happy to address it.”
My mother reached out and touched my wrist.
“We just want to talk, baby. We’ve missed you.”
Seven years.
Not a single phone call.
Not a text when I graduated from the management program I had paid for entirely by myself. Not a word when I sold my first property. Not anything.
