The Royal Beacon Hotel was the kind of place people whispered about in admiration. Marble floors gleaming under soft chandelier lights, gold-trimmed décor that screamed wealth, and a lobby scented with white tea and history. Behind the front desk stood Marissa—polished, precise, the kind of manager who prided herself on appearances and control.
That evening, as the bar quieted and the dinner crowd thinned, the lobby doors opened. A tall Black man walked in. Hoodie, joggers, worn sneakers. No luggage. No fanfare. “Evening,” he said calmly. “Any rooms available?”
Marissa’s eyes flicked to the reservation board. Plenty of vacancies. Yet she hesitated, her jaw tightening. Without checking again, she delivered the rehearsed line: “I’m sorry. We’re fully booked tonight.”
The man raised an eyebrow, not in anger, but in quiet acknowledgment. He nodded once and walked out. Marissa exhaled, proud of herself for maintaining order—never noticing the assumptions guiding her decision.
By the next morning, everything changed. The lobby doors opened, and there he was again. But this time, the general manager and regional director flanked him, both nervously adjusting ties and flipping through notes.
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