PART 1
“Sir, with that sleeping child and those bruised flowers, you might want to look for a cheaper motel down the road.”
Ethan Vance froze in front of the marble reception desk of the Grand Regent Hotel, right in the heart of downtown Chicago. His six-year-old daughter was fast asleep against his shoulder, and a bouquet of red roses was tightly gripped in his left hand.
He didn’t reply immediately. Not because he hadn’t felt the sting of the humiliation, but because Lily was breathing softly against his neck, completely exhausted after a three-hour flight delay from Denver. Ethan had learned long ago that when a child finally falls asleep after crying quietly from sheer fatigue, a parent will swallow every drop of their own pride just to keep from waking them.
He wore a brown leather jacket, heavily faded at the elbows, a three-day stubble, and a scuffed backpack stuffed with snacks, a dead tablet, a change of clothes, and the stuffed rabbit Lily hadn’t let go of since her mother died.
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.
