A housekeeper stepped out with a stack of folded white towels balanced against her hip. She was in her late forties, maybe early fifties, with tired eyes and silver threaded through dark hair pulled into a bun.
Her name tag read: Lupita Hernandez.
She stopped when she saw Lily.
Then she looked at Ethan.
Then she looked at Patricia and Karla.
Her face changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Not of him.
Of the situation.
“Patricia,” Lupita said gently, “did you check the secondary corporate tab? Executive bookings sometimes don’t show on the first search.”
Karla snapped her head toward her. “Excuse me?”
Lupita held the towels tighter. “I’m only saying—”
“You’re only cleaning staff,” Karla said. “Go back to your floor.”
The piano kept playing.
A man near the bar glanced over, then looked away.
Ethan did not.
Lupita’s mouth pressed into a line. Her cheeks flushed, but she did not move.
